Covid 19

The university campus looks different this school year. A lot different. Face masks with social distancing are the rule of the day. Outside classes. Meals in the quad. Tents under the trees and a stage thrown up in the large grassy area.

A lot of work has gone into the preparations for the resumption of school in this time of uncertainty. All are hoping the unseen enemy may be held at bay by the weapons and schemes being utilized.

Time will tell.

On a recent afternoon, I walked up to collect the Lovely Lady, who works there. It’s not a long walk. I don’t wear any protective gear—no helmet, no gloves, no goggles—since it’s not usually a dangerous walk.

I may have to reconsider now.

On that recent afternoon, I strode onto campus from the crosswalk at the four-way stop, assuming I had navigated the only iffy spot and would be home-free until I had her safely by my side. I glanced at the pavement ahead of me.

The westward border of the university grounds shares its walking right-of-way with the city’s fitness trail, so I’m never surprised if I meet a cyclist, speed-walker, or jogger there.

Still, the sight that met my eyes that day was a little perplexing. Nevertheless, I continued on my way, straight toward the individual coming at me. It was a college-aged young lady, out for an afternoon ride on her bicycle.

She was prepared. She had even donned a helmet, an accoutrement notably absent from the wardrobe of most college riders I see daily. She was also wearing a face mask properly, over both the mouth and nose, fastened behind her head.

She had another necessary tool with her, one I never go out on my own bike without. The cell phone is invaluable to me, giving me a map, should I need one. More than that, it links me with the Lovely Lady at home via the GPS function which will let her know where to send the EMTs, should I fall into a ditch or ravine.

But, that’s where the preparation thing unraveled. The young lady was pedaling down the trail toward me at a fairly high rate of speed, with no hands on the handlebars of her bicycle! Not one!

I was further astonished to see that she was holding her smartphone in front of her body, both thumbs moving a mile a minute as she tapped out a text.

No hands and no eyes!

I’m not lying when I tell you I don’t think she ever saw me. It is possible she was aware of my presence, but I’m certain she would never have recognized me should the need to identify a body arisen. And, that was appearing more likely by the second.

I moved off of the right side of the trail to give her a wide berth. I wasn’t sure whether to laugh out loud or to yell at her. I did neither and, of course, since I’m still here to relate the story, she sped right on past, with no necessity to identify a body afterward.

I have some thoughts about the event. Why certainly, I’d be delighted to share them!

Preparation without execution is meaningless.

Or, as the Preacher would have said, vanity. Useless and void.

All the training completed ahead of time and any amount of protective equipment donned is without purpose, if there is no follow-through. If we don’t keep our eye on the goal—if our attention is drawn away—failure is nearly assured.

In this battle we (society) and the university are in right now, the enemy is invisible. Oh, the enemy’s consequences are clear, but if they are visible to us, it’s too late.

Somehow, the young lady has reminded me of important lessons I believed were learned in my younger days. It is certain that, if I ever really learned them, I have forgotten them again.

Everywhere we turn these days, we see the result of spiritual battles. Across the world, we see them. Sometimes, just across our tables, we see them. Results.

Disastrous results.

Hate. Apathy. Despair. Racism. Violence.

I forget, again and again, that my enemy has never been a human being. Never.

The Apostle who loved to write letters was so very clear on that point, reminding the believers at Ephesus exactly who their enemy was—the unseen and terrifying power at work all around them.

For our struggle is not against flesh and blood, but against the rulers, against the powers, against the world rulers of this darkness, against the spiritual forces of evil in the heavens. (Ephesians 6:12, NET)

If the one we’ve called enemy has a beating heart, blood running through their veins, and is breathing air, we have identified the wrong suspect.

It doesn’t matter what the person’s position is, what organization he or she represents, and what heinous (or pedestrian) transgressions they stand accused of in our judgment.

If we claim to be followers of Christ and hate them, we lie.

We lie.

All our lives, we have prepared. We have studied; we have discussed. We have tried on the protective gear, turning it this way and that, getting comfortable in it.

For this reason, take up the full armor of God so that you may be able to stand your ground on the evil day, and having done everything, to stand. (Ephesians 6:13, NET)

Why is it, when we have all the preparation down—all the defensive and offensive tools—why is it we take our hands off the handlebars and text our Moms?

It’s not only the college kids and us, either.

The sons of Ephraim were ready with their bows. But they turned away in the day of fighting. (Psalm 78:9, NLV)

Fighting men, they were. Well trained. Well equipped. But, in the day when they were put to the test, they turned tail and ran. Or maybe, they just lost focus. Perhaps, it didn’t seem so important anymore.

I know many in both groups. Many are paralyzed by fear. I know some in this group who are turning tail and running. Just when the preparation they’ve done would be the most help, they’ve decided they want no part of the battle.

And then, there are those who have lost interest. Apathy (or is it despair?) has them in its grip and they have turned their attention elsewhere. On the day of battle, they’ve got better things to do.

I don’t want to be in either of those groups.

There is no reason for us to live in fear. God is with us. Always.

If we turn away, the battle is lost.

So, why does it feel like we’re boxing with shadows?

Perhaps, it’s because we are. Only, like that old Pink Panther cartoon I viewed recently, the shadows are fighting back.

Ah, but do you know what defeats shadows? Every time? Of course, you do.

The Light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it. (John 1:5, NIV)

No shadow can lay a glove on us when we walk in the Light.

Prepare.

Execute.

Stand.

The Lord is my light and my salvation; whom shall I fear? the Lord is the strength of my life; of whom shall I be afraid? (Psalm 27:1, KJV)

If you don’t know where you are going, you’ll end up someplace else. (Yogi Berra ~ Athlete, Coach, Philosopher)

We call this Holy Week. The reasons are clear; I won’t argue against it. Still, it hasn’t felt all that set apart.

I wrote earlier today that the edges of these days have felt much the same as the middles. The Lovely Lady asked me the date a while ago and I had no answer for her.

It’s hard to observe Maundy Thursday when you don’t remember if Tuesday or Wednesday preceded it.

And yet, the calendar said it was Maundy Thursday. The day many followers of Jesus remember His servant heart as He washed the feet of His disciples. They read the scripture over again and perhaps even celebrated His Last Supper with wine and bread.

Me? I looked at a painting on my wall. That’s it up above. A still life, they call it.

As if.

I shared the painting with a few online friends today, along with a poem about still life paintings a poet friend had pointed out a day or two ago. I thought that would be the end of it.

It wasn’t.

Somehow, the painting won’t keep still. Not in my mind, anyway.

I first saw this particular piece of art hanging on the wall of an old saint. I’ve written of her before. Miss Peggy was a faithful servant of her God all the days of her life. But, this story isn’t about her, although she did leave the painting to me after her passing.

The artist is also a friend, another faithful servant of God. Sam is a native of China, having come to this country in the 1980s as a student. There were other reasons for him to leave his native land, but I’d just get the details wrong if I told it, since it’s not my story.

Besides, this story isn’t really about him either.

In a way, it’s about me, stuck here in still life. You know, the life prescribed for me by the medical experts of the day, along with the political powers, who are endeavoring to fight an invisible enemy by dividing and conquering.

Still life. Perhaps, the story is about a reader or two, as well. You’ll know if it is.

Most artists choose their subjects based on aesthetics. Do the colors coordinate; do they clash just enough to draw the eye? Are the objects balanced in their placement? Do the items demonstrate the ability of the artist to capture light and shadow, or texture?

This painting ticks those boxes. It appeals to the eye. It even causes me to admire the talent of the artist.

But, I know Sam. He’s not interested in my praise. Or, yours.

This still life is meant to capture the heart of the observer, to squeeze the soul, and to cause us to walk away with a new vision of who we are.

The bowl is not for food, but for water. A basin, intended to wash away the dust and grime of the world. Perhaps, something like the basin our Savior used as He washed the feet of those who would use those same feet to walk away from Him that very night. (John 13:5)

The kettle and teacup represent comfort and calm. From a culture that views tea as much more than a drink to start the day, but as a celebration of life, the pouring out of this precious liquid quiets the turbulent spirit and brings peace.

Like cups of cold water that meet much more than a physical need, we share the necessities of spiritual comfort with our fellow travelers. (Matthew 10:42)

The meaning of the medicine bottle, along with the mortar and pestle, is clear. Healing comes as we minister and are ministered to. Using the tools at hand, gifts from our Great Healer, we help to heal the hurts and ease the pain of this world.

The crying prophet is assured that there is medicine enough, and there is a Physician, but wonders why they haven’t been applied. (Jeremiah 8:22)

It’s still a good question today.

Washing. Comfort. Healing. How well we know the necessity of all three in this time of sickness and separation.

As I write, Good Friday is upon us. It is the day when we remember the incredible sacrifice made for us. A sacrifice made to heal our great sickness.

His torment was the result of our rebellion; our deeds caused Him to be crushed. His pain was to heal our hurt; His wounds have made us whole. (Isaiah 53.5 ~ my paraphrase)

Perhaps, especially on this day, our contemplation in this still life we’ve become part of could be a place to begin. Before we walk away, will our hearts be captured, our souls squeezed, and that new vision be ours?

It is, after all, not just another still life.

“Comfort, comfort my people,”
Says your God.
(Isaiah 40:1 ~ NET)

For weeks now I have been meditating on still lifes,
The tumble of plums and pears, the overturned goblets
And the sundry bouquets of flowers, the skulls and flutes.
I have grown bored with their quaintness and simplicity
And, well, their stillness, which lacks the narrative power
Of Christ’s agony in the garden or the sublime
Force of Turner’s slave ship, and alp or a starry night.
I tire of the repetitions of subject matter,
The endless spill of quinces, grapes, and pomegranates—
Though, child of time that I am, caught up in the thunder
And motion of history, I sometimes find comfort
In the calm seductions of pitcher and vase, shadow
And light, the modest raptures of the ordinary.
(Morri Creech ~ American poet)

He's Taken Leave

Random wanderings with Paul Phillips

Keep Both Hands on the Handlebars

Not Just Another Still Life