For two unforgettable summers, I had the luxury of working at a summer camp in Nova Scotia situated right beside the ocean. The days were packed full with laughter, ice cream on the beach, water games in the ocean, and heart-to-heart chats in the small wooden chapel. The nights passed by quickly with campfire songs, roasted marshmallows, whispered conversations about camp romances after curfew, and a few precious hours of sleep.
Every new week brought so many moments of beauty and connection. However, my most cherished times always came after the campers left on Friday night. By this time, my introverted side was begging (sometimes screaming) for attention, and I would hike out to the beach in time to watch the sunset over the ocean. As I watched the bright yellows, warm oranges, soft pinks and deep purples paint an evolving masterpiece over the gentle rhythm of the waves, I would feel my soul slowly come back into my body. I have a few vivid memories of evenings when the ocean was completely still, like a giant mirror suspended under the atmosphere. In these moments, it was almost impossible to decipher the skyline. The ocean stretched out like an inverted extension of the sunset above. Every ordinary seagull and hermit crab became a majestic silhouette against the brilliant palette of water and sky.
This memory recently came back while I was reflecting on Paul’s words to the Ephesians:
“I pray that you, being rooted and established in love, may have power, together with all the Lord’s holy people, to grasp how wide and long and high and deep is the love of Christ, and to know this love that surpasses knowledge- that you may be filled to the measure of all the fullness of God” (Ephesians 3:17-19).
I imagine the embodiment of Paul’s prayer- a being that is securely and completely loved- to be somewhat like a calm and clear body of water. It is fully able to reflect and radiate the evolving beauty bestowed upon it, and subsequently highlights the unique wonder of everything in its environment.
If you are anything like me, this image may sometimes feel more like it belongs in an art museum rather than in the real world. Because the real world seems to bring constant hurricane winds in the form of hurtful actions, covert rejections, and open insults that tell us that we are not loveable. The strongest gales can come from the people closest to us: mothers, fathers, spouses, partners and friends who we desperately look to for security and acceptance. My work with foster children often reminds me of the devastating pain caused by this kind of rejection. These winds can so quickly create waves of anxiety and depression, and over time can create deep currents of shame and self-loathing.
Over the past century, there has been a wealth of research and writing on the significant impact that secure and loving attachments have on all areas of life. People who are securely attached tend to have a more positive sense of self, better emotional regulation, higher communication skills, and better coping under stress. John Bowlby, the pioneer of Attachment Theory, wrote “Life is best organized as a series of daring adventures from a secure base.” In other words, the more I am securely loved, the more freedom I claim to love, explore, create and learn.
Another very different kind of pioneer named Augustine once wrote: “My soul is restless until it rests in You O God.” Long before Bowlby penned his Attachment Theory, Augustine came to this conclusion: even the very best kind of human attachment cannot create a fully secure being, because ultimately we were made to be loved by God. Dutch priest Henri Nouwen articulates this beautifully in his book Life of the Beloved:
“Long before any human saw us, we are seen by God’s loving eyes. Long before anyone heard us cry or laugh, we are heard by God who is all ears for us. Long before any person spoke to us in this world, we are spoken to by the voice of eternal love. Our preciousness, uniqueness, and individuality are not given to us by those who meet us in clock time- but by the One who has chosen us with an everlasting love, a love that existed from all eternity and will last through all eternity.”
What does it look like for a soul that has been battered and bruised to find rest? Is it possible to truly believe in the deepest places of my heart that God could fully see me and infinitely love me when the humans closest to me seem to tell me exactly the opposite? The pain of rejection by a figure like a father, mother, spouse or close friend can be so deep and hurt in so many ways that the prospect of actually trusting this kind of love could feel terrifying, even impossible. Nouwen writes about this process: “Becoming the Beloved means letting the truth of our Belovedness become enfleshed in everything we think, say, or do. It entails a long and painful process of appropriation or, better, incarnation.”
Paul examines this process of becoming fully beloved, emphasizing the importance of perseverance in response to suffering (Romans 5:3-5). Perseverance is a huge word, and could apply to so many areas. I just want to touch on two practices that have profoundly impacted my own concept of God’s love: prayer and gratitude.
When prayer becomes a practice of laying myself open before God over days, seasons, and years, I come to know a Friend who cares deeply about small and temporary details of my life; a Father who collects all of my angry, confused, sad and heartbroken tears; a Lover who is jealous for my affections and wants to be intimately known, and a Saviour who fully entered into every painful feeling I could ever experience because of unconditional love for me.
I have come to view the practice of gratitude as the act of intentionally slowing down long enough to absorb how much I am being blessed. From all the ordinary miracles like the smell of a warm rain in late summer and the coos of a newborn baby, to specific miracles like an answered prayer and an encouraging text message at the perfect time. Over time, these blessings quickly add up to provide overwhelming evidence of a Love that is faithful, extravagant, and deeply personal.
What could it look like to believe that I am eternally loved by the only One who fully sees me? Is it possible that waves of fear could gradually subside into ripples of hope and eventually dissipate into a deep, quiet love? I wonder how many ways this kind of secure attachment could reflect the goodness and beauty of God? I love how writer Anne Voskamp articulates her own journey towards grasping the love of Christ. I would like to end with a quote from her book Waymaker:
“I begin to know how to say it out loud: The worst case scenario is that all the worst things happen and I am still fully loved.”