The other day, I lay on my couch looking up at the wall wondering what/who the carbon in the plaster on my walls used to be. What if my walls literally could talk? What kind of dead animals formed the lime that formed the plaster that lays on my walls that hold the pictures that hang from nails to tell the stories of artists (who are also dead)? I'm really just laying pictures of stories on top of a wall made of stories. What kind of stories are they? Would I gasp, cry, laugh, yawn? And what of the dust in my carpet? Whose remains are those? What were their lives like? would I laugh at their jokes? would I cry for the injustice they faced? If they weren't dust in my carpet and we lived and walked at the same time in history, would we have been friends? Whose carpet will the dust formerly known as Tyler once indwell?
How many times has the water I drank this morning passed through a dinosaur?
I am not staring at the plaster on my walls asking these questions because I've gone crazy. I'm not on drugs and I'm not eating yogurt past its expiration date. I've been reading an amazing book called Notes from the Tilt-a-Whirl; Wide Eyed Wonder in God's Spoken World. Child like joy and wonder spill from the pages and puddle in my heart. I've never heard anyone else write about God's amazing and excessive creativity found in every unique snow flake in a four foot drift. Most people don't think like that. Maybe we should. I've been reminded that the world we live in is big. Lots of stuff happens here. Lots of stuff has happened here. I am a mere spec in a story that began when God spoke some words in a language no human could ever speak (you try speaking a mountain) and the story continues in more directions then all the people who have and ever will live could comprehend combined. I find utter joy in my smallness. Not because I'm insignificant, but because in my smallness, Christ died for me. The infinite creator took the shape of the finite, becoming one of us and giving His life on a little speck named Tyler's behalf. God spoke all we see into being. He's a God that chooses his words very carefully, and cares for them immensely. He created each little speck of a person, writing each one of their stories. He created all of the billions of galaxies (one of which our little dot called earth--inhabited by little living specks--finds itself nestled in) swirling about and expanding outwards from a single point where the first "Let there be..." rolled off His lips.
I have a relationship with that God. He tells me to call him Father. He is the author of my story.
When I look at the vastness of all there is, all there was, and all there will be, I begin to wonder...what really is the value of the story of a speck. But the thing is the stories overlap. The characters intertwine their stories, influencing the other specks. If one speck influences the story of five other specks, and in turn those five specks each influence five more, well, one speck can contribute to a pretty grand story. In the bible, a small band of twelve specks walked with God-Speck Incarnate. Before he ascended to Heaven He told them to go and make disciples. They did. Speck multiplication. Now we have the church which is called the body of Christ. It takes lots of cells to make a body. It takes lots of specks to make the body. "There are no small parts...just small specs" as the saying goes.
My story has value, but what happens when the plot thickens and unexpected twists occur? What happens when certain characters don't enter stage right when I think they should? What if I'm playing a sheep when I really wanted to play Wise Man #2?
Yes, I do get to make decisions in this story, but lets not forget who's really in control. Can I question my story, or even more so, my Author?
"Surely I spoke of things I did not understand, things to wonderful for me to know."
God knows the pages that I have not yet seen. Would I ever say to Shakespeare, "Bill, to be or not to be. What kind of stupid question is that?" Or to Jane Austen, "Elizabeth should marry her cousin; think of all the crazy sequel potential that would provide!" Or to Mark Twain, "Why can't that dang boy just paint his own fence!" Perhaps I should let the Author be the Author. When a character looses site of their role in the plot they certainly can't contribute much to the greater story.
Let the creativity of the Creator remind me that I'm part of his grand piece. Let my purpose be that of pointing to the Author of the greatest story. I'll take that role.