A while back I typed out this quote from Mike Yaconelli and saved it in my notes with the title, “To Read Right Before You Go To College.” And what beautiful words they are now to be reading three weeks into this grand adventure. Read this, and you’ll see what I mean.
So here I stand, looking at the ground, smelling the faint fragrance of God. Never once did it occur to me that when I found God’s trail again, it would ruin my life forever – for once you feel the breath of God on your skin, you can never turn back, you can never settle for what was, you can only move on recklessly, with abandon, your heart filled with fear, your ears ringing with the constant whisper, “Fear not.”
When do you find where the trail is, you are faced with a sobering truth – in order to go on, you must let go of what brought you here. You cannot go on without turning your back on what brought you to this place. It is like swinging on a trapeze. Once you have gained the courage to swing, you never want to let go… and then, without warning, you look up and see another trapeze swinging towards you, perfectly timed to meet you, and you realize you are being asked to let go and grab onto the other trapeze. You have to release your grip. You have to reach out. You have to experience the glorious terror of in-betweenness as you disconnect from one and reach for the other.
This past year has been a time of letting go, one finger at a time, and these last few weeks have been a terrifying weightlessness, a wait-less-ness, a paralyzing stretch for the unknown. I haven’t reach the other bar yet. I am somewhere in between, but I can tell you this: my heart is filled with an exhilaration, an anxious anticipation that just as I get to the other bar, I will not grasp it, but I will instead be grasped by the hand of Jesus.
I can hardly wait.
The past three weeks of my life have been a complete whirlwind. Three weeks ago to the day, I was pulling out of my driveway on Signal Mountain, Tennessee being more nervous than I cared to admit. That day feels like it was forever ago, yet as I reflect on it, it feels like yesterday. Reading what Mike Yanconelli wrote resurfaces that inexplicable pool of emotions I had as I left home and arrived on Furman’s campus.
I was thinking today about if when I accepted Christ almost 6 years ago if I knew it would ruin my life forever. I knew I wanted to follow Jesus forever, but how much could I have truly known about forever at 13 years old, or even known about Jesus? What I think of forever now is vastly different than what I thought of forever at thirteen years old. What I know now about Jesus has grown so much since I was thirteen, even though it seems as if the more I know the more I realize I don’t know. But following Jesus forever looks different everyday, and every single day is an act of surrender. What Yaconelli says after saying that finding God would ruin his life forever stirs the passion in my heart now more than it ever has. “For once you feel the breath of God on your skin, you can never turn back, you can never settle for what was, you can only move on recklessly, with abandon, your heart filled with fear, your ears ringing with the constant whisper, ‘Fear not.’”
I felt that when I was thirteen years old the night I accepted Christ as I walked out of the church building. I felt that the first time someone washed my feet. I felt that on an easter Sunday over 4,000 miles away in Germany hearing the gospel preached in a language I didn’t understand. I felt that as I witnessed someone cry over the death of Jesus Christ. I felt that the first time I led worship. I felt that on a mission trip in Hyattsville, Maryland where a six year old girl named Maddie captured my heart. I felt that as I handed out church flyers on a street corner in New York City. I felt that feeding the homeless in Portland, Maine. I felt that when I gave my testimony for the first time. I felt that as I got to see campers meet Jesus and give their lives to Him. I felt that in Colorado as I sat by the river at night and wrote in my journal while gazing upon the vast sky our Creator had crafted. I felt that the last time I led worship at SM2 after three years of singing on that stage. I felt that at my final D-Group as I read the letters I wrote to myself in years past. I felt that as I walked out of Signal Mountain Middle High School as a student for the last time. I felt that as I was handed my high school diploma. I felt that as I ended my third summer working at Camp Vesper Point. I felt that on my nineteenth birthday the night before I left for Greenville as I cried out of panic and had my family there to hold me up. And I felt that three weeks ago as I pulled out of my driveway, and I felt that when I finally arrived on Furman’s campus as a member of the class of 2022. “Fear not,” my Father whispered among the chaos. “Fear not, my child.”
When do you find where the trail is, you are faced with a sobering truth – in order to go on, you must let go of what brought you here. You cannot go on without turning your back on what brought you to this place. It is like swinging on a trapeze. Once you have gained the courage to swing, you never want to let go… and then, without warning, you look up and see another trapeze swinging towards you, perfectly timed to meet you, and you realize you are being asked to let go and grab onto the other trapeze. You have to release your grip. You have to reach out. You have to experience the glorious terror of in-betweenness as you disconnect from one and reach for the other.
As I arrived on Furman’s campus, I saw that swinging trapeze, perfectly timed to meet me. And I realized how much I had to hold onto, then realized that meant I had a lot to let go of too. But there was no other way to do this then to let go. I felt the wild call to experience the glorious terror of in-betweenness as I disconnected from one and reached for the other. I didn’t know what I was grabbing onto. There was no concrete guarantee that it was right. I had no plans to be at Furman like I did with many other places. And as scary to me as that was, it gave my Heavenly Father the most room to move. And that has been the most wonderful blessing.
You beckon me, you beckon me, to leave all that I’ve known
You beckon me, you beckon me, to call you as my own
This is life, this is life, to bid me come and die
Spirit of the living God, you’re all that satisfiesSo here I give my everything
Surrendered at the altar of my King
For I am His, and He is mine
Oh I know that He will never leave my side
As I find my footing here at Furman, God is beckoning me to leave all that I’ve known. Every time I stumble teaches me more and more about who my Father is and what He’s calling me to here. Praising Him for the glimpses He has been giving me of His Kingdom here. Praying that every day I will learn more about what it means to die to myself and leave all that I’ve known to follow Christ. Praying that every day I will lean closer into the whisper as my Father says, “Fear not, my child. Fear not.”
But as Scripture says: “No eye has seen, no ear has heard, and no mind has imagined the things that God has prepared for those who love him.”
1 Corinthians 2:9 GW
Ellie Proctor 