I’ve always loved writing down everything. I’ve kept a diary since I was 10, which was one that had “PRIVATE: KEEP OUT OR BE SORRY” on the front. (Because heaven forbid anyone ever found out the secrets of the life of a 10-year-old.)
I typed out all my journals out a while back, so that I could search for a date and be able to figure out what I did on that day. It’s really cool, actually, and it worked really well.
But whenever I want to reminisce I never pull up the file that I made, I always pull out the real journals. Even though I spent all summer typing up these journals, the physical journals mean a lot more to me.
Why? Because I can remember where that coffee stain happened. I can remember the fuzzy chicken pen I used to use for my entries in the sixth grade. My memories are triggered by touching something that brings me back to when I first saw it.
I think that’s why we have a hard time with God sometimes. We can’t feel it when he surrounds us, we can’t smell him, we can’t hear him audibly, we can’t even see what he looks like. If it wasn’t for our emotions, I wouldn’t be able to ever feel God.
But I think that’s the beauty of Christianity.
We believe in something we can’t see, can’t hear, can’t smell, can’t feel. But still we give our life to him. It’s like standing blindfolded on top of a table, when you’re told that there are friends waiting at the bottom, and jumping off and hoping they’re there to catch you. Christianity is that three seconds from when you jump to when they catch you. That freefall when you aren’t quite sure whether they’re going to catch you or not—but you still trust them. You still love them. You still have faith that they’re there for you. But you can’t hear them. You can’t see them or feel that they’re there.
Some people think Christianity is that time when you’re caught, and there’s that rush of relief and happiness—but I don’t think it is. I think that’s what heaven is. The transition, our life on this earth, is when you can’t prove 100% whether you’re right or not by some empirical or scientific method, but you have faith nonetheless. When we’ve finished this life, we’ll land into the arms of God with the knowledge that everything was worth it. The scariness was worth it. The uncertainty, the doubt, the fear, the ridicule, the pain, the choice to go the hard way—it was all worth it. Because now you’re in the arms of your savior, and there’s nowhere else better.
There’s a time to feel God, to see God, to hear him audibly—but it might not be now on this earth. This earth is the place where you have faith in the unseen, the unfelt, the unheard. Where you believe in God not because he’s proven himself to you, but because you just know that he is God. If it feels like you’re in a freefall right now, like God isn’t there to catch you, like you’re all on your own—you aren’t. God’s waiting to catch you, but it’s not time yet. But when you do land in the hands that hold the world, you’ll know it was worth it.