”YOU CAN’T HAVE ONE WITHOUT THE OTHER”

My earliest memory of God is when I was three years old. The memory itself is not complete, but the flashes are always the same: the sun bowing down on the horizon, the sky turning from blue to an array of pink and orange. My dad sits on our screened-in porch drinking a glass of lemonade. I am already tucked into bed, but restless.

Unable to fall asleep, I tiptoe down creaky steps and sneak out onto the side porch. A parent now myself, I doubt my dad was thrilled to see me out of bed. He just wanted to relax with his lemonade. But I inch closer and whisper, “Daddy, I want to ask Jesus in my heart. Will you help me?” The memory fades to black.

In the next flash, I am upstairs in my bedroom with my dad. We kneel beside the bed, elbows propped on my eyelet comforter. I ask God to come near. The exact words have been lost in the fog of time, but I remember my dad’s gentle coaching—urging me into the presence of God.

And Emmanuel, God With Us, was there. Of that, I have no doubt.

I know I was little, and my memories are hazy at best. But God’s presence was real, tinged with the sweetness of cold lemonade on a July evening. That’s how God tasted to me that night after my dad tucked me in for the second time and I closed my eyes.

Even now as I replay the scenes in my mind, peace floods in. Lemon and sugar dance on my tongue.

What I love about this memory is that my first recollection of God’s presence was not in isolation. Communion with the divine, intimate love of the Father was beautifully entangled with the affection of my earthly father. My dad’s presence became an in-between, a tangible hand on my shoulder as the words fell passed my lips, inviting God to come near.

I didn’t understand the importance of it then. I’m not sure I fully understand it now. But what I’m discovering is that life in God’s presence is always a pull toward the communal—not only with God but also each other. God’s presence is not a factory, creating an assembly line of individual pieces and parts to use at his disposal. In creating humanity, God did not have utilitarianism in mind. His people are not pawns meant for duty, but creatures designed for relationship.

I’m not trying to be mystical here, but imagine it this way: A life of presence is an ever-moving flow between God and us and us with each other. You draw near to God, and he leans in, softening your heart toward him and to the people in your daily life. You breathe in his grace and exhale it in proximity to the people nearest to you. Even without your knowing, God is in that exhale, the passing of his presence. The unnamed sweetness lingers between you and the other person, both hearts receiving just a little more of the goodness of God.

That’s what happened that summer night with my dad. Those moments were about more than me and God, but about a heavenly union right here on earth.

And I don’t know about you, but I want more of these moments. I want a life characterized by real people and a real God waltzing together in the day to day. I want moments of experiencing God strung together, weaving in and out of each other’s narratives as God’s perfect love moves in us and through us.

Call me an idealist or hippie dreamer, if you like. That’s fine. But what I hope is that you dream with me. That together we resist the individualism of our age and instead embark upon a life of unfiltered presence with God and man, a place where we become more fully ourselves, more compassionate and connected to our fellow men, and more awake to the God who knows and sees us.

Let us draw near with a true heart in full assurance of faith . . . Let us hold on to the confession of our hope without wavering, since he who promised is faithful. And let us watch out for one another to provoke love and good works, not neglecting to gather together, as some are in the habit of doing, but encouraging each other, and all the more as you see the day approaching. (Heb. 10:22-25, CSB)

This reflection wraps up the series on “Pursuing Presence in Isolation” (to start at the beginning, CLICK HERE). However, in my next post, I’ll provide some resources for continuing our movement toward God and each other.

feature image: Anda Ambrosini vis unsplash