Liminal Space - Recognizing God in the Space Between

The pups know something is up. They look at me with their brown orbs of question. They cling and bark a little more and are more on the alert for the next squirrel, dog, car, postman, or salesmen selling their one-of-a-kind deals because I look like a nice lady, even though there is a sign on the door advising no solicitation.

The moving boxes arrived several weeks ago. Initially, they took up space in the second bedroom, strapped together in orderly bundles. I’ve cut the straps, I’m building boxes. Tape gun and newsprint at the ready. I purchased a new notebook for recording each box’s contents, and a marker to label each side of the box. I’ve got a system for packing and moving.

1. Get a notebook or legal pad, preferably one that won’t get lost in the shuffle.

2. Have a pen, marker, newsprint, and tape handy at all times.

3. In the upper right corner of each side of the box, and on the top, number the box as well as where the box belongs, kitchen, bedroom, etc.

4. On the legal pad or notebook, write down the number of the box and its contents.

5. Make sure to wrap things well and pack the box fully so that there isn’t any empty space or jiggling. Jiggling causes breakage.

   
   

Unlike Catholic students at an eighth-grade slow dance, when packing boxes, you don’t want to “make room for the Holy Spirit.” Packing is all about filling the space entirely.

In previous pack-and-moves, I’ve used one notebook, brightly flowered and hard to miss, even alongside other books on a shelf. They came in a two-pack. One of the notebooks I filled with ideas, hopes, dreams, writing, and drawings.

The other contained the moving master list of all the numbered boxes and their contents. On the left side of the number, I added the size of the box (abbreviated, of course): small, medium, large, picture, dish, etc, so I could easily find what I was looking for in a storage unit, garage, or basement. On the right side of the number, I added where it belonged in the house: kitchen, family room, bathroom, bedroom, office, or storage. I wrote that on the box as well (abbreviated, of course), for ease of depositing the boxes in the correct space on move-in day.

Around the time the boxes arrived, I discovered that the notebook that contained my master list was missing. I searched the desk drawers, bookshelves, nightstand, piles, files, car, and storage unit. It’s not a huge deal, except that the storage unit contains many boxes that belong to my daughter in Ireland. Her boxes are labeled with an I (Ireland) to the right of the number on the box, so they’re easy enough to find; it’s just that now I have no idea what’s in them.

She’s expecting her second baby at the end of June, and I’m going to be moving over there to help. At least, that’s the plan. I’ve told my landlord, family, friends, and squash mates that I’m moving, and it’s exciting. The timing seems to be right; they need help, and it’s nice to be needed.

My son-in-law didn’t want to overwhelm me with administrative angst and made it exceptionally easy by orchestrating the visa application process entirely. Because of modern technology, I know that the multipage application was delivered to the proper office on Wednesday. Now we wait.

Thus, the liminal space envelopes me, and I walk blindly along an unknown path, gravelly, with potholes of what-ifs and stray rocks of plan-bs strewn about. With each step, doubt enters my mind. Am I doing the right thing? How is this going to work out? Is this your will, God? It feels like it is, but I would think things would fall into place more easily if it were truly your will. Maybe that’s where the problem is, in the “I would think.” Maybe that has been the lesson all along, Lord, that it’s not mine to think, it’s Yours.

Maybe your will is for me to keep taking each step, each day, doing the work (writing) you’ve led me to do, believing, expecting, trusting that you have the plan. It is not mine to know. It is enough for me to trust that you know what the plan is.

How many times have I wanted things to work out just so? More precisely, how many times have I wanted things to work out my way? Am I really that prideful? I know, in my heart, that all I have to do is stay the course, allowing God to light my path, keeping my focus on Him, not worrying about the how, nor the why, only the what I can do in this moment. How many times has God gotten it wrong? Zero. How amazing has it been when it does happen according to His plan and not mine? One hundred percent of the time and beyond my wildest dreams. It’s not like in Anchorman, where they say, “sixty percent of the time, it works every time.” With God, it’s one hundred percent of the time; it works every time. There’s probably an asterisk and in the small print, it reads, *as long as you surrender it all to God first.

So I will continue to build boxes, wrap, pack, label, record in my new notebook, and not worry about anything at all. I won’t worry about where that other notebook is, nor the contents of those boxes, nor where the pups will be, nor where I will live. I won’t worry about the visa application, nor whether it gets approved. I won’t worry about the packing or the moving. All will be well. I choose to recognize God in the liminal space, in this spa

ce between. I choose to let His light shine upon my path, illuminating the potholes and stray rocks of doubt. If I run too quickly, I’ll fall, but if I’m patient, the light will shine, and the next step will show itself.

Thank you, Lord, for all of it, the doubt, the clarity, the potholes, and the hard-packed gravel along this camino. Thank you, Lord, for filling this liminal space with Your love, Your guidance, Your goodness.