at the edge of an unparted sea

on waiting

I stand at the edge of an unparted sea.

Perhaps the Red Sea comes to mind, the waters which Moses parted, which God parted (ahh, the mystery of participation in God’s work). In my mind there is also that first sea, the waters, unordered in Genesis, the Spirit hovering over them—will God draw out the land? Will he make a place for human flourishing?

There is no path left behind me—the only way forward is across a sea I cannot imagine myself crossing right now. I’ve worn a bald patch on the shore with my pacing and fretting. A mist hovers over the waters—I’m not even sure what is on the other side I suppose I want to reach. A looming obscurity seems to grow before me, like standing at the shore on a cloudy night—facing a shadow that seems to have form, like a mighty, impossible door. So many doors have closed again, again, again in my life of late. The lines have fallen for me in unpleasant places.

uncertainty
dim, unsteady
churning, heaving, discovering, 
standing at unparted sea 
waiting

¹

I think of the women in the garden, walking toward an unpartable sea, expecting only grief. Were they thinking of the miracles of Moses as they moved toward the tomb? I think of Cleopas and his friend, walking the road to Emmaus, talking over all that had happened, all they had seen. They were likely not looking for Jesus on the road, despite the rumors of resurrection. Perhaps they were too heartbroken to hope.

How do I move from frightened uncertainty to patience? What is the difference between pacing at the edge of the unparted sea and waiting on the Lord? What is the difference between running down a hallway trying to open any door that will open and listening for the still small voice?