Preface: The first third of this poem was written last summer. The second third was written month two in Guatemala. The last third was written month five in Myanmar. Abba has taken me on a crazy growth journey with understanding how Holy Spirit encounters us, speaks to us, and is insanely powerful. Last July, I didn’t believe the Holy Spirit could speak to me, until at training camp, my friend gave me an image of the book cover of Wild by Cheryl Strayed, a book I’d been reading at home. It scared me. It scared me so much I ignored it. I let other people’s disbelief tie me down. Six months later, I’ve seen the Holy Spirit give me an image of a pink hibiscus flower, and an hour later a woman run past with that flower sewn onto her jeans. I’ve laid hands on a bedridden boy with hemophilia who got up and ran through corn fields two weeks later. I’ve had people tell me things about myself they could have never known without being told. I’ve had three people give me the exact same vision for me weeks a part. I’ve laid hands on a woman whose leg was longer than another and could barely walk, and watched as her leg lengthened and she skipped across the room. I sprained my ankle, had healing prayed over me, and felt all of the pain vanish when my ankle was still blue and purple and lumpy. I prayed over a man who couldn’t count fingers in front of his face and left that day with him being able to see numbers on the wall across the room. I’ve gotten images of goodness and patience and peace that could never come from myself. All of this is only and fully possible because of our good Creator. I know this is something that is disunifying even within the body of people who love Jesus, and I hate that it is something disunifying, because I’ve seen the Holy Spirit move with insane power right before my eyes, even when I didn’t believe it was possible. It is possible with the Creator of life itself. We have authority. God gave us Holy Spirit who lived in Jesus’ disciples and also lives in us; Holy Spirit with power to move freaking mountains. I would not be the woman I am today if it weren’t for Holy Spirit moving. I need Holy Spirit’s conviction and peace and words daily, and am forever and ever thankful for the kingdom I’ve been privileged to see. With all of these crazy things I was privileged to witness in the first several months of the race, I still need to say, that God is equally good when we don’t see miracles and our faith in Him should be equally strong. Holy Spirit has been an essential gift in my own walk with knowing God, but none of this is to discredit faith of those who haven’t seen healing or miracles. Better is the faith that doesn’t see and still believes. I simply want to let y’all into a little glimpse of my journey with Holy Spirit!!!
The Holy Spirit told me to read Wild –
One July afternoon a girl sat on a black folding chair in the Georgia humidity.
Her clothes had been worn twice already, and she smelled of the soggy tent she slept in.
A circle of other young adult girls sat around her, listening.
Listening to what, exactly? The girl wondered, angrily, painfully. What were people listening to?
The Holy Spirit is speaking, shhh, listen.
Then came a tap on her shoulder. These strangers will tell her what the Holy Spirit is revealing for her.
The girl’s mind was riddled with doubt; who was she? why was she leaving? who did these people think they were? why did she need this more than a 4 year education?
Words began flowing out of these girls’ mouths. Umbrella. Pinwheel hat. Old man. A brownish leather hiking boot with a red lace, untied, I think, but just one.
Wait what?
Why, why do you know this? Why do I know this? The image spun through the girl’s mind, looking for a place to land.
OH!
Wild. It’s the cover of Wild. It’s the book she had just started reading, but didn’t bring with her to Georgia.
Wild. The Holy Spirit is wild. Why did this come up?
Months passed. The girl still didn’t know.
She sat on a multicolored woven blanket in the Guatemalan afternoon.
The girl still had doubt.
But this time, she began to turn page after page, hungry for why she had to read Wild.
In faith she read, knowing there was something in there meant for her heart.
Maybe it was the poor judgement choices shared by the author.
Maybe it was the choosing to give up daily comforts for life out of a backpack,
also shared by the author.
Maybe it was the John Muir quotes scattered without that reminded her to dream- and pointed her back towards creation.
Back towards nature.
Back towards her roots.
Back towards home in the California mountains.
Because, you see, this girl knew those mountains.
She met them when she was three weeks old, tucked in her Mama’s arms as they traipsed round the state.
She felt them when she was four years old, blonde hair filled with ice and glee as she crashed into the snow blanketing the Eastern Sierras.
She saw them when she was eight years old, standing a top the windswept bowl, watching Dad’s baseball cap disappear into the air like dust.
She heard them when she was fourteen years old, waking up with the birds and the rising sun.
She knew them by the time she was eighteen years old, having climbed and skied and pictured and cried with them.
And she remembered them now. Still eighteen. Sitting in a bunk. With a view of mountains. But not her mountains.
The words, Lone Pine, tumbled through her mind.
She’d been to Lone Pine.
Cheryl Strayed was in Lone Pine.
Her heart wonders if she is a lone pine.
Lone pine.
Lies.
Crashing down, like trees in a storm on the peaks of those mountains.
She is not broken.
She is not alone.
She does not need to be caught.
She is a bird, wild but grounded,
Free but rooted.
She is a wildfire.
She is strong, she is bold,
She is not afraid of the unknown to come.
<3 Cait
