His hands were weathered. Years of rising early, working the soil, and tending animals had made his skin as thick as the bear-skin rug he kept on his den floor. When he grew too old to plow the fields and gave those responsibilities to another, Grandpa realized that he could not let his hands be idle, so he picked up a new trade. What began as basic whittling, a few notches cut in sticks to pass the time, eventually became an art form. Little did we realize that Grandpa had a woodcarver inside him all along.

One summer afternoon, when I was nine or ten years old, I visited the farm. I walked through my grandparents’ creaky porch door and surprised to find a bird cage with a small barn owl in the middle of their kitchen table. The owl swiveled its head as if detached from its body to look at me; its eyes the size of quarters startled me to a stop. Grandpa was seated right next to the creature, studying it through special magnifying glasses (funny enough, looking quite like the owl itself). Next to the bird cage lay a piece of wood and several tools and knives, carefully laid out on a soft cloth. I wondered what in the world Grandpa was up to. He simply looked up, his eyes large and sparkling through the frames, and he smiled as if he had a secret.

Over the next few months, Grandpa transformed that piece of wood into a mirror image of the tiny owl—each feather individually carved and painted. The work was long and intricate. Even now, I stare at the woodcarving of “Hootie” (of course, Grandpa named the owl), and I marvel at the slow and painstaking work it must have been day after day, especially for his worn and weary hands. But I also remember the vibrant look of pride in Grandpa’s eyes, the joy that his woodcarving brought him. The process, it seemed, was worth the perseverance.

Lately, as I try to change pace and to embrace a slower way of living, I want to do it quickly. I want to be the version of myself I see on the other side, rather than the person still struggling not to strive or to compare, the one regularly tempted to elbow others out to make my way in. I want to have mastered the art of living without first whittling my way through.

How easy it is to forget that good things take time—especially when it comes to shifts of the soul.

We want the effects of new spiritual habits to be immediate and change to be permanent. But what we so easily forget in our microwave-it culture is that change is rarely instantaneous. A moment of revelation might ignite a noticeable spark, but true transformation comes in a slow burn over the long haul. The habits themselves do not heal us, but rather, they become the logs we throw on the fire of who we are becoming, the deposits we make so that our false self turns to ash and our true self grows more brilliant and more connected to the Creator.

Becoming is not a moment, but a movement—ever deeper into the Father and ever wider in love for each other.

The even better news is that God is not in a hurry.

The story of heaven and earth is still unfolding in us and around us. The Bible itself is a testament to the long-suffering ways of the Father. And while he sees the end (or rather, knows that he is The End), Divine Love actively invites us into the narrative. He weaves who we are becoming into his gospel of redemption. With strong but tender hands, Jesus takes our tales of sorrow and of sin, of failure and of longing, of poverty and of weakness, and with a secret twinkle in his eyes says, “Just you wait…”

With a slow inhale, we breathe deep of the love and grace that is already ours. We point ourselves in God’s direction and extend permission to be in process. And as we continue to follow Jesus at the paces and to the places he beckons, we will begin to see the shavings of our former selves float to the floor, revealing who we have always been in the eyes of the Father. The person on the other side.

For in my inner self I delight in God’s law, but I see a different law in the parts of my body, waging war against the law of my mind and taking me prisoner to the law of sin in the parts of my body.
(Romans 7:22-23 CSB)

The Lord is gracious and compassionate,
    slow to anger and rich in love.
The Lord is good to all;
    he has compassion on all he has made.
(Ps. 145:8-9 NIV)

feature image by Clem Onojeghuo via unsplash

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