Take it all

By Mia Pohlman

I'm realizing that pursuit of plans, dreams and desires -- even good ones -- can make our lives full and leave our souls empty if we're using them as gods instead of seeking our true God and letting him sustain us.

In his song "Most of the Air," Zach Winters sings, "You sought me without flag, so I know. I know." Until recently, I have always misunderstood this line as, "You saw me without plans, so I know. I know."

I love the depth of both versions, but the one I've been thinking about is the incorrect version. I am wondering: In the moment the singer is seen without plans, standing openhanded, feet apart, arms at sides, in the outdoors or lost at a shopping mall, not knowing what he's going to do -- what is it that he knows?

Does he know this is when he is vulnerable to the one seeing him?

Does he know this is when the seer can come into his life and make his life into something he never thought of on his own?

Does he know that since he has no plans of his own in this moment, he has no motives and is thus open and susceptible to authenticity?

This thought holds great attraction for me. I want that.

I have this image in my mind of my heart as a little hole-in-the-wall antique/junk/thrift/rarities shop, the kind that is funky and cozy and inviting, lamplit with old, thin Persian rugs on the cracked concrete floor of the aisles, slightly dusty in some places, which adds to the charm that at any moment something no one else has discovered could be found.

Everything in my heart -- all of my hopes, plans and desires -- are on shelves and around on the floor, things piled atop one another, sitting, waiting, ready to be sifted through.

There are some really cool, unique, beautiful things there, among some really ordinary, misguided, used things, all mixed together. It's too much to pack up and take any place, and I'm not sure what to do with it all -- how it fits together, what's useless junk, what can be repurposed, what was good for one time but isn't as relevant now, or what I need to pull out of the collection and put to use.

Jesus comes. He has a gentle wisdom about him that understands everything in the place, and a sort of quiet light exists from and through him. He smiles and laughs a lot as we walk through the aisles together.

"Whatever you need, whatever you want, take," I say.

It's all out there, before him. I hope he takes it all and leaves me with open space so there is more room for him and his love, ideas and direction there.

After all, he is trustworthy and knows about all of this more than I do. And it gets heavy lugging it all around.