Mule and Mantle
Jan - July 2025 Wandering Archive
God Sets Eternity
Sometimes the eternal slips into our world, just long enough to plant the seeds of what might become as great and expansive as its sire. We tend to have a "quantity over quality" mindset, because we like to believe that tangible or quantifiable abundance is somehow an indicator of accrued value, and yet in the world of the Spirit, it is not so.
Another dream came to me last night, in this fashion. In the dream, a seed in itself, a man spoke to me with firm assurance in his voice that there are moments and experiences in our lives that contain all the materials or catalysts that were needed for events, and indeed, us, to unfold as we are meant to, and that those moments may seem infinitesimal only to the heart bound by time, and still learning how to see.
"Night and day, whether he sleeps or gets up,
the seed sprouts and grows,
though he does not know how." - Mark 4:27
A Visit to the Chapel
On Sunday, having recovered myself enough, I visited the small chapel, deciding we had gotten off on the wrong foot. The liturgy was modest but pleasant, though I take little joy in some things over others. I come for the prayers and the sermon.
The minister preached on the moment when Elijah passed his mantle to Elisha, specifically exploring sacred inheritance, and of the weight that follows calling. Toward the end of the sermon, he posed a question that I have since continued to turn over in my mind: "If I were in Elisha’s place, what would I ask for?"
I remember my first readthrough of scripture and Solomon’s request for wisdom, to be a good leader, and how noble and selfless that seemed to me. It seemed the most kingly thing to do, in fact-- asking not for power, nor riches, nor safety, but for the inner capacity to be the kind of leader God was entrusting him to become. I think I recall praying something similar at the time, but since then I’ve largely asked God for help with personal things; usually for something personal like strength, openness, wisdom, or discernment... lots of grace... what to pray for... and for clarity on what I might learn from my experiences. I pray for the presence of God in my life, and in the lives of those I love, and I pray for the souls of those I don't (this part still needs work, I know). I pray before preaching, that what the God wishes to be heard will be so, above my own shortcomings in communication. I study the scriptures and writings of all sorts, seeking depth and clarity because people naturally come to me for advice and share things openly, and I often feel underqualified to offer much in return.
But this question fell differently with me this time, for a somewhat surprising reason: I have never consciously asked God what to ask for, because I have never assumed it was a simple answer. To ask rightly would require knowing my strengths and weaknesses, in relation to a shape of the future God intends for me. That knowledge is so often hidden, unfolding only in hindsight.
...
Still, I think the shape of a request might already live in me somewhere: eyes to see, ears to hear... a willingness, an obedience... a flaming heart that endures the gap between our human world and God's realised Kingdom, and a mouth that, if I am indeed called to use it, speaks freely, clearly, and without fear... Someday I may be ready to ask for something specific, but until then, I continue to pray for whatever will let me carry the mantle most faithfully.
A Bite of Breakfast: Part I
I knew God would send me provisions, and so it was this morning... And what does it looks like? A small portion of bread taken home from a previous gathering, broken in silence while staring, bewildered, at the pack mule that stared back at me through the undergrowth, as if waiting to be beckoned forward. The truth is, I startled it into hiding, since there are only so many ways one might naturally react to being woken up by an enormous face in their ajar doorway. Since I woke up at midday, though, I'm assuming that God had put me under, to build the creature from my own rib (getting the horse-half from somewhere else, I'm assuming). He is a handsome boy, and I otherwise have no idea where he came from, but let's not be purposefully obtuse; he is a gift, and a messenger, and I have named him Theodore.
Theodore watched me with much childlike wonder, but seemed happy and calm once I exhibited the same. As I ate, though, I knew in my heart what his presence meant.
A Bite of Breakfast: Part II
Yesterday I was invited to join a parishioner for a rather large community dinner, which I braced myself for accordingly. Despite my appreciation for general fellowship, there are only so many unfamiliar faces and voices I can endure in a single day. And yet, I found the room full of earnest hearts and spirited praise of our Lord. I stayed four hours, heart softened and watching. The sound, the rhythm, the shared focus toward God… It left me full, as much as deeply tired.
As the hours drew on, a truth I’ve been circling came to mind: that I feel closest to God when I’m not entirely comfortable. It could be these sorts of interactions, or it could be the fire under me that bids me walk, or stay, when I would like to do the opposite at that given time. And it is the former, now. There is both a horizontal and a vertical aspect to the worship of Christ, that involves the practice of loving one's neighbour, and striving for communion with God himself. When I was walking, I have often longed for some reliable, tangible experience of each... But I also spend so much more time thinking about home, the final one, and reminded of who I belong to, when either discomfort strikes. And... I feel like I’m being invited to walk again, now. I alluded to this when I found Theodore but I had to wait and see.... My winter plans? Dashed-- though I confess I had not made them yet. And it feels foolish, writing it here; counter-intuitive and perhaps entirely illogical, but… I know when I don't belong. My realisation of my peace in my cabin helped me realise that I am happiest when I am expressing myself, and I do feel well rooted iny myself, but nothing more. Despite all my efforts, I am always a squatter in someone else's land.
...
I offered my deepest thanks to the people who’d made space for me, and to the Bride that feeds me crumbs from her table, that are somehow always enough to live by. My heart bends toward them in gratitude. My heart settles, however, only in the presence of a certain kind of connection, and it continues to scream at me even in these comforts like a writhing and disgruntled infant, that simply cannot be ignored. It seeks, even as I attempt to rest, and I cannot stop until I find it again.
The Son of Man has nowhere to rest his head, and so perhaps it is not so bad, if neither do I. I hear the Spirit, I follow when it moves, and I rest when it stays. Someday I will find my place.
Repacking: Part I
This morning I have tentatively established that Theodore can't talk, much to my disappointment. However, it could be a blessing, depending on what sort of mind he truly has. He already appears to have a gentle heart, though.
I appreciate when friendships come naturally, the way childhood friendships do. I feel like we can still get this sort of thing with animals, without needing to explain or label what is otherwise innate. And I still believe that kinship can simply arise between kindred souls, like a spark in dry grass. I've seen it, I've felt it... and I like to imagine that once lit, it would stay lit, and once found, it would stay near, unless we snuff it ourselves.
Once I learned I was safe, I opened my heart quickly and often, because I was hopeful that it could happen again. I had been alone for so long that I hadn't quite learned the rules of adult friendship, that becomes so guarded, scheduled, and compartmentalised. This was my error. Life makes us make choices about what is most valuable, and most will choose safety. And why shouldn't they? And I... I am too eager to explore the deep end. Somehow become Odysseus and Penelope at the same time; partially because all attempts at normalcy have been thwarted, I once thought, but no... Others saw it before I did-- because I know the journey home will be long, and I enjoy being tied to the mast, in the meantime.
There was a time when I worried that I would never be able to pass more than an unlit torch to those who would come after me, and now I realise that a lit torch is one of the most valuable and isolating beacons someone can possess.
Repacking: Part II
"'Follow me,' the wise man said; but he walked behind."
- Teachers, Leonard Cohen
Today I daydreamed of walking with those who match my pace, not even in the same rhythm, but at least because they were searching for something sacred, too. For that oil that fills every other vessel we try to make for it, and so often fail to do. How often do we live in the shadow of their shards?
I dreamed of the smiles and thoughtful brows of un-flattened selves, unfurling together. Connection, community: our world throws these words around so often. But the moments they happen are precious few. I've felt it, and feel it.... and when I do, it's like blood running across the tongue of a hungry animal. Those sweet moments where speech and silences can be shared, and ideas explode into the aether like fireworks. Sometimes there are still precious days, precious hours... and, thank God, so many precious memories that suggest that it is possible, and so often where it is unexpected. But it is also... passing, as all things are.
...
One thing I have yet to express here, is that most of my possessions are gifts... Certainly my most important ones are. And as I take a tally to think of how I will pack them onto Theodore, it becomes clearer to me that no one life is entirely woven with mine, but there are many little threads, for which I am grateful.
I confess that... I sometimes tarry, in case anyone might catch up to match my stride, but in the silence I am more open to wondering what lives will continue to converge with mine., and what new will appear? Will I be strong enough to meet the new souls with childlike joy, or will I be more afraid this time?
That never stopped me before, I guess. In any event, one cannot be brave if they were not given reason to be frightened, and it is courage, not comfort, which leads to meaning.
That is the lit torch, isn't it?
Someone to Follow
Today, after my day's work, I reclined in the afternoon sun, having had enough to eat and to drink, and done enough. As I sat, I found that I began to feel a sort of "uncanny" mood... I know what doesn't make any sense, but it was as if my life were made of two pieces: A bright, colourful transparency, and a grey, pulpy backing, that peeled apart from each other. And the grey became a formless echo, with no voice or purpose, or semblance of its former unity with the colours that remained.
I was arrested, then, by the dissonance between the peace and simplicity of my life as I wish to to be, versus the calling to purpose that seems to bring with it a certain heaviness and complexity that I have never imagined, desired, nor considered myself equipped for. Still... they are not enough to cancel each other, and seem to grow together from the same soil. Ministry will come with unrest, just as following Christ does, but moreso, if I could possibly consider myself worthy, which I do not. And yet, God does not call people because they are worthy, but because He was.
Was this cottage ever meant to be mine for long? No prophet need be consulted on that. And yet, sabbath is still a valid gift, and part of one's journey. Perhaps it is meant that peace will continue to entwine with calling, as longing and communion entwines with resurrection. Why else would there be a tug at my sleeve any time I try to slip quietly away?
In truth, I step into ministry not because I desire to lead, for surely I do not, but because I see that there are not enough people worth following. Ah, to be equally yoked with a co-labourer. Co-labourers!
Too many call others to attention, while providing no bread; too many voices speaking without Words; too many silences kidnapping truth. And so, even a little flame may light bigger fires ablaze, if given the opportunity.
Walking with Providence
Today I saw a painting that moved me by the beauty it captured of the Tuscan countryside. For a moment I let myself dream, and realised that the likelihood of my ever seeing such a place, let alone living somewhere with such history and beauty, is disappointingly slim, if not incredibly distant. I used to dream of distant lands, before I realised how far things are when one is always on foot.
I confess that it did not take long for me to feel discontent with my current circumstances, despite how happy I have been with them in comparison to where I have come from, and in such a short period of time. And so I took to reflecting upon everywhere I’ve ever lived, and in case one is curious, it comes to over twenty places before the age of thirty-five.
Over twenty thresholds crossed... some in hope, some in desperation, several with only a suitcase and a prayer. I have lived in barn-shaped antique houses with rainbow doorknobs, haunted places, bitter cold northern towns, basement corners, sunlit studios, and have enjoyed more than one floor-sleeping season with nothing but faith and packing material for comfort.
Some of those places held kindness, while others tried to break me; but in every place... every place... God found me.
There was never a time I was not being quietly caught, held, or that a door closed where another didn’t eventually open. Sometimes I have even burst through windows.
I may not have had stability, but I have had Providence... and a heavy helping of it, indeed.
I am not in some historic place, or a fancy place, but I am in a safe place, now. I have a small sanctuary I have built piece by piece, and it is beautiful. God walked me here, and I have made it so. And when I look upon it I feel very blessed and thankful indeed.
...
And what should I make of this, then? Am I going to walk again soon? Or perhaps at some point it becomes evident that though I have been seeking home after home, that only place that I have ever truly lived and carried with me, is myself?
Hineni
This summer has placed a bow on a journey that has so far been strange, and winding. It has brought me to a mountaintop where I can see that this is where I was always meant to arrive. And not in that trite “everything had to happen this way” sort of way, but the full realisation that no direct trajectory that I could ever have imagined, assumed, or aspired to, could possibly have brought me here. The pain, derailments, or long detours didn’t keep me from the path, because they were the path... to a place where no silver spoon or ski lift could bring someone in this life, because I had to walk here. Sometimes bleeding, tripping, or over-napping, but always moving forward, and now so much stronger for it. This is an idea that I have managed to graze before, at most, but it is settling now, properly.
There were times I longed for something more “normal.” A quiet, honest life, with a partner, a home, and our children. It was a fantasy I would have liked with the right person, under the right circumstances, but I've had neither. Originally I only submit to it when I hit puberty and I was introduced to the reality of my sex and station, and the little girl who climbed and slept in the limbs of trees decided that it was only meet that she should consider that her days of adventure were numbered, by how long it would take for her to be swept into the rhythm that so many before me lived without question. But even in those dreams, something in me never quite believed in that version of myself, without caveats. At first I simply focused on being the best potential mother, with a good handle on healthy meals, a solid library for my six lusty future sons and golden daughter, and a safe place for them to learn and grow... I could have been happy... but then, that would have meant many other factors would have had to have been pushed aside, and I still couldn’t imagine passing down a torch that I hadn’t yet lit, building a life on a foundation I still hadn’t uncovered.
What I have now, at least, is something authentic and whole. I am not grieving the road I didn’t take anymore, because I finally have confirmation that the strange and hard and sacred has led me to answers I would never have found otherwise. A torch I can share with every new brother and sister and child I encounter henceforth. I can see both roads clearly, I know the cost of each, and I can finally say, with deepest peace: I am glad I took this one.
If I were to trace my lineage, I’d find lines of men and women who gave their lives to raising children, to carrying on a legacy of survival, but not necessarily transformation. I honor them, and I bless them. But I also see how easy it is to repeat what hasn’t been healed, to hand forward what hasn’t yet been questioned... and I've never wanted to live that. And by grace (though it did not feel that way at the time), I haven’t.
Do I still wish for loving companionship? Yes. Do I still long for something to call "home"? Of course I do. And I’ve felt guilt before, even fear, for not following that path, and of course I’ve questioned whether I was doing what I was “supposed to do,” but now I see it clearly: I have done, and I am doing, what I was made to do. And because of that, the world is open to me now in a way it never could have been otherwise. I broke a wheel, not because there is no value in it, but because it, too, is a vessel for what it truly means to live with purpose. And though my own vessel is small, it is full.
So here I sit, in a room filled with light... with rainbows on the walls, and I know something deeply freeing:
I finally know what I’m not, and I am not ashamed of what I am. And I am.
