To be Perfectly Human
JENNIFER J. CAMP
3 min read ⭑
I don’t want to take the miracle of being here for granted.
The air on my skin, in the dark just before dawn, before night departs and the sun’s rays shine deep pink amid ink blue, breathes, everything is sacred.
This moment is sacred.
The sky is calm, gently ushering in newness, like a mother in morning light, bending to kiss my cheek. I want to be kissed, reassured of love’s presence, of goodness and beauty here in all moments.
Yes.
As I walk into the garage, turning the key in the door, I look down the street, the path my three children once took to school. In this fresh January darkness, I’m not melancholic or wistful about what was, or worried about what will be.
I am here. A miracle in a moment of miracles. A daughter reveling in beauty, in being perfectly human — weak and complicated and strong. In being fully present to what is.
Inside the garage — part workshop, part storage, part gym — I move, warming up my muscles in the chilled air. The silence is heavy and beautiful.
I awake in the stillness, but my thoughts try to scatter: I need to get the last of the Christmas decorations up in the attic. I wonder how M. is feeling today? Please heal her. What will I cook for dinner? Jesus, come. Be with me. Be with me here.
Every thought I let tumble out, buoyant, unorganized and sometimes confused — an extrication of meaning from a too-crowded circus clown car. I speak the thoughts into the air, and he holds them, helping me look out and beyond myself, even while my heart looks in, in, in.
Where are you, Jennifer? How is your heart?
The question is from — and not from — me, and I welcome it.
I consecrate to you my mind, my every thought.
I give you my words, my ideas.
I give you my actions and intentions.
I give you my work and my relationships.
I give you my heart.
After my workout, I alternate between stillness and movement: blue journal paper, winter garden dirt, the click of computer keys, the gravel of neighborhood paths. My mind and body converse with God in indoor spaces and out in open air. Both seeking deeper unity.
Envelope me. Be with me.
In the garden, I sit under the orange tree, looking beneath leafy branches heavy with fruit to the wintered plants — quiet and unflowered. I watch the bee hives, subdued, while warblers and juncos compete in a call-and-response choir. The air is cool. The light is gentle. Everything waits.
I hear you. I am in the singing.
Later, as I sit here typing, I trust the words that come. I trust the presence that holds me.
Remember, remember, remember — there is always hope in failure; there is always effort in love.
And so I think and read and write. I enjoy laughter and walks with friends. I soak up stories of family and poetry of small things. I write to catalogue the beauty, following God’s wink and gesture and song.
I am learning to see with new eyes. My fingers on these keys, the air on my skin, the fresh January darkness — all of it miracle. All of it holy. All of it him.
I am with you. You are with me.
I am practicing looking with the eyes of home. I am home and not home. I belong and don’t belong.
This is what it means to be perfectly human: to be present to the sacred in every breath, every moment. To accept the invitation to be here, fully alive, awake to wonder.
Just like you do.
Just like you.
“The present moment is the ambassador of God ... All that takes place within us, around us, or through us, contains and conceals his divine action.”
It is easier to sense God in the sunrise, but de Caussade challenges us to believe that God is equally present in the “scattered thoughts” and in the moments when our lives feel a bit like crowded circus clown cars. Doing that demands a radical acceptance of everything as a vehicle for his presence.
Today, will you look for him everywhere?
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 Interviews and manages Loop Collective, a community for women who reject complacency and pursue connection with God.
