The weatherman called for rain with today’s cold front, but the only rain I see is the leaves falling by the thousands in the wind. I don’t expect to be posting many more beautiful autumn tree photos. The trees bereft of their joyful adornment are not subjects for exclamations of admiration. This is the start of the time of year that usually makes me sad.
My daughter’s father-in-law died this week. I’m sad for the huge loss to Tom’s family, knowing how much they’ll miss him. His passing will leave a huge hole in their lives.
But, as I consider these things that ordinarily would make me gloomy and depressed, I realized I’m surprisingly upbeat today. The cycle of life plays out in exactly the way our Creator made it to; summer gives way to autumn and then to winter. It happens in our lives much as it does in nature.
It’s still too early to speak of spring.
We sat with our daughter and her sweetie last night, along with our grandchildren, and we talked about the man who will never joke with them again—will never share his stash of goodies purchased from the neighborhood ice cream truck with them again—will never cheer on the kids from the game’s sidelines again.
There was sadness. Great sadness.
And then, we laughed as we thought about his dad jokes, and about him stopping the ice cream truck like a kid.
I’m sitting in a church sanctuary, waiting for the Lovely Lady to finish a rehearsal. It’s a place of worship we’ve never been in, but somehow, we’re not feeling out of place.
The beautiful redhead is perched, with perfect posture, at the Steinway on the stage, taking instructions from a choir director she had never met before fifteen minutes ago. The folks in the choir loft are singing as she plays, while the director waves his hand in the air. She doesn’t know any of the singers, either.
It’s baffling. As if they have known her for years, they sing in tune—and in time—with the music that comes from her hands. Beautiful music, from both choir and piano—from strangers amalgamating their abilities and knowledge to achieve a goal.
Music, in circumstances that would cause us to anticipate chaos.
I have seen this more times than I can remember. Complete strangers, from all walks of life, come together with a common bond. A love of music, combined with an intimate understanding of the rules for making it—what we call theory—is all it takes.
I’ve played in orchestras, in quintets, in brass choirs, and in community bands. I’ve sung in church choirs, in small ensembles, and in mass choirs.
In each situation, we read the notes on the page, we hear the voices and instruments around us, and we follow our conductor.
No one asks about how much money we make. What our political beliefs are. What our cultural background is.
Together, we just make the music. Beautiful music.
I’ll admit it. I’m confused. No, not about the music. I’m confused about other situations in this world we live in.
There, the music is not so beautiful. Not beautiful at all.
And yet, the solution seems so obvious.
It does.
Maybe, we need another rehearsal or two.
A little practice at home wouldn’t hurt, either.
There is no longer Jew or Gentile, slave or free, male and female. For you are all one in Christ Jesus. (Galations 3:28, NLT)
So now I am giving you a new commandment: Love each other. Just as I have loved you, you should love each other. Your love for one another will prove to the world that you are my disciples. (John 13: 34-35, NLT)
I felt it. Every time I opened that big, heavy door to the shed—packed to the rafters with yesterdays—I felt it. The weight. The guilt. The helplessness.
It all started fifteen years ago. I was the proprietor of a reasonably successful music store in our little town. In the course of my work, I received requests for help with a variety of issues on an almost daily basis. Most were easy and painless.
This request was a little more involved, but I had no reason to be concerned. The customer telephoned, asking if I would mind shipping an instrument across the U.S. to one of his organization’s clients. I was involved with many internet transactions at that point and thought it would be easy-peasy. I’d simply box the instrument before weighing it to get a quote on the shipping and, upon receipt of the funds for costs, would send it on its way.
Glibly, I told him to bring it in.
The owner of the instrument (the one across the country, not my customer) seemed not to be interested in easy-peasy. She assured me she would send payment when I notified her of the cost, yet never responded. Again and again, I attempted to communicate with her about it, but to no avail.
I shoved the box, with its fragile markings all over it, into a back room. For ten years.
One more time during those ten years, I attempted to contact the owner but received no response. When we closed the store five years ago, we moved the remaining unsold merchandise and unclaimed items into the storage barn.
I’ve hardly touched any of those items in the years since. And yet, every time I have walked into the barn-shaped building, the sense of guilt, with its accompanying feelings of failure, has weighed heavily on my mind and soul. I didn’t even have to know where it was in the jumble of boxes and storage tubs; I felt it. I knew it was still there—mocking me—taunting me.
Failure isn’t an easy thing for me to admit.
I want my life to be a success story. Having achieved every goal I set out after, without a single black mark against my account, I will be able to die without shame.
It won’t happen.
A couple of weeks ago, I spoke with the Lovely Lady as we were driving. I shared with her the bold plan I had for resolving the issue once and for all. She wondered why I hadn’t thought of it years ago.
One day last week, I put my plan into action. You’ll laugh at the simplicity. Perhaps, you’ll laugh at how obtuse I have been. Mostly, you should laugh at my pride.
It’s the same pride that has kept me from admitting a small failure for fifteen years, allowing it to take up residence in my spirit and to steal my joy. Pride that stopped me from putting an end to the guilt and fear years ago.
The cure for my dilemma was simple. Digging around in the storage barn for a few moments, I located the shipping box. It was easy to find, with all its fragile stickers. I carried it into my shop and opened it, disposing of the styrofoam peanuts that scattered as I flipped open the end flaps.
Wait. I’m making this sound harder than it was.
What I did was this: I took the instrument back to the organization it came from. The man who brought it to me has long since moved on, but I set it on the counter and, admitting my long-term failure, gave the responsibility back to them. They said they were happy to accept it, promising to find the lady and resolve the situation.
Done. Finished. Out of my life.
Do you know how good that feels? To be free from chains I have felt for a decade and a half? I even sang in the car as I drove home.
Later on though, as I told the Lovely Lady of my action, tears came. I don’t know why; they just came and I couldn’t talk about it for a while.
I’ve been thinking about it for a few days now. Some realities have come into focus for me.
The first reality is that I don’t want to admit any of this to my friends and readers. Somehow though, that’s not the way this works. Catharsis is only as effective as it is complete. I don’t want to carry any part of this with me—except for the lessons learned, that is.
The next reality is that all of us will experience similar situations—times when we have failed, but can’t (or won’t) admit it and move on.
We all have secrets and guilt we carry with us as a constant companion.
I remember reading it in a friend’s feed on social media some time ago: “Today, I ate my emotions,” she said. I know she was talking about food and overeating as compensation for feelings. But I can’t help thinking there’s more to it than just diet.
We stuff emotions down our throats figuratively, too. Swallowing them down, thinking they’ll never be seen again, we hide our past. I’ve learned something through this particular episode in my life. It’s not a new realization, simply a reiteration of truth I may have known most of my life.
We’re not eating our emotions. They’re eating us.
From the inside out, they eat us. Day by day, affecting our relationships, our productivity, our outlook on life. If we let them. And finally, we have no choice left but to recognize the danger, the feelings of guilt, the dread of facing our failures and weaknesses head-on.
I look at the box in the recycle bin, fragile stickers on every surface, and I wonder; how is it that we, hardened and tempered by life’s experiences, have become so very fragile ourselves?
I don’t want that to be true. I don’t want to break at the slightest pressure in the wrong place. I don’t want the tears to flow anymore—don’t want the despair and hopelessness to rise to the surface, uninvited.
And yet, there it is. My throat tightens even as I write this. On that recent afternoon when the years-long matter was settled, my body trembled like an old man’s as I realized that I was finally free of the chains of the obligation. (Yes, I know I am an old man, I just don’t have the shakes on a continuing basis yet.)
But there’s another thing I’m learning as I age. I’m still finding that the capacity of our Heavenly Father to forgive and comfort us in those moments when we recognize and confess our failures and sins is inexhaustible. His love for us, even in our weakness, never ceases.
And I’m remembering my need, as an old-timer once suggested to me, to keep short accounts. Promises made need to be kept as quickly as possible. Mistakes should be rectified and apologies offered without delay.
The Apostle for whom I am named said it clearly:
Owe no one anything, except to love one another, for the one who loves his neighbor has fulfilled the law. (Romans 13:8, NET)
I could never have imagined that the favor I promised to my customer all those years ago would be impossible for me to deliver on. I certainly didn’t anticipate the mischief it would get up to in my very soul over time.
And yet, I could have admitted defeat many years ago and saved a lot of grief. I’m guessing the Lovely Lady wishes I had done that. Folks in your life might wish the same thing.
I think I’ll try it for a while.
Keeping short accounts.
I wonder who else I owe?
God pardons like a mother, who kisses the offense into everlasting forgiveness. (Henry Ward Beecher)
For as high as the heavens are above the earth, so great is his love for those who fear him; as far as the east is from the west, so far has he removed our transgressions from us.
As a father has compassion on his children, so the Lord has compassion on those who fear him; for he knows how we are formed, he remembers that we are dust. (Psalm 103:11-14, NIV)
The rain falls outside, just one in a series of autumn fronts that have moved through the area. I sit in a local coffee shop with my back to the room, gazing out the huge eight-foot-high windows. I often spend my time here visiting with friends and people-watching, but today the only space I can find for my coffee cup and laptop is at a table that essentially isolates me from the activities in the room.
It’s okay. Today, I need to think instead of talk.
Rainy days are like that for me. The world seems to close in (more than usual) and my view is confined to what’s right in front of my nose. Darkness seems to hover around the periphery, with no light except the ambient glow of the coloring trees and the gray sky above. So this morning, my thoughts are like the weather; the dim light seems to be barely holding off the darkness and I begin to wonder how we get to tomorrow from here.
Today, mostly, I’m thinking about windows. The one at which I sit this morning shows me exactly what is happening right now. I look out over Main Street and see the people coming and going. A pickup truck headed east to the sale barn, an SUV with mom and her kids headed for a doctor’s appointment, a delivery vehicle turning into the parking lot next door to drop off merchandise. And the backdrop, the fading trees standing on the hillside above the creek wending its way through our little town, reminds me that we are headed for winter and cold days.
I wrote recently about a new thing I had just done. And, emboldened by my success at hanging a door for the front entrance of our old house, I have decided to hang another one in the entrance to the utility room at the back of the house.
Supplied with another used door from the same neighbor who was so generous with the front one, I set the slab of metal and wood into place to get a test fit. There was no window in the door and the room was immediately dark. Nearly pitch black.
The Lovely Lady, standing next to me in the utility room gasped and immediately informed me that this wouldn’t work at all. She did have a suggestion, though.
“Why don’t we take the window out of that old front door, the one you replaced, and install it in this one? It will seem like we’ve kept a piece of the history of the house intact. Plus, it will let some light in here.”
It was a great idea, except for one thing; I’ve never installed a window in a door before. I have put a peephole in one. But a window? Another new thing.
It’s clear that I agreed to do it, isn’t it?
I cut the hole and installed the old window yesterday. It’s a wonderful thing. I suppose it’s beautiful to me because of the thought that we’ve kept a part of the Lovely Lady’s family history intact. I look at and through it and I think of her mom and dad. And that makes me smile.
The memories crowd in through the little pane. Years of them, making their way through my mind in just seconds. Happy times, most of them. But then, it seems the glass is tinted a bit with sadness. The people themselves have left the stage, their shadows still on the scenery, but gone from view. The old barn, seen across the yard and field, tells its story in memories now of times gone past.
My mind is brought back to the new things I am doing with the doors and their windows. I said I installed a peephole in the front door, didn’t I?
It seems an almost useless thing. Most of the time, the little hinged cover is over the inside, closing out any light or view whatsoever. And when I move the cover aside, putting my eye to the little aperture, I can see little more than I did before. To be sure, there is sight, but it is distorted and untrustworthy. It is a window, of sorts, but not one that reassures, nor illuminates.
And with that revelation (or lack thereof) I realize there is more to be learned from the three windows I’m considering on this rainy, gloomy day.
The past, I see through the beautiful little window in the back door. People and times, some long gone, some only moments ago, seem clear as I gaze through the old glass. There are good things to be remembered—and heeded—as I turn away from the view.
It is clear that memories can be a pleasant place to visit, but there is nothing to be gained by taking up residence in that place again.
The present, it seems, is represented by the big window across the front of the coffee shop. Looking through it, I see what is transpiring in the wide world outside even now, as I write and consider in here. It’s easy to see the activities going on and to extrapolate, with some accuracy, the result of those activities. The immediate result, that is. The far-reaching effects will have to be left for time to tell.
And time always tells.
The future can be viewed through the peephole. At least, it’s the way we always perceive the future, until it is the present. Then, see above.
Our future is distorted and unclear. Many think they see it in the lens through which they gaze. Financial geniuses, political sages, and religious prophets—all see through different windows—and most claim their vision of the future is 20/20.
We listen to them, looking through their lens for insight, only to see the same view as we do through our little peephole. Fuzzy and distorted.
I remember the words of the apostle who loved to write letters. He was talking about our lives, so short, here on this earth.
For we walk by faith, not by sight. (2 Corinthians 5:7, NKJV)
It’s true. All of humanity does it. We walk into the future, virtually blind, but trusting something. Faith in fate, financial strength, political power, our intellect, or our physical abilities.
I want to walk by faith in Someone I can trust. It’s not my financial advisor. It’s certainly not any politician I know. I’m not smart enough, nor strong enough to control the future myself.
God is the Someone we can trust. From the beginning, He has seen the future clearly, guiding those who trust Him completely.
Remembering the past, gazing on the present, spying out the future—windows into the timeline of life. We keep our eyes open, but all the while, we can have faith in only one sure hope.
I’d still like to make the journey in the sunshine if possible. Rain or shine though, one foot in front of the other, we walk.
By faith. We walk.
The view out the window isn’t bad, either.
Whoever dwells in the shelter of the Most High will rest in the shadow of the Almighty. I will say of the Lord, “He is my refuge and my fortress, my God, in whom I trust.” (Psalm 91:1-2, NIV)
