Some moments can’t be recorded, photographed, or put in a time capsule to return to later. They must simply be lived, absorbed as if by osmosis.

I was thinking of this at a concert we went to several weeks ago. Sitting between a friend and my husband, listening to the best banjo and mandolin players in the world—there’s something that can’t be recorded. It’s why we still pay to see live concerts in the age of Youtube and live streaming. There’s something about being in the same airspace, with the sound floating, leaping out at you, surrounding you, soaking into you. The music seems to seep through your skin, into your soul. You can’t get that any other way—no matter how good your Bose surround sound might be.

We sat in a mass of humanity, riveted by the tinkling melodies of the duo so unassuming on the stage, surrounded by other heads nodding in time to the beat, slight smiles of delight tilting the corners of mouths. You could feel the real-ness of it—the aliveness of the moment. I could feel the music seeping through my skin to my soul. 

The thick musky scent of the sea grew steadily stronger, telling of a rising tide filling the port. 

Two prayer rooms served as sanctuaries for me during my college years. One on campus—for late night weeping, journaling sessions, and desperate pouring of myself before the Lord. And one off campus—at the home of my mentors—this one quiet, a place to be still and rest in the presence of the Lord which so clearly filled it. I spent many hours praying in that room, my legs crossed on the white couch, a cup of tea in the yellow-lined rooster mug in my hand or empty on the floor. I learned a lot in that room, both in my times with the Lord and from my beloved mentor. A prayer she oft-repeated has stuck with me: God, you are big, and I am little. Big God. Little me.

Through the season of being confined to my bed with mono and my own depression. Through relational conflicts, loneliness, and questions about the future. Through my mom’s cancer diagnosis. You are big, and I am little. Big God. Little me.

I’ve heard some express a sense of distance or fear when they consider the “big-ness” of God, consider his sovereignty, or think of him “in the heavens.” It's the "Who am I?" thought, when you stand at the top of a mountain or watch the waves pound against the shore. They sense the inexpressible level of the discrepancy between his strength and our weakness, his immensity and our minuteness—and they cower in fear or intimidation, concerned God will either overlook them or smite them. 

But this little prayer of surrender and trust is not like this at all. It also isn’t throwing my hands up in the air, unthinkingly and passively accepting whatever God might throw my way. In it, I found solace in God’s immensity, that he was on his throne. For it was not a matter of distance, that God is far and above me, it was a matter of power, held by a loving Father, who could wield it on my behalf. His strength, his “big-ness” are comforts, not threats, because they are harnessed by his love for his children.

Remember, it is not your hold of Christ that saves you—it is Christ; it is not your joy in Christ that saves you—it is Christ; it is not even faith in Christ, although that is the instrument—it is Christ’s blood and merits; therefore, don’t be fixing your eyes so much on your hand with which you are grasping Christ, as on Christ; don’t be looking at your hope, but to Jesus, the source of your hope; don’t be looking to your faith, but to Jesus, the author and finisher of your faith. We shall never find happiness by looking at our prayers, our doings, or our feelings; it is what Jesus is, not what we are, that gives rest to the soul.

- Charles Spurgeon, Morning & Evening

I wonder if you share my experience. When things are going well, I find security and comfort in my joy, reassured that I’m where I should be, I’m doing what I should be. I take my good feelings and turn them into a spiritual pat on the back. When things are difficult, or I doubt, or I suffer, I find security in holding onto Christ as tightly as I can—the white-knuckled death-grip sort of grasp. If I can just hold on firmly enough, then I won’t get lost, things will get better, and I’ll make it through. Do you see this in yourself as well?

The murmur of praying voices coming from the various corners of the room brought a warm sense of peace to my spirit. This was one of the few times in the week that seemed safe, when I could relax my guard and relish the fellowship of other Christians,  a rarity in the corner of Asia in which I found myself for the summer. 

I focused on the prayers of the middle-aged man beside me—asking for our protection, asking for provision. His words stopped suddenly, and I opened my eyes to look at his face. It was twisted, lips pursed, jaw tight, brow furrowed, trying to regain control over the powerful emotions that brought moisture to the corners of his eyes. I did not remember anything in his requests that would evoke such emotion. 

After a few seconds of silence, his composure regained, he continued. Father, let your kingdom come in this place.  

I must admit, I was a bit taken aback. This was the request that had gripped his heart. This was the thought that had brought this strong man to tears. Never before had I heard or seen someone pray so passionately for the Father to bring his kingdom to earth, “as it is in heaven.” Never before had I thought about the power of that request.