Down at the end of Deerfoot Lane, where pavement gave way to ruts and rocks, He met me, perched on a sun-warmed boulder, the valley and mountains beyond hinting of other places, other lives. And I, like a fledgling jay, waiting to soar.
In songs sung around a campfire He met me, sparks reaching upward to the stars, prayers lifted with them, rising, glowing, in the night. And I, singing with those kindred hearts, belonging.
In the chapel in the meadow He met me, in hymns sung with gusto, and a preacher weeping as he shared the words of life – His life, and mine.
In the quiet wooded walks beside Strawberry Creek He met me, in the scent of cedars and the soft rustle of squirrels digging for their treasures. And I, like an explorer of old, with bated breath, discovering.
In the silent sift of snowflakes He met me, settling on branch and cone and needle like a whisper from heaven. And I, like a princess in the moonlight, waiting; hopeful.
In granite peaks glowing pink at close of day He met me, their hard faces reflecting a distant beauty, not the less for the secondhand light.
My faith and my life had their growing in the mountains, in the scent of sage after a thunderstorm, under the sheltering canopy of pine, in the warm meadows and the flash of a flicker’s bright wing.
It was there that He first met me, breathed life into my spirit and opened my soul to the silent words of life around me. Those memories are carved deeply into my spirit; altars of remembrance, warmed by His tenderness, scattered along the path of my becoming.
I no longer live among those reminders of His finding me, small me, wondering and reveling in the miracle of it all. But He meets me still, older me, in His bending to me in my days, ordinary and otherwise. I am glad that our relationship is not dependent on place or city or temple, but on His presence, which fills the earth.
“Behold, I am with you always,” He said before His bodily presence left us. He dwells with us in Spirit now, filling us, holding us in the mysteries of this life before Life.
“Where can I go from your Spirit? Where can I flee from your presence? If I go up to the heavens, you are there; if I make my bed in the depths, you are there. If I rise on the wings of the dawn, if I settle on the far side of the sea, even there your hand will guide me, your right hand will hold me fast.”
Psalm 139:7-10
I love to hear the stories of how He met others. Sometimes it’s a slow and quiet becoming; sometimes a sudden shift from darkness to light. Miracles all, filled with the wonder of His coming to meet us, to see us, to welcome us in all the places around us and all the spaces inside us as we learn to live in the warmth of His presence along this long road home.
What is the story of His meeting you? I’d love to hear it.
Andrea Sanborn 
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