Previously: If Psalm 51 was written by an aspie about "aspierience," what does Genesis bring that helps?
"God has had it," said the preacher, "but His heartbreak is resolved when He decides to change; His creation won't change very much, and He wants the relationship more than He wants to destroy His creation." The Reverend is pulling together the sermon around the story of Noah. We hear a lot about the faithfulness of God, His changelessness; what we see is that what doesn't change is the commitment to a relationship to people.
As an aspie, struggling against my windblown passions, this is a very attractive concept. When I see myself through an NT's point of view, I see much to criticize, little to like. How could a creature that reacts to things the NT can't see, or can't see the bother of, be a partner in any worldly relationship? How can I believe in a God when I can see so little evidence for him in the lives of people around me? As a child, there was little evidence...
Our church's strongest program is its children's program. The Rev. is a grandmother, so her style tends to be very family-friendly and inclusive. She's had a lot of practice at making stories digestible for children while deeply meaningful for adults. Her child-like exuberance and loudly celebrated simple pleasures don't hide a very discerning mind that is very much on display today.
"Rainbows are the gentle gift after the chaos of the storm," she said.
I thought about my own spin cycle as she described a day in her life, some time ago: long day at work, fussing grandchildren in the car, her cat "squished in the road in front of the house," getting everybody fed, and tearing out again for a night class with a test she hadn't studied for.
As she was driving around a hillside curve, she was surprised by a spectacular rainbow. She forgot everything in the moment of exaltation: "I forgot everything, looking at this be-YOO-TI-ful raindow." Then she gestured to the floor, and I forgot myself for a moment, looking at the prisms scattered from the pearly window above us: pink, gold, a bare trace of green. "Rainbows live here," she said. "We walk on pieces of them."
* * *
My SO (later my husband) and I were driving at the edge of Crater Lake when a sudden sunbreak revealed a glowing full rainbow ending in the lake itself. I could see where the light entered the water. I grabbed my camera and shot several frames--my first rainbow's end!--and we stayed for a day. The next day I noticed the camera had no film in it. I felt like Peter at the Transfiguration, rushing around to build booths, and discovering that no action of mine was necessary other than making space for the awe of beauty and the magnificence of the moment.
I've begun thinking about the pictorial key to my anxiety attacks in another way. Not the lightning, but the light; not the dark clouds, but the droplets within them sprinkled in the air like a million million prisms.
My rainbow happens somewhere between the peak of panic and the edge of the abyss. Perhaps, if I walk on a piece of it, I can clear the abyss. My faults don't move, but they cease to matter, except as a constant reminder to seek the rainbow.
View attachment 15311
In an ambiguous situation, it’s possible to use panic to control ambiguity by deciding the worse possible outcome is the most likely. As a tornado of what-ifs spirals down into depression, it’s the power of the rainbow that can clear the abyss and transform the energy—if the sun can be found in the spiral.
"God has had it," said the preacher, "but His heartbreak is resolved when He decides to change; His creation won't change very much, and He wants the relationship more than He wants to destroy His creation." The Reverend is pulling together the sermon around the story of Noah. We hear a lot about the faithfulness of God, His changelessness; what we see is that what doesn't change is the commitment to a relationship to people.
As an aspie, struggling against my windblown passions, this is a very attractive concept. When I see myself through an NT's point of view, I see much to criticize, little to like. How could a creature that reacts to things the NT can't see, or can't see the bother of, be a partner in any worldly relationship? How can I believe in a God when I can see so little evidence for him in the lives of people around me? As a child, there was little evidence...
Our church's strongest program is its children's program. The Rev. is a grandmother, so her style tends to be very family-friendly and inclusive. She's had a lot of practice at making stories digestible for children while deeply meaningful for adults. Her child-like exuberance and loudly celebrated simple pleasures don't hide a very discerning mind that is very much on display today.
"Rainbows are the gentle gift after the chaos of the storm," she said.
I thought about my own spin cycle as she described a day in her life, some time ago: long day at work, fussing grandchildren in the car, her cat "squished in the road in front of the house," getting everybody fed, and tearing out again for a night class with a test she hadn't studied for.
As she was driving around a hillside curve, she was surprised by a spectacular rainbow. She forgot everything in the moment of exaltation: "I forgot everything, looking at this be-YOO-TI-ful raindow." Then she gestured to the floor, and I forgot myself for a moment, looking at the prisms scattered from the pearly window above us: pink, gold, a bare trace of green. "Rainbows live here," she said. "We walk on pieces of them."
* * *
My SO (later my husband) and I were driving at the edge of Crater Lake when a sudden sunbreak revealed a glowing full rainbow ending in the lake itself. I could see where the light entered the water. I grabbed my camera and shot several frames--my first rainbow's end!--and we stayed for a day. The next day I noticed the camera had no film in it. I felt like Peter at the Transfiguration, rushing around to build booths, and discovering that no action of mine was necessary other than making space for the awe of beauty and the magnificence of the moment.
I've begun thinking about the pictorial key to my anxiety attacks in another way. Not the lightning, but the light; not the dark clouds, but the droplets within them sprinkled in the air like a million million prisms.
My rainbow happens somewhere between the peak of panic and the edge of the abyss. Perhaps, if I walk on a piece of it, I can clear the abyss. My faults don't move, but they cease to matter, except as a constant reminder to seek the rainbow.
View attachment 15311
In an ambiguous situation, it’s possible to use panic to control ambiguity by deciding the worse possible outcome is the most likely. As a tornado of what-ifs spirals down into depression, it’s the power of the rainbow that can clear the abyss and transform the energy—if the sun can be found in the spiral.
