I had been working in my office hours without a break, so I decided to a hike around the lake in search of dragonflies. A few yards outside my office I spotted a dragon fly—a Saffron-winged Meadowhawk which zooms off while I adjust my glasses. Bummed by its quick departure, I headed for the lake again. I took two steps and there it was again—this time on a twig right in front of me. I am so close that I can see the small red patches on its wings and each segment of its bright red abdomen. As I’m looking down at it, it cocks its head and glances up at me with its huge eyes.
But I hadn’t even gotten close to the lake yet. The narrative of my plan was to hike some of the back trails around the lake and use my extraordinary stealth and powers of observation to get close to some unusual species of dragonflies. So I silently disappeared onto the trails and slip through bushes to the edges of the lake. The sun is shining and water lilies blooming, but there’s not a dragonfly in sight. I bushwhack through the forest to the edge of a swamp where a redwood grows, but find no dragonflies there either. After an hour I have circled the whole lake and come back to my office without seeing a single dragonfly except the one outside my door. So much for my heroic narrative starring me, full of sagacious woodcraft and entomological expertise.
Too often I am this way about spiritual things. I have a narrative of how my quest for spiritual insight should be achieved. It usually stars me, full of spiritual zeal and revelation, exploring the depth of biblical and theological truth and bringing back tales of all I discover. Honestly, I hate when after a few steps—there’s the insight right in front of me, looking up at me like that dragonfly. Grace staring me in the face.
