We have been casting vision lately. Though we wrote a marriage manifesto in the weeks leading up to our wedding and our marriage vows at a basement bar several nights before we spoke them in front of God and friends, our first eight months of marriage have been heavy on the doing and light on the planning. Not all bad and not all good, but kind of like the icy cold blast from a garden hose on a hot August day in Iowa... or like the last 100 feet of a winter sprint to the front door of a NY apartment in February. There is no time to think or plan or consider, but enough time to feel the giddy tingles of the moment - the energy that catches in your chest when the shock of cold water hits you or the allure of a warm apartment lobby comes into view.
Nobody casts a vision in front of a spraying water hose or while jingling keys outside an apartment on a frozen February day. Well, I don't anyway.
Meanwhile, I think all that stuff has been rumbling around. You know - the stuff of "what we want our lives to be like in the first year of marriage, for being a good neighbor, for being a good friend, for when we have kids, for community development, for when we do Lent, for Saturday mornings, for groceries and planning dinner parties and pancakes."
You know, visions.
I overheard a young, coarsely stubbled man express his fears to a friend at the Starbucks on 51st Street. He said, "Dude, you gotta get me in on your next trip. I mean, I'm 24 and it's like, I see my cousin - she's married and has kids. And I see my friends who are married and they just disappear. I need to go to Iceland, Argentina - yeah, man you're like my friend that is still, like, doing active stuff and living life. I mean, like, this is our prime and I want to do everything you know..."
There was more, of course - talk of places to eat and trending neighborhood and updates on where old friends are now - but I only half listened because I was trying to find a few square feet of quiet city space to sit between work and home group.
I kept wondering what that young man is so afraid of and what has made him afraid.
Last Saturday, as Patrick and I were reading "The Good Life" by David Matzko McCarthy for our Brooklyn Fellows class, the dust settled a little on all the doing and chasing and rushing. We would read a few paragraphs and then let the words tumble around between us and our baby in my belly. We are really very different people, Patrick and me - the way we approach challenges and the way we express sorrow and the way we show love. But, we are similar in that we fear a safe and sheltered life - the kind of life that is insulated (as much as we can control) from struggle and invites others in only when it is convenient. We didn't really have the words for that to make sense until we let those paragraphs tumble around our Brooklyn apartment.
Comfort is not the goal. Loving is the goal.
How can we love the Lord best with our routines? What neighborhood allows us to live in slow community and love our neighbors with our time and resources? What do decisions about schedules, apartments, baby, and dinner invitations look like when we are not trying to protect our image or our comfort?
We don't necessarily know the answers, but that's why there is vision casting. That is exactly why imagining together with community feels so sacred - because God is involved in the mystery of saying "yes" to his heart. He is trustworthy when there is no obvious path for our "yes," when we are not calm and collected and ready for anything. He is trustworthy when we do not have a plan and do not know how to find one. He is trustworthy when we imagine things that don't make sense.
Dreaming and delighting in God's vision for renewal has been a hard thing since William died. I don't believe it less, but I do participate less. And I have so missed the sacred participation of trusting God to hold steady so all the unknowns of imagination can make wonderful happen.
I think I am ready to start imagining again.