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)

 

© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2021. All Rights Reserved.