Remain

I was fourteen the first time I walked into a hall of mirrors at a carnival.

I remember the noise outside — the lights, the smell of popcorn, the whole colorful spinning world of it. And then stepping through that entrance into something completely disorienting. Every direction I turned, there I was. Tall and stretched. Short and squashed. Wide in the middle. Narrow at the top. Laughing at myself, slightly unsettled underneath the laughing, turning to find the exit and finding only more versions of myself looking back — none of them quite right, none of them quite me. My reflections were funny and strange and a little bit of a relief when I finally found my way out.

I thought I left the hall of mirrors at fourteen.

I didn't. And honestly? Neither did you.

We just stopped noticing we were still in the hall of mirrors. The mirrors are still everywhere — social media showing us who we should be, comparison whispering who we are not, fear distorting every reflection into something smaller than the truth, the world holding up version after version of ourselves and asking is this you? Is this? What about this one? And we walk past these mirrors, day after day, laughing sometimes, unsettled sometimes, slowly forgetting what we actually look like.

There is only one mirror that shows you clearly. Only one that doesn't distort.

Yes, I [Jesus] am the vine; you are the branches. Those who remain in Me, and I in them, will produce much fruit. For apart from Me you can do nothing. (John 15:5, NLT)

Instead, remain. Stay connected. Let the life of the vine tell you who you are. Because here is what I know about myself — the most dangerous season of my faith is not when life is hard. It is when life is fine. When nothing is dramatically wrong, when the carnival is running and the lights are pretty and everything is colorful and moving — that is precisely when I loosen my grip on the vine without even noticing. No earthquake. No fire. Just a slow quiet ordinary drift. The most dangerous kind. Because I'm not looking for warnings signs. I don't think I need to be.

The Bible is a mirror. In it I see who I really am — who God says I am, what I'm called to be, where I've drifted. But I've noticed something uncomfortable about myself: how quickly I forget the moment I walk away. How fast the reflection fades when I loosen my grip and let the carnival noise back in.

But God — in His gentle way — keeps holding up mirrors, His kind of mirrors for me anyway.

Which is why I am so grateful for a walk along a bike path in San Diego that turned into the most unexpected hall of mirrors I have ever walked through.

I set out that morning with my camera and my expectations — both fully loaded. I was looking for something dramatic. A great blue heron. A pelican. Maybe a whale breach on the horizon. After a quick rain the clouds had parted, the sun was warm — don't we all want our clouds to part? — except as a photographer that glorious sunshine was creating harsh unflattering light and nothing was cooperating. Boy am I hard to please or what. 😄  So I turned around and headed back, a little deflated. That is when the carnival mirrors began.

The first mirror stopped me cold. A squirrel — standing straight up in a cluster of wildflowers, little hands clasped together like he was saying a prayer, the giving of thanks, completely at home in what everyone else was walking past and calling weeds. I got low to enter his unnoticed world and from his vantage those weeds looked like a wildflower garden. And I felt the quiet nudge of the first mirror, an image forming. My image. I grew uncomfortable. When did grace and prayer become so familiar I forgot it was a privilege? When did I last stop and say thank you for the ordinary blessing around me?

I kept walking and caught a flash of red at the corner of my eye — a small bird tucked in a bush, going about his business unbothered. I raised my camera not even knowing what I was seeing yet. It was the photograph that stopped time long enough for me to really look. He was standing on a living flower stem and reaching up to eat from a dead flower above him. Not living in the dead things. Just reaching back briefly for what still nourished him. This bird has become my second mirror. Am I standing in the living present, drawing from the wisdom of what God has already brought me through — or have I climbed up into the dead things and made my home there?

Then I spotted him — a hummingbird. Completely still. Perched right on a thorn. Not a branch. Not a leaf. Just a thorn. No softness anywhere. And he had chosen it anyway, iridescent green catching the light, perfectly at peace. This is my third mirror. How much energy do I spend fighting the thorns instead of letting them hold me while I gather strength for the next flight?

He [God] gives power to the weak and strength to the powerless... But those who trust in the Lord will find new strength. They will soar high on wings like eagles. (Isaiah 40:29, 31, NLT)

A little further I spotted her first — a butterfly, wings wide open on a cluster of purple flowers, resting there like she owned the place. I photographed her and kept walking. Then I found him — a caterpillar, magnificently hairy, making his slow determined way through the world. At first glance you might think he is just a hairy worm. But look at all those feet. He was never a worm. He just looked like one to someone not paying attention. Fourth mirror — and the one that undid me most. I had just seen the butterfly and suddenly I remembered — I have already been transformed. And I am still being transformed. The wonder of it. And yet how often do I look at myself and believe the worm version? How often has a distorted mirror told me that's all I am and I forgot to check it against the only mirror that shows me clearly?

Don't copy the behavior and customs of this world, but let God transform you into a new person by changing the way you think. (Romans 12:2, NLT)

Near the end of the path I found the bees — a whole bush alive with them, buzzing, never stopping. My lens was too long and I had to step back further than felt natural, and then I had to wait. Being still. Watching all that frantic beautiful busy-ness and waiting for one bee to land on just the right yellow flower. Now the fifth mirror. How often do I stay busy so I don't have to stop and look in the mirror? Busyness is just another distortion. Moving fast enough that the reflection stays blurry. But you cannot truly remain when you are buzzing past everything God is whispering.

Be still, and know that I am God. (Psalm 46:10, NLT)

I waited. The bee landed. I got the shot.

And then — the mirror that made me laugh hardest. A female mallard. Head completely underwater. Tail feathers straight up in the air. Fully committed to whatever she was fishing for down there, completely unaware of everything happening around her. Sixth mirror — and the most obvious one, which somehow makes it the easiest to miss in myself. Burying your head never changes anything. It just means you miss everything God is whispering while you're down there. And yes — I needed her to be a girl. Because in this story, she is absolutely me.

Here is what I realized walking back to my car: I saw a distorted part of me in each one of these critters. Every single one. The squirrel who forgot to pray. The bird reaching back into dead things instead of standing in the living present. The hummingbird fighting the thorn instead of resting on it. The caterpillar who believes she's just a worm. The bee too busy to be still. And the female mallard with her head completely underwater. I am that one, especially.

God didn't put those creatures on that bike path by accident. He put them there for me. His gentle persistent way of saying — look. Just look. Do you see yourself?

A couple of hours. That is all this walk was. And look what was waiting.

Two days later I drove up to my sister-in-law's property in the foothills where her vineyard stretched out in the early morning light. Merlot. Sangiovese. Row after row of tiny young grape clusters just beginning, each one quietly holding everything it would one day become. I walked out before anyone else was awake and stood in front of those young vines and felt the truth of it settle somewhere deep. This is what remaining looks like. Not dramatic. Not flashy. Just connected. Just present. Just quietly becoming what the vine is growing me toward one ordinary day at a time.

Then the birds hit me — not a whisper but a chorus, a full glorious overlapping symphony welcoming the dawn. But drifting up from miles away came the sound of the freeway. Two sounds. Both real. Both competing for the same air. And I had to choose. It wasn't automatic. It was a decision — a deliberate turning toward the God-made music and away from the man-made noise. That is the choice. Every single ordinary day. The carnival is always running. The vine is always there, quiet and steady. But only one of them requires you to choose it. Only one of them shows you clearly.

That is when the hummingbird appeared — buried so deeply in a flower that only one tiny eye was visible, peeking out from under his wing. Completely present. Drinking deeply from exactly what he was made to enjoy. Unbothered by everything else.

When did I last drink that deeply? When did I last get so lost in the presence of God that the whole carnival went quiet?

Taste and see that the Lord is good. Oh, the joys of those who take refuge in Him! (Psalm 34:8, NLT)

Here is what I know about the hall of mirrors: you are not alone in it. The drift is common. The forgetting is common. The believing of the worm version is common. The busyness that keeps the mirror blurry is common.

The temptations in your life are no different from what others experience. And God is faithful. He will not allow the temptation to be more than you can stand. When you are tempted, He will show you a way out so that you can endure. (1 Corinthians 10:13, NLT)

God is faithful. Even when life is fine and you stopped looking because nothing seemed wrong. Even when you forgot what you looked like. He has been holding the only true reflection the whole time, steady and clear, waiting for you to come back to it.

The distorted mirrors are not going away. The carnival keeps running. But there is a vine. And it is alive. And it is holding everything you need — to bear fruit, to be transformed, to rest on the thorns, to remember you were never just a worm, to say grace over the ordinary, to step back far enough to finally see what God is doing.

You don't have to perform for it. You don't have to earn it. You just have to stay.

Yes, I [Jesus] am the vine; you are the branches. Those who remain in Me, and I in them, will produce much fruit. For apart from Me you can do nothing. (John 15:5, NLT)

Remain.