I sat in that church sanctuary again last Sunday evening. You know—the one I had never been to before. I never expected to go there again. But the Lovely Lady needed to make a return visit. I needed to be with her.
What I didn’t know was that I also needed to be with that group of people. It wasn’t just the choir this time. The sanctuary was filled with bodies. Old ones. Young adult ones. Little children’s bodies.
These weren’t my people. I worship in a building filled with chairs instead of pews, where a church calendar is barely acknowledged (I remember Christmas Sundays when the pastor carried on with his expository series in Romans, just as if it were any other Sunday), and where the impact of items in the sanctuary is more functional than symbolic.
The service was all symbolism. All of it. Even the music. There was a lot of that. The Lovely Lady played her flute with the choir. Her brother played the pipe organ. There were guitars and drums. And an accordion. Along with the piano, they all combined to draw us into worship.
Did I say these weren’t my people?
They were. They are.
How have we decided we are not related? When did we begin to determine our relationships by differences in style? In doctrinal differences? In musical preferences?
I sat in that sanctuary, a stranger surrounded by family members long estranged.
And we worshipped together.
Together.
If Jesus does not bring us together, pushing aside our differences, are we truly following Him?
If love and kinship in Him do not still draw us to each other, how will we ever worship together in eternity, in that great gathering around His throne?
“Oh come let us adore Him. Worship Christ the Lord.”
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)
I did something new last week. Solomon may have thought there was nothing new under the sun, but this was new to me.
You’ll be underwhelmed when you learn what the accomplishment was. It’s not something most folks would trumpet to just anyone whose attention they could snag. Still, for a man well into his sixth decade, the completion of the task for the first time seems to me to be somewhat significant.
The house in which the Lovely Lady and I live has stood for one more decade than have I. For all those years, the front entrance has been a wooden hollow-core door. It has not fared well over a lifetime, providing only a nominal level of security. I would guess that any person so inclined, and equipped with a decent pair of boots, could have kicked it down at any time in the last few years.
So, when a neighbor offered to donate a perfectly good steel entry door she had replaced recently, I thought it might be time to replace the sad old thing on the front of our home. I won’t bore you with the tedious details but, after several hours of labor—and, I’m delighted to report, with no blood being shed—the new/old door functions reasonably well as a barrier to unwanted salesmen and wandering children. Yes, I know it still needs to have the ratty threshold replaced, but that’s a job for another day.
A new thing.
I’ve never hung a door in my life. I’d been led to believe it was an extremely difficult task, one at which seasoned carpenters had been known to blanch and walk off many a job site without a backward glance.
That last may have been a slight exaggeration on my part, but the hyperbole makes it seem more like a worthy accomplishment, does it not?
I don’t mean to sound like I need a pat on the back.
I don’t. Not today.
It’s just that when I was out in the storage shed looking for a replacement part for the deadbolt that needed to be installed on the new door, I noticed something on the workbench that awoke an old realization.
Seeing that red spring sitting there (nearly forty years after I’ve needed one) caused a week full of memories to explode across my tired old brain.
The year was 1984. The Lovely Lady and I, along with a two-year-old toddler (who was going on thirteen) and a nearly one-year-old baby, were traveling back home (for me) to South Texas in a 1965 Chevrolet Biscayne sedan. Sixty miles from our destination, the car’s motor began to act up. For me, the week of vacation was to become a week of tribulation and frustration. And triumph.
I was about to do new things—things I had never done before. I was also about to realize that my image of my father was a little skewed. Or not.
Two days after we arrived at my childhood home, I was elbows deep in two hundred thirty cubic inches of the six-cylinder motor in the crippled Chevy when my dad came out to check on me. The carburetor was on one fender, the valve cover on another, and the oil-covered valve lifters and springs sat exposed on top of the motor in front of me.
“I can’t believe you’ve torn up your car like that!” My dad was incredulous.
I was confused. I was certain my father was a do-it-yourselfer from way back, tackling jobs himself instead of paying to have them done. As a young adult, I believed I had followed his example when trying to do repair and improvement jobs myself rather than spending my hard-earned cash for the expertise of others.
I was baffled. And, I said so to him.
“I don’t know what you remember about me, but I’d never tackle a job like that,” he replied.
I put the valve cover back on and replaced the carburetor. Closing the hood, I called a local mechanic and made an appointment for the next day.
My world was shaken. My dad wasn’t who I thought he was. I needed to consider this. But, over the next two days, as we waited on the mechanic, whose expertise I was relying on, I thought about my memories of my youth at home.
I remembered, years before, the man tearing down an old house to make his just purchased property a safe place for his kids to play. My mind had images of his ancient Ford station wagon straddling an irrigation ditch while he lay under it draining the oil and replacing the filter. And I had only to walk into the living room at the old house to see the louvered room divider between the living and dining room he and Mom had built from pieces of raw lumber and dowels purchased at the local lumberyard.
I breathed a little easier. And I regretted the hundred fifty dollar invoice I paid to the mechanic in a day or two. He had replaced a broken valve spring. That’s all.
A little red spring that sat under the valve lifters. The valve lifters I had been looking at when I abandoned my efforts. I was inches from success when I had surrendered. Inches.
I spent a few more hours during that vacation week reading about the process of replacing valve springs. You know. Just in case.
At the end of that week, we waved and hugged goodbye as we loaded our luggage and kids in the big old boat of a car and headed back north.
Three hours later, we sat at the side of the road with another broken valve spring.
We limped to a garage beside the highway a few miles on, but they couldn’t offer any help except to sell me a couple of used valve springs. That was after they told me it would be three days before the repair could be effected.
But I’m a do-it-yourselfer, the son of a do-it-yourselfer!
Borrowing a bit of rope to keep the pushrod from dropping into the motor’s cylinder, I did the repair myself as the mechanics sat nearby and drank their beer, speculating on how long it would take me to surrender.
I didn’t surrender. They were amazed.
A new thing. That day, I did a new thing.
I have kept the extra valve spring all these years, never believing I’d need it again. I can’t bring myself to dispose of it. Symbols of victories won are precious, however small their monetary value might be.
I’m not advocating that everyone needs to become a DIYer. That’s not wise.
What I do believe is that we should never stop learning. Never.
And never stop doing new things.
What I also believe is that we should pass on our wisdom, the memories of our triumphs—along with our failures, to the generations that come after us. Dads, moms, grandparents, neighbors—we share who we are and what we hope to become with young ones desperately looking for examples. Good examples.
At twenty-seven years old, remembering my roots, I repaired a motor by the side of the road for the first time. Last week, nearly forty years later, I hung a door for the first time.
I wonder what I’ll be doing in twenty years. I hope I’ll still be learning. And doing.
I’d like to think there still are a few young ones who might learn something worth passing on to others yet to be born.
I hope they’ll learn more than just about front doors and old Chevys.
It’s the way our Creator designed things.
Parents, teach your children.
Tell your children about it, Let your children tell their children, And their children another generation. (Joel 1:3, NKJV)
It’s a melancholy sort of day. You know, one of those days when things are going okay, but even the triumphs are clouded with a kind of sadness. One of those we got the rain we really need last night, but the storm sent too many of the waiting-for-fall leaves sailing prematurely kind of days.
It all started when my son-in-law pulled the chainsaw out of his van. I’ve marveled many times at what a wonderful labor-saving invention the gasoline-powered saw is, but, in all frankness, I don’t remember ever being joyful after hearing one run. I’m never ecstatic when considering the outcome of its skillful wielding.
And yes—I did request that he bring the tool with him. I’m even the one who gave him the instructions regarding what needed to be done. I angled my hand alongside the limb and indicated the direction of the cut.
Just one cut.
The hackberry tree is as nondescript a tree as you could find on our street. The graceful maples are so much prettier, especially now that fall is upon us. The pin oaks tower above the ratty hackberry, putting it to shame by their girth and height, as well as their ability to provide shade along the lane. Even the sweet gum trees, with their annoying and spiny gum balls, are spectacular in their display on any given day.
But this particular hackberry tree…
I gather my thoughts and I begin to understand my wistful mood.
You see, the tree has hurt me so many times. And so much. It had to be done. I’m sure it did.
I stand just over six feet tall. The tree has a limb that juts out from the sturdy trunk at about sixty-eight or -nine inches off the ground. If my math is correct, that means I must duck about four inches to move under it when I’m working in my yard with a lawnmower or trimmer.
I don’t always. Duck, that is.
So, I hit my head solidly on the branch about twice a month. The last couple of times it has happened, I’m sure I heard little birds tweeting. And I saw stars. Really. Stars. On a summer’s afternoon.
If I had been a pro football player, they would have taken me into a tent to run the “protocol”, checking me for a concussion. I’m fairly sure there hasn’t been one. Yet. Still, I don’t think I can bang my head many more times without doing some kind of permanent damage.
Besides that, it’s embarrassing. The Lovely Lady has no sympathy left for me (and who could blame her?). But, more to the point, I’m worried about the entertainment the neighbors are getting for free every time I walk under the tree and then back out, rubbing the top of my head. I just know they’re laughing at me each time it happens.
So, yes. I did ask my son-in-law to bring the saw and lop off the branch. He’s a good man, who understands the need to save face (or the top of one’s head).
The limb now lies in my brush pile awaiting the next collection day.
I should be happy.
But the limb is in the brush pile. And as much as I want that to make me happy, I’m sad about it.
image by Paul Phillips
You see, having the limb lying in the brush pile means that my grandchildren will never again hang from it like a monkey bar. They’ll never sit on it, side by side, giggling and teasing each other. It will never again, some beautiful spring evening, be a perch for the girls to stand on while their brothers stand impatiently below, waiting to have their photo taken by Grandpa.
I’ll never again hit my head on that nasty branch.
They’ll never again play and cavort on it.
It’s a melancholy sort of day.
And so, in my not-happy/not-sad state of mind, I consider life. I do that a lot. It could be my age. It could be my nature. Regardless, I scan my memories in a this-is-your-life type of review.
It’s not a new thought that comes to me as I cogitate. Rather an old one, I believe.
Joyful events—and sad—are sprinkled throughout the span of our years.
It’s a guarantee. And both have a result in our spirits.
A cheerful heart is good medicine, but a broken spirit saps a person’s strength. (Proverbs 17:22, NLT)
It’s not fair for us to insist that the people in our lives be happy all the time. Life happens to all of us. It happens to each of us on a different timetable.
Often, when I’m sad, the Lovely Lady is joyful. And vice versa. It’s a good thing. I could be resentful, but there is nothing to resent. In a way, I believe it’s our Creator’s way of giving us balance. And comfort.
Rejoice with those who rejoice, weep with those who weep. (Romans 12:15, NET)
We—human beings—are intended to complement each other. We sympathize with each other. We rejoice with each other.
While we feel what we feel, we minister.
As far as the tree goes, today is not mowing day, so I mourn the limb’s absence. I suppose it’s the rapid passing of childhood I lament most of all. Truth be told, I would never have taken it down if the children still climbed the tree with any frequency. They’ve outgrown that. Still, it makes me sad.
But, come the next time I work in the yard, I’ll rejoice. No more pain! No more embarrassment! No more holding the top of my head as I berate myself for my forgetfulness.
I’m happy to report that the chainsaw is not an eraser. It can never take away my memories, either of the children playing or of my foolishness.
Life goes on. Happy times. Sad times.
We celebrate. Together, we celebrate.
We mourn. Together, we mourn.
It’s a good arrangement.
Of course it is. He made it so, just for us.
Happiness and sadness run parallel to each other. When one takes a rest, the other one tends to take up the slack. (Hazelmarie Elliot)
It wasn’t that great a day today. One of those Alexander kind of days, in fact. You know—a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day.
Well, it wasn’t all that bad. Except, I lied to a neighbor. I did.
The day actually started well. The heat and air crew came again to finish installing our new central air unit in the utility room, a different location from where the old one had been in the family room/den. The main reason for the move is that my aging ears can no longer hear what Gibbs is saying to McGee on the big screen TV when the A/C is running. I was happy the fellows were here.
But then there was the gas line that couldn’t be moved. (We’re not plumbers, you know.) And the ductwork that wouldn’t go above the ceiling. (Maybe, just build a little box?) And the return air vent has to be situated next to the dining room table now, so my old ears won’t be able to hear what my granddaughter is saying to me across the table.
I told the HVAC tech that none of those things would be a big deal. We could work around them. At least I can hear Gibbs now.
It was the truth.
Later, my son sent a note to ask if I could eat lunch with him. You don’t know how much those times mean to me, the moments when we sit, just the boy (he hasn’t been a boy for many years) and his old dad, across the table from each other and share our lives. I had to tell him not today. The HVAC guys, you know.
I told my son it didn’t matter. We could do it another day.
It was the truth.
Some young friends who have just returned from a few years abroad asked me if I could break away long enough this afternoon to look at a piano they were hoping to buy. I had looked at the photos and the description of the piano they sent and thought it had promise. The HVAC guys were finishing up, so I went with my friends. I just knew this would end up well.
The piano was a complete bust, having a catastrophic defect. I told them to keep looking. They thanked me profusely for helping them avoid a bad purchasing decision.
I told them it was nothing. I was happy to help.
It was the truth.
Sitting in an easy chair at home later, I looked out the window and saw a small dog running along the street. It looked familiar. I was almost certain the dog belonged to one of our neighbors, an older widow a couple of doors down. It never runs loose, so I headed out the door after it.
When it ran into another neighbor’s yard, I called out to that neighbor who was working in her flower garden. She agreed with me about who the critter belonged to, so I jogged to the owner’s house while the other lady tagged after the dog, who would not come to us when called.
By the time the older neighbor and I returned, the shaggy little canine had headed downhill to the bottom of the gully that carries rainwater from our neighborhood to the creek nearby. It was too steep for the dog’s owner to get down to it, but I expected the other younger neighbor would have picked up the little thing and carried it out. The dog is mostly blind and couldn’t see well enough to find the way up itself.
“She didn’t want to be picked up,” was the terse explanation we got when we asked.
I sniffed. Didn’t want to be picked up! I’d pick her up!
I did try. She didn’t want to be picked up. Really.
She might have been blind, but she knew the hand that touched her sides wasn’t a familiar one. Instantly, she nipped at it. I pulled away just in time. Talking calmly and letting her smell my fingers, I tried again. This time, the tips of my fingers right in front of her sightless eyes actually felt the sharp little incisors brush along the skin as she snapped them closed.
I left her on the ground.
The dog’s owner stood and called to her and with the other neighbor and me acting as deterrents to her doubling back, she made her way slowly up to level ground. When the older lady bent down to pick her up, there was no snapping or nipping at all.
As we parted ways, the grateful lady worried about the damage the dog might have done.
“She didn’t hurt you at all, did she?”
I replied that I wasn’t hurt in the slightest.
It was a lie.
To be clear, there was no blood. The dog’s teeth hadn’t caught any flesh. But here’s the thing: Dogs love me!
They do. I’ve petted German Shepherds and Doberman Pinschers, Great Danes and Saint Bernards. Why, there’s even a huge, muscular Pit Bull down at my brother’s that thinks my lap is where he belongs when I sit on the couch there. But this little lost and blind Shih Tzu, heading downward to certain peril, only wanted to hurt me when I was merely trying to help. She rejected my advances altogether.
Of course, I’m hurt.
It was the worst thing that happened to me all day. In a day filled with disappointments, nothing matters more than that this little dog wouldn’t let me be her savior.
Oh.
I think I’m going to stop writing now. Perhaps I’ve said enough.
Well, maybe just this:
There is a Savior. He came to help us—to show us the way. Blind and lost, we lashed out at Him.
And we did draw blood.
I wonder if it still hurts.
O Jerusalem, Jerusalem, thou that killest the prophets, and stonest them which are sent unto thee, how often would I have gathered thy children together, even as a hen gathereth her chickens under her wings, and ye would not! (Matthew 23:37, KJV)
Behold, I stand at the door and knock. If anyone hears My voice and opens the door, I will come in to him and dine with him, and he with Me. (Revelation 3:20, NKJV)
The message arrived at 4:53 yesterday morning. Through the haze of slumber, I heard the chime announcing it and rolled over, assuming it could wait.
It did.
When I had brushed my hair and finished a cup or two of coffee (a few hours later), my brain caught up and I read it again. The message had come from one of the Lovely Lady’s relatives back East.
She wanted a picture or two of a barn. I knew which one she meant without need of explanation. Of course, she meant the barn behind my house.
She had told some friends in the big city of her small-town roots and of chucking rotten potatoes at the old structure when she was a kid. I suppose she needed photographic proof that it was undamaged by her malfeasance and still standing after all these years. She’s no kid anymore.
Back then, her dad would hand her a few potatoes he had dug from the garden. Perhaps they had rotted in the ground or, as likely, they had sat on the shelf in the utility room for too long. Either way, the only thing they were good for was fodder for the cows in the field. As she saw it, she could practice her throwing skills at the same time.
The cows would get the benefit either way. And the thwack of the spuds on the tin roof was so satisfying. It wasn’t as much fun if they only splatted against the pine siding. One way or the other, they ended up on the ground for the cows.
The old barn is a constant in my life. Even though I never saw it until I was nearly two decades old, its presence in my history goes back quite a few years before that. But we’ll get back to that later.
One of my favorite photographs was taken by the Lovely Lady in the mid-nineteen-eighties behind the house where we now live (the same one in which she grew up). My young daughter and I had wandered back to look at Dr. Weaver’s cows, the marvelous creatures being a wonder to the little tyke.
image by Paula Phillips
As the sweet little girl and her daddy gazed out at the cows, we couldn’t help but see the old barn back behind. Dr. Weaver’s old tractor was parked in a bay on one side, the hay and feed the cattle would need to see them through the coming winter on the other side.
Tonight, as I contemplate the photo again, I wonder if there could have been just the barest hint, perhaps even a faint aura, of the children who would be born to that little girl decades later hanging in the air that evening, as we gazed unknowingly into the future together.
But no. It was probably just the cows getting a little too close to the barbed-wire fence. No sense in getting all sappy about it.
I’ve been happy to take a photo or two with the little girl’s children beside the old barn in the last year or two. They seem to be as attached to the old thing as I am.
I watched the city crew put in a new utility line underground along the edge of the field over the last week or so. Somehow, to me, it seems a foreshadowing of what is to come. The big machines pound and torture the earth, the vibrations shaking the ground underfoot. The old barn seems just a little more fragile than it was only days ago.
Change comes. We can’t hold it back.
But, not yet. The barn is still standing. Right where it was seventy years ago when my father first set foot in it.
Oh. Didn’t I tell that part yet?
Years before I was born—before my parents had even met—that young man came to this small town to visit his brother and sister-in-law, who were attending the local Christian college. They were simpler times, vegetables shared from nearby gardens, meat from the college farm, and milk coming from a college professor who had a couple of Jersey cows that he milked in his barn.
In the sturdy wood and tin barn—yes, the very one—back behind his native-stone house, the professor of science milked the cows and sold the bounty they provided to the married college students. My father and his brother stood one evening waiting for their share.
Taking the full glass jug Dr. Wills handed them, they turned to make the trip back to the married student housing, their feet carrying them right across the front yard of the house the Lovely Lady and I live in today.
Some things in our lives are constants, even if we haven’t always been able to see them.
The physical, tangible objects change over time, aging and deteriorating as the years and the elements wear on them. Eventually, they will fall. All of them will fall.
Yes, the old barn, too. It has been a bit neglected for some years. The cows are only a memory; the garden in which the potatoes grew has sprouted a beautiful little house in recent years. Time passes and many treasures are lost along the way.
There are other things, not so temporal, we leave to our loved ones. The list is long.
Some items on it are not the kind of things we like to think of; prejudice, bad habits, the inability to control anger come to mind immediately. Others will come to mind as memories take over. These can take a lifetime to erase or, possibly, only to bring under control.
But among the lifelong gifts we give to our children, our families, and our loved ones is one I remember the best from a young age in my own life. It’s one I hope I passed on as a legacy—hope I’m passing on still.
My father and the red-headed lady he loved gave me the gift of knowing their God. They passed on to those who were close to them not only their faith, but also the certainty that theirs was a God who cared for them in a real and personal way.
Beyond the astonishing grace that provided a way to be reconciled with Him, He loves us and wants good things for us. He knows us better than we know ourselves.
They were certain of it and helped us to find it out for ourselves. Our conversations were full of a God who was part of our everyday lives.
I’m no longer surprised by the “coincidences”, the unexplainable, the unseen hand of this God. If you look, the evidence is all around.
You saw me before I was born. Every day of my life was recorded in your book. Every moment was laid out before a single day had passed. (Psalm 139:16, NLT)
I won’t argue free will and predestination with anyone. I don’t know enough about the subject to have a dogma attached to it, save this:
For those who follow Him, there is a path prepared.
I have no great insights into finding His will, except to run hard after Him. That said, even when I have run hard away from Him during a few periods in my life, He has continued to work out His plan.
So when, at age nineteen, inexplicably drawn away from my home in south Texas to a little town in northwest Arkansas that I had never heard of until a year or so before, I packed up everything I owned in my Chevy Nova and took (as Mr. Lewis would have said) the adventure that came to me.
In the shadow of the old barn my father had visited thirty years prior, I wooed and won the Lovely Lady’s hand. Still in its shadow, we began to raise our children and made lifelong friends.
And now, again in its shadow, life slows, the path still before us. God never stops drawing us, one step at a time, until that day we’ll stop wandering.
And we’ll be home.
We need constants.
It turns out that there is, indeed, a thread, a continuous presence in my life.
It’s not the old barn. Much as I enjoy that old structure, it has only been a part of the landscape.
image by Paul Phillips
From my father’s steps into the barn seventy years ago, up to today, when I stand at the useless old barbed-wire fence and gaze across the field at the dilapidated old shed, the only true and lasting constant in life has been the hand of God.
Leading, protecting, pushing, but most of all, holding.
Safe.
I want to leave a legacy, something for folks to remember me by.
I hope it’s Him.
Just Him.
And if—at the end of it all— there’s an old barn somewhere nearby, I’ll be just fine with that, too.
Seek the Kingdom of God above all else, and live righteously, and he will give you everything you need.
(Matthew 6:33, NLT)
And then, let us descend into the city and take the adventure that is sent to us.
(C.S. Lewis ~ The Silver Chair)
He leadeth me, O blessed thought! O words with heavenly comfort fraught! Whate’er I do, where’er I be, still ’tis God’s hand that leadeth me.
He leadeth me, he leadeth me; By his own hand he leadeth me. His faithful follower I would be, For by his hand he leadeth me. (from He Leadeth Me, by Joseph Gilmore ~ Public Domain)
I sit, listening to the quiet of the morning. The morning after, perhaps I should say.
Last night a cold front moved through our region, the coolness of the northern air pushing under the stubborn heat of our lingering southern summer. As usually happens with this situation, the leading edge of that troublesome, change-seeking cold front roiled up a thunderstorm from the hot air, blowing through with noise and light, keeping normal folks awake and on edge for hours.
This morning brought temperatures in the sixties, instead of the eighties, and a quiet that seems almost eerie after the high energy of the night we experienced. A few limbs had to be moved out of streets and the yards are covered with leaves and slender branches that gave up their fight during the storm, but over it all, a hush and calm has descended. Even the songbirds seem a little muted as they wing from tree to bush today.
The calm after the storm.
Wait. That’s not right.
The red-headed lady who raised me said it enough times the words are embedded in my brain.
The calm before the storm. That was how she would say it.
We would comment about how things seemed to be going smoothly, and she would say the words, injecting her usual pessimism—her expectation of trouble to come—into the quiet.
I may have acquired some of her fretting spirit. I’m certain the world around me, my tribe of Christ-followers included, has appropriated it these days.
Everywhere I turn, the expectation is of more disaster, of more pain.
I’m here to say the old trite saying my mother remembered from her mother (and perhaps, hers before that) is the wrong way around. Almost inside out.
The truth is, or so it seems to me, the storm precedes the calm.
In the midst of the wind and the crashing thunder, along with the devastating lightning, there is a hope—no, a certainty—that calm will descend anew. The noise will stop, the catastrophic power of the storm will fade, and we’ll bind up the wounds as we weep for our losses and move forward.
Headed home—again.
There is hope. I don’t know how long the storm will last. I do know our Creator, our God, has plans for good for us, not destruction.
“For I know the plans I have for you,” declares the Lord, “plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future.”
(Jeremiah 29:11, NIV)
I do know our Savior acknowledged the storms of life, but told us not to give in to terror and hopelessness.
“I have told you these things, so that in me you may have peace. In this world you will have trouble. But take heart! I have overcome the world.”
(John 16:33, NIV)
I am not a Pollyanna, quoting only “rejoicing texts.” Nor, am I a Little Orphan Annie insisting “the sun’ll come out tomorrow.” No, I am simply a pragmatist with Faith. Faith with a capital F.
I know better than to trust to the devices of men, or the machinations of politics, or even the beneficence of a sympathetic universe. Simply put, I believe in the words of a trustworthy Creator and the experience of having spent a lifetime invested in following Him.
I wish I could insert the word “fully” in the previous sentence, right before “invested.” I’m sorry to say I have only been heavily invested for short periods of time. Before that, I was partially invested. Perhaps, it was merely slightly invested.
Have I made it clear that I’m not all that good at this “following Christ” gig? My lack of enthusiastic participation doesn’t change His investment in the slightest.
He’s all in.
And not just for me. He’s all in for every single person who believes in Him. Every one.
Calm follows a storm. It always has. I see no reason to believe that’s going to change.
I’m not telling you the red-headed lady was wrong. I just think she might have put the cart before the horse. She told me that happened a lot, too.
For many, the storm is still raging. All around, events are out of control and all appears to be lost.
It’s not. Calm will come again. It will.
The wind and the waves still know His voice.
Your heart will too.
Rest.
I have both the violent turbulence of the storm and the quiet promises of God in the storm. And what I must work to remember is that something is not necessarily stronger simply because it’s louder. (Craig Lounsbrough ~ Pastor/Counselor)
Then He arose and rebuked the wind, and said to the sea, “Peace,be still!” And the wind ceased and there was a great calm.
(Mark 4:39, NKJV)
