Under the Ice

I have been having trouble concentrating lately, and in all my attempts to bring order to my life, I have only added more disorder - like completely rearranging my office, so that I have neat, little piles everywhere, but, of course, I cannot find a thing.

I cannot remember what day it is, nor what the date is. All I know is that the Theophany services are upon me, and I do not know where to begin looking for my January music in all this paperwork stacked all about my desk. Yes, Theophany is upon us, and my reaction to this is tightening all of my muscles, from my jaw and neck all the way down to the toes of my feet. It is eleven thirteen at night, and I should be sleeping, but I more want to remember, remember where I am, remember all that I have to accomplish in the next few days.

One of my projects has been retyping the Royal Hours from the Menaion, inserting the Troparia and Kontak, so that everything flows flawlessly, and there are no post-its or book markers cluttering the pages. When this doesn't seem worth it, I remind myself how much easier this will be for me next year, and that, on Friday night, there will be no long pauses between readings. My head should be clear, but, of course, it is not.

While typing the reading from Acts, I came across this particular verse - In those days, as John fulfilled his course, he said, whom do you think that I am? I am not he. But, behold, there comes one after me, whose shoes I am not worthy to loose." It occurred to me I have lost Christ in my quest to put together the perfect service - a service whose purpose is to draw us closer to Christ. "Whose shoes I am not worthy to loose" - it sends shivers through me. I don't understand. I don't understand the first thing about how awesome and powerful all of this is.

When I look at this picture I think of the many hailstorms we had last summer, and how many times they came without warning. I would be staring at the clear sky, the evening sunlight over the fields, and suddenly a great rush of ice thundered down onto the earth. Hail has a particular sound when it hits, like a thousand shotguns going off at the same time. It is both violent and beautiful, and I watch it with heightened emotion. When the storm is over, there enters the most quiet, calm, stunning moment, but it is filled with a certain fear too - is there a tornado brewing in the clouds?

Under that layer of hail there is soft, wet, sweet-smelling earth. Where the sky has cleared there is light, double rainbows, green maples made even brighter from the rain. I suppose if I can endure the storm, if I can comb away the ice on the ground and put my fear away, I can find something beautiful. I can perhaps even find Christ.