Yesterday I had to sit with my back to my doctor. I was getting a shot, it ended up being two, in my shoulder. Sitting backwards was the position I could take to give the doctor the best opportunity to do his job. It took a few tries, but I found my place.
The doctor wasn’t sure I was comfortable. As I think about it, sitting with my face to the wall, as if I was back in grade school detention, does not normally make anyone comfortable. Perhaps it was the comfort of reliving old memories, or simply the fact that once I closed my eyes, I did not sense the wall or anything else of notice in the room. Whatever the reason, I knew this place mattered and I was comfortable when I was there.
For so much of my life I have wandered, wondering where I fit. Was this place mine or was it another? I know I am part of something, but do I really belong?
Now I know the answer to my question can and does come from within, but for years, decades I look elsewhere. I wanted to be certain I belonged. The quest began when I was told that I did not live at the home of my parents and brothers any longer. In context, it was believable, at least to my thirteen-year-old mind. In the moment, I told myself it did not matter, I would do ok. Given the intensity, I am not sure if it was arrogance, holding a need to survive, and ignorance. Perhaps it was a childish combination of all three.
The quest went on for decades. Many places seemed to fit what I was looking for; metaphorically, they were discoveries where “thrones for righteous judgment are set there, famous David-thrones,” (Psalm 122.5) and I presumed I had found my place. The innocents in my life paid the price for my lack of awareness and ongoing uncertainty.
I found my place. The indicators were always been with me, even when I did not, could not see.
