Who Cares?

I'm usually the one in the caretaker role.

Whether it's in my work in health care, or in my vocation as a pastor, I'm usually the one doing the caring most of the time. Add to that the fact that I am in many ways a typical oldest child, and a 'teeny bit' of a perfectionist who likes to be in control--and I'm usually the one who does the caring in the majority of situations.

And I don't usually give it a second thought.

But a couple of weeks ago, while I was on vacation, I found myself in one of my happiest of happy places--sitting on a rocky shoreline beside a large lake in the heart of the Canadian Shield. I was feeling unsettled, and trying to find the words to voice my prayer to God, when the words that emerged from my mouth surprised me.

"Will you care for me, God?"

In the midst of my mental list of the cares that I was shouldering, and my attempts to give them voice in prayer, the deeper need came bubbling to the surface when I was least expecting it. But as soon as the words were spoken, I could tell that they got at the heart of something important within me.

Even as I care for others, I too need to be cared for sometimes. Even as I try my best to figure out how to love those around me, I also need to know that I am loved.

There was no immediate answering voice to my question. I'm not sure I expected one, exactly.

And yet, there was an inexplicable relief that came in simply voicing the question aloud to God. In admitting my own sense of need, and my fear that God will somehow abandon me in this season of change and uncertainty.

There were no answering words. I wasn't expecting any. But there was the solid certainty of the rock beneath me. There were the trees firmly rooted all along the shoreline, trees that had stood in that spot for generations. There was a solitary loon, its haunting call echoing across the glassy-still lake, its very presence reminding me of the God who cares for the birds of the air and the flowers of the field, whose care extends to all God's creatures, no less to me.

And now, as the summer days grow shorter, and the leaves begin to fall from the trees, my first instinct is to want to fight to cling to summer and ignore the slow movement toward winter. I want to hold tightly to the reassurance of greening and growth. But autumn invites me to trust in the God who created the seasons of the year--winter, spring, summer and fall, each with their gifts, each with their challenges. It invites me to trust that as the leaves begin to yellow and fall to the ground, hinting at the colder weather to come, just as surely the green buds will reappear next year, and the cycle begin itself all over again.

Autumn's approach invites me to open my hands, to stop clinging and trust myself to the care of the One who holds the whole world in God's hands. Just as summer leads into autumn, then winter, and then  rolls back around to spring again, I'm reminded that God is a God of resurrection and life, who promises trustworthiness and steadfast love.

And if I forget these things, I have only to look around me at all the examples of life effortlessly springing forth--flowers, trees, insects, birds, the ever-present rabbits taking over the grass beneath my balcony. If God cares for these ones, surely God will care for me too. There comes a time when I too can let go, trust my care-full-ness to God, and just be held by the One who loves me. Thanks be to God!