These are the days of small faithfulnesses. A season of nearly six months where it is enough to have worked all day, to have ploughed through task after task until eventually it is time to sleep and begin again. Days when progress against the task is small. That though I work hard and fast, without breaks, the day’s outcome is only that I do not lose ground by evening.
In it all, counterpoint to the melody of teaching and marking, my own writing inches along. No bird’s-eye view of my progress. No view at all. Just the intuition of a heart that has been here before. Conviction that these faithfulnesses too will bear fruit.
The same with spirituality. An emptiness which is yet not all that is. A stumbling, one moment forwards, another moment sideways. For sometimes the work, in its endlessness, its unforgiving weightiness, the work destroys prayer. Or, perhaps, the work becomes the only prayer, a rhythm of faithfulness trudged out under his gaze.
Yet small faithfulnesses are yet faithfulness. And a journey which does not permit the gaze upwards to see him is nonetheless a journey walked out under his gaze.
What about you? Do you too need to know that, though you cannot gaze upon him, he yet gazes upon you?