When I married my husband, he’d just cut off his dreads and was an avid rock climber. He married me– a girl from a small town, comfortable in everything that I knew, in everything that I’d been and was going to be.
As Johnny Cash says, we got married in a fever, and before we knew exactly what we’d done, we were home from our honeymoon, beginning the long journey toward figuring out who we were–together.
When he married me, he loved who I was, but also saw who I could one day become, and he held that vision steady. And it wasn’t a vision for what he thought I was supposed to be, but a vision still unknown to him, held by the mystery of God.
He took me climbing in one of his favorite spots not long after we married. I had a dislike of nature, but was idealistic about it, and there was abounding irony in the fact that I’d married someone like him.
He took me to a place called Lincoln Lake, a climbing spot in Arkansas that had been home to him for a long time.
All that I remember thinking is that the lake water was really brown and there were a lot of bugs. I couldn’t see then the way I see now.
Nine years later, close to our anniversary, we went back there. He took me to the top of the rocks to set up the climbing rope, and I sat and drank my coffee. There were large black ants crawling across my feet and the humidity in the air was rising little by little.
“It’s beautiful here,” I said.
“I didn’t appreciate it before.” I looked back with tears in my eyes.
“I know,” he said.
My husband has always held space for me.
He’s held space for me to grow up from the 19 year old who married him.
He’s held space for me to learn motherhood.
He’s held space for me to ask questions in my faith.
He’s held space for me to walk into my Native American culture without fear.
In holding space, he has loved me.
And he continues to hold space for who I’ll become tomorrow.
I’m convinced that space holding people are the ones who will heal the church.
They are the ones who bring justice and shalom, because they are patient people who hold onto a long-off vision. We need them in our churches, because they will not force change. They will not sit in pews and bear judgment over the people around them, but they will sit with those people and wait for God to show them the way.
The church has very publicly become a place that tries to manage others, and it often leaves people wounded. It wounds the church by distorting who the church should really be, and it wounds individuals in the church by making them feel like they aren’t good enough for Jesus.
So we need to learn to hold space.
Like my husband saw in me, we need to see what is good in each other, to hold onto the longer vision that God holds for each of us, and we need to wait.
I did not understand as a 19 year old who I was marrying or who I was. And in the process of learning, I needed someone who could be gentle yet steady with me, just as God is gentle and steady.
People like my husband, who hold space, show the unique character of God in a way that we are all hungry for.
So let’s practice holding space instead of holding one another hostage to our own ideals.
Let’s remember that God has an individual vision for each of us, and it’s worth waiting for.
As I climbed up the rocks that morning, I felt like I was communing with a space of the world that I’d never known existed before. I felt drawn in by my inability to know exactly where to put my foot or my hands, but that unknowing gave me energy to try anyway, like I was trusting this thing that was calling me back to God.
And on the one climb when I reached the top, I turned around and scanned the treetops with my eyes. I looked down at the brown water and across the horizon of that Arkansas day and thought, “I am so glad I am alive.”
And my friends, it’s absolutely worth the wait.