Like Water-Carved Stone

“I am confident of this, that the one who began a good work in you will continue to complete it until the day of Jesus Christ.”

Philippians 1:6

Recently, my daughter and I attended a “Galentines” event at our church. It was such a beautiful evening, filled with fun, connecting with others, and worship. As part of the program, a friend from our church led us through a guided imagery exercise. He asked us to close our eyes and imagine ourselves going to a place to meet with Jesus–a room, an outdoor space… whatever came to mind.

For reasons I didn’t understand then, my mind went straight to a place from my childhood, a spot I haven’t seen or thought about in over thirty years. It was in the mountains just north of where I grew up in Spain, a channel carved from limestone where we used to hike. Some of my happiest moments were spent there, scrambling over the rocks, pressing my hands into the cool stone walls, catching only occasional glimpses of the sky overhead as we were completely cocooned within the mountain.

As my friend guided us through the exercise, I imagined I was there, catching my breath in the damp, cold air of the narrow canyon. I pictured myself sitting down on one of those giant boulders, which were always wet and a little gritty, and resting.

And then, in my mind, Jesus was there. He sat down beside me, one leg dangling over the rock and the other bent, resting his elbows on his knee. I could see us sitting there, and the fact that he was there–in the very middle of a mountain canyon with me–meant that he had been there all along, climbing alongside me.

We sat just breathing and looking around us. Behind us, the boulders meandered away, disappearing behind a bend so that we couldn’t see the starting point. In front of us, another twist in the canyon obscured the exit. It was as if we’d come so far we couldn’t see the beginning, and yet we couldn’t yet see the end, either.

What I felt more than anything was peace, an invitation to stop and sit a while. To rest in His presence. To linger in the quiet echoes of that place. As I closed my eyes, comforted by his nearness and the smooth, cool rocks around me, I suddenly realized where I really was.

That canyon was my writing journey.

Just as I was beginning to get my bearings, in my mind’s eye, Jesus turned to me and said something I didn’t expect:

I made this place.

I looked around me at the rock cliffs that towered overhead, the giant stones, the trickling streams of spring water. It was all so beautiful, and so solid. Like it had always been there. Of course, He had made it.

But He pointed to the tracks on the stone walls, horizontal lines that swirled their way across the canyon. He pointed to the uneven boulders with their rounded edges.

He had made this place, but not in the way some things were made. It hadn’t been spoken into existence, fully formed as I saw it now. This place had been made by a different process.

Time.

I couldn’t guess how many years it had taken, but for what must have been centuries–maybe even millenia–this place had undergone a process of formation. A river had rushed through it, once. The gentle, soft, persistent water had carved a path through solid rock, bending and twisting with the currents until it had hollowed out a canyon that towered high above my head.

Time had been the tool to make this place–time and water, and the skillful hands of a Creator.

If that canyon had known from the beginning what He was making, I’m sure those centuries of rushing water would have felt endless. Perhaps even pointless. What did water have to do with mountain passes?

And yet, they were needed. Slow, relentless, time-consuming work to build something monumental.

I’ve been unpacking that moment all week, especially as I begin my latest round of queries. I have only a vague idea of the canyon God is forming, but from here, the process often feels slow, discouraging, never-ending. And yet, He’s promised me that He is making something out of these words I’ve offered up to Him.

He is making this.

Friend, I don’t know what He might be creating in your life, or how long you’ve been undergoing a process of formation. Maybe you’re sitting on the canyon floor, looking up at all that God has made or is making, wondering when the process will ever be completed. Maybe you’re still at the top of the mountain, seeing just the first trickles of water.

Regardless, friend, you can trust the Creator. Sometimes He creates things all at once, but sometimes He does it slowly. With intention. Persistence. With time.

Whatever tool He’s using, don’t lose heart. He always finishes the work He starts, and He will finish His work in you, too. And someday, when you sit on the canyon floor looking up, you’ll marvel at the masterpiece He’s carved, every bend and boulder with absolute intention. It will all be worth it, every second.

Because His creations are always good and worthwhile.