No Beginning, No End
JENNIFER J. CAMP
4 min read ⭑
I want to tell you a story. It’s not about a girl who runs in almond orchards with the dogs and reads books until the light dims under the trees.
It’s not about a teenager who craves boys’ attention and stays past curfew when her parents think she is at the movies.
It’s not about a teacher or a wife.
It’s not about a mom or a friend.
It’s not about a client in a therapist’s chair — or a woman on her knees crying out to God, pleading for him to help her love better.
It’s not completely about the past or the future. It isn’t about what we wish happened, what we’re not good at or what we’ve learned not to care about as much as other things.
I could tell you any of those stories, the stories of a woman longing to be someone different and her ache to be enough of who she is supposed to be.
But.
None of those are the story right now.
This story does not have an ending or a beginning. For it ends where it begins, and it begins where it ends. It is a story of the present that is unduly tangled up with the past — not the far or “distant” past, but the past of a few minutes ago, a half hour ago, a single meal ago, or, to be even more specific, the past of a simple interaction.
Yes, the story is about that.
I see them together, the woman with her hands at her sides, her palms facing inward and her fingers clenched.
Nothing can be held in them like that.
She stands alone in a nondescript place with no windows and no walls. If she looked straight ahead, to the sides, or behind her, her heart would absorb more than her eyes could see.
Look out. Lift your head. See.
I watch her, and I am far from her; I watch her and feel what she feels.
Both. And.
While she stands — in a space with no limitations and no boundaries — I behold her and the person standing before her, the Father’s light, the Father’s shape.
I watch her, feel him loving her and feel his gaze’s intensity. I feel her relax, take a deep breath and then open her right hand to extend it empty, so empty, at her side.
She reaches out to him, her open hand an offering, a child with no gift but her open hand. How beautiful she is.
How beautiful. How beautiful.
“I am speechless; my heart aches with longing, but the closest I feel I can get to her and him is letting my imagination observe the scene.”
I watch them; the scene is so intimate, and tears roll down my cheeks.
For just a moment, her hand is empty. For just a moment, she stands alone with her extended hand.
As her fingers reveal her palm, the Father’s hand is in hers. His fingers fold over her fingers, his palm wrapping around her hand.
I watch them — this Father and daughter, this King and heir.
My girl.
I am speechless; my heart aches with longing, but the closest I feel I can get to her and him is letting my imagination observe the scene. I watch the scene, but I am not in it. It is happening to her, not to me.
It is happening to you. Come, come to me.
I imagine his eyes, but I can’t see them; He takes a first step toward the distance, and she responds with a step toward him. Then, they move in sync, taking the next step together. When they take a further step, I can’t see them; the eyes of my imagination close.
She stood there and offered you nothing.
She stood there and offered me everything.
She stood there, hand opened.
She stood there, and I took her hand.
But I am here. What do I offer you? My brokenness? My pleas? See me, fix me, love me?
You are that woman.
I am your daughter.
My daughter.
Please help me be her.
Surrender.
Yes.
Always here.
Not there.
Not there.
Here.
My hand.
Would you like to join me in going deeper, personally, into an experience of exploring what it means for you to surrender and more completely trust God? Click here for an exercise that will help you encounter him.
(Un)Certainty
Is this the beginning of
when things get muddled,
when the past feels like
the present and we wonder
what really matters?
For there is a clock on my mantle
that is broken.
I don’t know if it has ever worked,
or, at least as long as I’ve noticed.
And my eyes, as I write these words,
can’t make out the letters distinctly.
I guess what is here and
wonder what it means.
All is muddy and vague.
The fire crackles in the hearth,
it is dark out this early morning.
I have begun my race with dawn
before the birds awake,
before light kisses spring flowers,
the purple bearded iris,
the pink tulips
and the yellow daffodils,
all who seem to know their place
and what to do when morning shouts
“It is time! Awake! Begin again in me!”
But I am not sure.
I think I used to believe,
or at least didn’t question it—
this ache of not knowing one’s
place in the world,
this wrestling with what it means to
know and not know — God,
and also
the meaning of life.
Have humans always been
asking, wondering — why, what, how?
Do you like the questions,
or do you find this tedious?
Do you grow tired of me?
Jennifer Camp is a poet and listener who delights in investigating the deeper places of the heart. She founded Gather Ministries with her husband, Justin; is Editor-at-Large of Rapt, a multi-award-winning digital magazine; and manages Loop Collective, a community for women who pursue deeper connection with God. She also wrote Breathing Eden and The Uncovering, a collection of her poems.
