I was unhappy. It’s not a mistake I’d usually make. I’m a stickler for correct grammar and punctuation. Oh, that doesn’t mean I don’t make errors; it simply means they usually have been corrected by the time I deem something fit for public consumption and click the button to post it. After I’ve read it over five or ten times.
But there it was, as clear as you please.
I was reposting an old note I had written a couple of years ago on my social media account. At a time when I was tired, hot, and covered in dust, I had seen the beauty of the sun shining through the trees, making the humid, dusty atmosphere glow with the bright rays of heavenly light.
“As I mowed my neighbors’ yard yesterday, I looked up from the hot and dusty task before me to see this.” Those were the words with which I started my post.
Except there is just one person who lives there. The fact that I placed the apostrophe after the s that made the word neighbor plural meant more than one person was living there. I should have placed the apostrophe between the r and the s to make it a singular possessive word.
You see, my neighbor is a widow—her husband having passed away nearly two years ag. . .
Oh.
When I wrote it, two people were living in the house next door. One of them, my friend Skip, would leave this world for the next a mere two months after it was written.
I did! I did put the apostrophe in the right place!
I feel as if I should be happier. Being right should be more joyful than this.
And yet, I’ve been looking at that apostrophe for the last hour or two. It was in the right place when I wrote the post, but it’s not now.
I’m not sad about how a sentence was written two years ago. I’m sad that all it takes to correct the loss of my friend is to move an apostrophe, the tiniest of punctuation marks, one space over.
One space—his loving wife’s loneliness and loss, shown in that tiny action. All the sadness of his children and old friends summed up in a movement of less than a quarter of an inch.
Perhaps though, my sadness is even more deeply rooted than this one exercise in grammatical nerdiness.
I stood with dear friends in church today and, speaking with them, realized anew that I will not do that with one or both of them many more times in this world. Health fails; the body refuses to continue on in its earthly mission.
Life on this spinning ball of water and rock is precarious. It’s short. And, unpredictable.
Today is a good day to hold close those our Creator has given us. It’s the perfect day to say, “I love you,” to everyone to whom the words apply.
Do (and say) the important things now, while the apostrophes and commas are still holding firm.
Tomorrow, the commas may all turn to periods—the apostrophes may slip over a space. The Author of our story writes and edits as He sees fit.
Of course, if the punctuation holds fast and isn’t moved until years in the future, we’ll simply have made the world a better place to be for all those extra days. And, our longer stories will be more lovely to read because of it.
And that seems to be acceptable. To me, anyway.
I hope you agree. If you don’t, send me a note.
Just try to get the punctuation right, will you?
“The Lord gives, and the Lord takes away. May the name of the Lord be blessed!”
(Job 1:21, NET)
“As I mowed my neighbors’ yard yesterday, I looked up from the hot and dusty task before me to see this.
Nothing spectacular. Just the sun’s rays shining through the dust that hung in the air. Somehow, life just seems a little sweeter in the light.
The heat seems unbearable. It’s not.
The sadness seems crushing. It’s not.
The dread of what lies ahead seems overwhelming. It’s not.
Our hope never was in the stuff of this world. Time to look higher.
‘The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it.’” (John 1:5, NIV) (from a Facebook post on July 7, 2022)
I know it’s that time of the year—the time when my lungs usually revolt and refuse to take in (and expel) the prescribed amount of oxygen. I’m taking steps to stay healthy. And, in case I fail at that, I’ve filled my prescriptions. The rescue inhaler is easily at hand for when it will be required again.
This was different.
Certainly, I couldn’t breathe. Still, I didn’t reach for my inhaler. It would have done no good.
We had just heard the news of a tragedy in a young family we love. A beautiful little girl was dead, and her father had been carried away in a flash flood.
I couldn’t breathe.
In my mind, I saw that beautiful little girl standing on a church platform last Christmas, her two older sisters singing a lovely duet while she just stood smiling beside them in her pretty satiny dress.
She tried. She really did.
She tried just to stand there quietly, but it couldn’t be done. Before they finished, she was dancing, throwing her hair from side to side and moving her hands and feet to the music. And, when they stopped singing, she bowed to the audience and, pointing her toes as she went, danced down the steps from the stage.
I spoke to her mom after the program and told her it was perfect. Perfect.
She laughed apologetically and explained that the two older girls had worked up the song, but to keep the peace had allowed the sweet little one to come up on stage with them. So, she danced. Because she couldn’t sing.
She’ll never do it again. I thought about that and I couldn’t breathe. Perhaps, I’m not the only one.
Another friend reminded us of a song today, one that speaks again and again of the goodness of God. Running after us, it says.
“Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life.” (Psalm 23:6, KJV)
I’ve heard the words for as long as I can remember. They’re meant to be comforting. And yet, I can’t help but ask the question little Gretel asked in The Sound of Music when singing about her favorite things wasn’t helping any.
“Why don’t I feel bettah?”
It doesn’t feel like goodness and mercy are following right now. Sometimes, if I’m honest, it feels just the opposite.
But then, I remember words I last heard from the lips of the sweet girl’s daddy, not many months ago now. He—not a preacher—gave one of the most powerful sermons I’ve ever heard, on his favorite book of the Bible, Habakkuk.
A soul-ish book, he called it. One we need to hear with our inner being and not just our heads. He had much to say about the words of the prophet, but these I want to remember, especially now, when I’m tempted to be directed by my feelings:
“The Lord is in His holy temple; let all the earth keep silence before Him.” (Habakkuk 3:20, KJV)
And, perhaps it’s time for me to do just that.
But before I do, two things:
The first is, I wonder if you noticed I forgot to finish the verse from the Twenty-third Psalm above. It’s something I tend to do when I’m thinking with my emotions and not my soul. I forget that there is more.
Really. More.
“And I shall dwell in the House of the Lord forever.”
And second, remembering that hope-filled truth, I begin to breathe again as I see the beautiful little girl dancing for her Savior. But then I remember that she gets to sing now, too.
She gets to sing.
With her daddy, she gets to sing.
One can almost hear it from here. Beautiful music.
Goodness.
Mercy.
Following us.
All of our lives.
“Yet I will rejoice in the Lord! I will be joyful in the God of my salvation! The Sovereign Lord is my strength! He makes me as surefooted as a deer, able to tread upon the heights.” (Habakkuk 3:18-19, NLT)
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.
How is it that the fear Banished in the morning light Claws at my heart now, Cowering in the new thrown night?
Hyperbole is what that is. Poetic license, taken by one given to flights of imagination. It’s expected when one writes in verse and rhyme.
Still, it’s not so far off the mark, some nights.
I am by nature a night person, haunting the empty rooms and darkened recesses of this old mid-century habitation long after any other denizens of the neighborhood, save the four-footed variety, have given in to the siren call of slumber. And when, as is my lot at times, my chronic breathing problems surface, even the hours when I’ve retreated to my bed are spent turning this way and that, coughing and yet, attempting to suppress the overwhelming urge to do that very thing.
As one might expect, eventually the mind turns to unhappy and dark subjects or, more specifically, situations for which I’ve found, in my normal haunting hours, no solution or cure.
Unfinished business is a weight on my mind, a burden if you will, that bends the spirit until I’m afraid the breaking point is near. And, clawing fear with unanswered questions is often given leave to ride, untethered, through the dark hours.
Tonight I received an unexpected note from one I love. His message closed with these words that give me hope the reign of one particular fear is near an end:
“I think my time for anger is finally over.”
The last time I wrote about the man was right after he died. Two years ago, almost. One would have thought the turmoil, the tumult, had died with him. One would have been wrong.
Just because a character has fallen out of the story, it’s not a given that closure is accomplished. Much the opposite, this falling-out part often seems to increase the impact of the mental conflict, to magnify those unpleasant memories that never seem to behave themselves or to become comfortable scenes from the past.
I loved the man—more than I have loved most other folks on this spinning ball of dirt and water. But, that said, he was the most stubborn human being I’ve ever known. Well, maybe not more stubborn than the red-headed lady he was married to.
And yet, he could also be the most maddening person I knew. That red-headed lady said it once (that I remember).
“That man! He makes me so mad!”
I was twelve and had never heard her say a negative word about my father before. I was certain the divorce papers would be served soon.
Of course, they never were. He cared for her until the day she died, even though she had not known who he was for a couple of years before her passing. He was like that.
He kept his promises. It was one of the things about him that was so maddening. Yes, maddening. Keeping promises.
In his last years, there was one particular person he made promises to. She made promises, too—never intending to keep them. He intended to keep his and did until the day he died, at great cost to himself and his family.
But, no.
This is not an exposé. It’s not.
I intended to do that one day. I would write a tell-all story, exposing his shortcomings and character failings to the world. Bare my soul, vomiting out my frustration and angst.
It will never happen.
Remember the story of Noah in the Bible? That righteous man, Noah, a fierce follower of God, who complied willingly with God’s plan for the survival of mankind and the animal kingdom by building an ark and taking his family into it, saving them from the flood?
There is another story about the man, found in chapter 9 of Genesis, verses 18 through 28. After the flood, Noah, being more of a farmer than a boatbuilder, grew a crop of grapes, subsequently making wine from the bounty. Sampling the liquid, he became drunk. In his inebriated state, he took off his clothes and laid, in his drunken stupor, naked in his tent.
Wait. Drunk and naked? The most righteous man in the world? That doesn’t seem right, does it?
His son, Ham, didn’t think so either. Finding his father in that state, he called his brothers, Shem and Japheth, to come and look, so anxious was he to expose Dad’s shortcoming.
They chose not to participate.
Taking their father’s cloak between the two of them, they walked backward. So they could preserve their father’s dignity, they purposefully refused to look at him naked. They covered his nakedness.
It’s different today.
A popular writer in our day, Anne Lamott, famously suggests you own everything that happened to you. She encourages—no, insists—that we should tell everything, regardless of the harm to others. I’m certain she means well.
But I’m with Shem and Japheth. I choose not to participate. To expose the private sin and shortcomings of one I love is to disrespect who he was throughout his life.
He was a man who loved his God intensely. Fiercely, even. And, because of that, he was a man who loved the people around him in the same way. As a pastor, he made it his mission to be where he was needed. He listened. He comforted. He wept. He rejoiced.
When he was no longer the pastor of a church, he became pastor to the folks at the local breakfast cafe, the grocery store, even the bank. Again and again, he made friends of strangers, praying as easily as he talked, encouraging more than he exhorted, leaving the world behind him better for having walked here.
He loved his family with that same fierce love. Every one of his children walked away from some aspect of the principles, the faith, he had brought us up in, yet his love for us never waned. With each of us, he prayed. To the end of his days, he prayed. And he sang. And he quoted scripture—and poetry.
In the back of my mind, even as I write this, I hear the voice. “But, what about that episode? What about the time he did this? Tell them about the day…”
Why do we hold on so long to resentment? To anger?
What possible end can we hope to achieve by holding them tightly? Like some monstrous, yet precious, treasures, we grasp them with a death-grip only age-worn and life-weary hands can manage.
The closer we hold them, the more they hurt us. The longer we embrace them, the harder it becomes to let them go.
Many eventually loose that anger in outbursts of ugly accusation and personal venom. The outburst can be a catharsis; no one could argue that. But, catharsis achieved and outburst exhausted, all that is left in view is a smaller human being, accompanied by his/her scorched and ruined memories of one whom they loved and were loved by.
Many will disagree with my viewpoint. The age in which we live thrives on canceling reputations and flaming memories. Somehow we believe we are bigger for diminishing the reputations of those whose voices are silent now and who can no longer answer back.
It can only diminish us.
The one I love is right. The time for anger is over. If it’s not, the time for fear and resentfulness never will be. Ever.
And somehow, the One I always end up talking to in the dark, He who is the Light that has defeated the darkness and will one day banish it forever, reminds me that my anger and resentment is one of the burdens He asked me to give to Him.
Many I know are carrying that same burden—have carried it for most of the years of their life.
Why would we willingly keep bending under that heavy load? Pain and unhappiness are the only possible return we’ll realize from the labor.
He promises rest. And hope.
The time for anger is over.
Ahh. Sweet freedom!
Then Jesus said, “Come to me, all of you who are weary and carry heavy burdens, and I will give you rest. (Matthew 11:28, NLT)
Darkness cannot drive out darkness: only light can do that. Hate cannot drive out hate: only love can do that. (Martin Luther King Jr.)
The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness can never extinguish it. (John 1:5, NLT)
Just yesterday, it seems, the call came. They found him in his recliner, laid back, as if asleep. I can’t count the times I came into the living room to find him like that. It was his place to rest; it was his place to think; it was his place to commune with God.
How would he have gone any other way?
The old man (I use the term with the greatest of respect) has been on my mind a lot lately. Independent, stubborn—in a loving kind of way, and determined to follow his God into eternity, he refused to be taken care of. A thousand and a half miles from any of his children, he lived on his own terms.
The shadow he cast over the lives of his family may never fade. Perhaps, in time, we may notice it less. Now in our sixties, all of his children will attest to the influence he wielded, frequently purposefully, but mostly without that intent at all.
Parents are like that, if we let them be. I was happy to stay in the shade of this man; grateful for the protection from the heat of the long summer days.
And, shade there was. He offered guidance—when asked, and correction—sometimes without being asked. Over the years, he and I developed the kind of relationship that was comfortable enough to endure the inevitable disputes. He corrected me; I corrected him. Neither of us actually complied with the correction, we simply moved on, leaving the disagreements behind.
I have come to realize that the shade had thinned in the last few years.
Mere weeks ago, my siblings and I sat at the table in my dining room, drinking coffee and talking about our lives and about life in general. I gazed out the front window at the old maple tree near the street and commented on its imminent demise.
The old tree is nearing seventy years old, the only one remaining of the original five planted by my late father-in-law. Like the other four, it will come down soon. There are few full limbs left, the scraggly arms jutting out from the huge trunk offering just the barest growth of leaves now. The limbs that have been removed have left hollows, places for water to stand and further rot the heart of the tree. Now, when it rains, the water that enters the open heart fifty or so feet above the ground drains out a knothole only a couple of feet up on the trunk.
Even now, in its last stages, the old tree casts a long shadow. It may do so for several more years. Not much shade to be found, but the shadow of the skeletal old trunk stretches for many feet more than its actual height.
As I gazed at the tree and pointed out its defects to my siblings, my mind jumped to my father, not knowing his body was even then lying in the recliner, his soul having begun his journey into eternity.
As I write, my thoughts—like a movie camera—dissolve from the old maple tree to the words of David’s First Psalm.
Like a tree planted by water flowing down to the sea, is the righteous man; his delight, in the Law of the Lord. Day and night, his mind is taken up with the meditation of what God desires. The leaves of that tree shall not shrivel up, will never lose their green coloration and fall to the ground. Fruit shall he bear in the right season, and he will have success in all his labors. (Psalm 1: 2,3 ~ my paraphrase)
Reality hits, and through tears, I realize the shade is gone. I will not again call him seeking wisdom, will never hear his voice quoting his favorite scripture reminding me of God’s thoughts towards me and His promise of blessing.
The shade is gone.
Ah, but the shadow is not.
Perhaps there will never be a time in my life when I don’t feel that shadow, the reminder of what we knew for years. The shadow stretches long from the past, and yet, reaches far into the future.
Shade is good when one needs protection and comfort. But, it takes the sunlight to grow to the full measure of who our Creator wants us to be. And shadows to remind us once in awhile of how we got here and where we’re headed.
I can’t tell you he was perfect. No man has ever been, save one. This one was definitely human. There are stories which will never be told and, then again, some that may never stop being told giving proof of that.
Still, he leaned back in that easy chair day after day, and considered the words of the Lord, letting them seep thoroughly into his very being.
Roots, sunk deep.
I’m thinking there will be shade trees again in eternity. What beauty and grandeur those stately groves must display in that blessed home!
I know there’s a river that runs there.
Shade.
By the river.
The true meaning of life is to plant trees, under whose shade, you do not expect to sit. (Nelson Henderson ~ Canadian farmer)
But his delight is in the law of the Lord; and in his law doth he meditate day and night. And he shall be like a tree planted by the rivers of water, that bringeth forth his fruit in his season; his leaf also shall not wither; and whatsoever he doeth shall prosper.
(Psalm 1:2-3 ~ KJV)
Or, as the Munchkin coroner read from the death certificate of the wicked witch: …not only merely dead but really most sincerely dead.
I know you’ll be as sad as Dorothy was. It is just an apple tree, after all. Other trees were destroyed in the storm that blew through recently, some of much more import than my sad little apple tree. Century-old oaks, stately scarlet maples, huge sweet gums, all destroyed by the same careless gale that blasted past us as if none of it would matter in a year or so anyway.
It will. To me, it will.
I’ve written of the old tree before. I intended to do it in myself last fall but thought better of it. The eleventh-hour reprieve did it little good. My last written thoughts on the matter left me with hope (read about it here). Now seemingly, it was merely wishful thinking.
An old friend came this afternoon and helped me cut up the broken-off trunk. Right down to the ground, we cut it. As we drove away from the house later, the Lovely Lady suggested it was almost as if it had never been there.
I’ve walked around this evening with words in my head. I know they’re not true, but that doesn’t get them out of my head.
Personal photo
God didn’t make little green apples.
The words are part of a song written in the nineteen-sixties, sung by a number of country music stars. I realize there’s a phrase that comes before the one rattling around in my head, but it doesn’t matter to me right now.
I’m unhappy; can you tell?
As I write these words, I realize something else is making me unhappy. Something I don’t want to talk about. I’d rather go on about the sad little apple tree, lying in the scrap pile, awaiting transport to its final resting place.
I’d rather talk about missing the fresh apple pie and the homemade applesauce. But clearly, that’s not what’s going to happen here, so I might as well move on.
I’ve struggled with it for two weeks. I know—I’ve wrestled with it before and will again. Many of my readers will understand.
Two weeks ago, I got word that he was gone. My friend, too young to be old, sat at home in his chair and went away. I’ll never see him again in this lifetime. I’ll never again hear one of his corny jokes; never sit and listen to him play his beautiful Martin acoustic guitar and sing of the Savior he loved.
While I was trying to come to grips with the sadness Jack’s passing has brought on, I was reminded of another young friend who died unexpectedly eight years ago this week. The reminder hit me harder than I thought possible. I miss the kid more today than the day he died. He too was a guitarist who loved playing music that turned his listener’s hearts to worship.
I want to hear the music again.
Anything besides this little ditty going through my brain right now.
God didn’t make little green apples.
But, He did, you know. Every single one of them.
Our Creator conceived and produced those little things from the nothingness of eternity. From the dirt He made, he caused the trees and other vegetation to spring up, guaranteeing that they would perpetuate themselves through their seeds. (Genesis 1: 11, 12)
While creation remains, the apples will come again. Oh, the trees will outlive their season, but the fruit will never fail. Season follows season, harvest after planting, as He planned it. (Genesis 8:22)
And, wouldn’t you know it, the myth of death for those who know Christ is as false as the little ditty in my head. Eternal life belongs to all who believe in Him. (John 3:36)
My friends haven’t been carried off to any final resting place, even if their earthly packages were.
The music has never stopped, even if temporarily we don’t hear it. I’m confident the Heavenly Luthier builds a much better product than CF Martin ever constructed here. I may even get to play with them someday.
But no, I think I’ll sing in the choir with that red-headed lady who raised me. We’ll sing as loudly as we can there, too—just like the last I sang with her.
The Lovely Lady asked me—Me!—the question as we drove down the highway a week ago. She, who knows me better than any living person, asked the rhetorical question. Of course, you know rhetorical means you’d better not answer it any differently than the questioner quite obviously desires.
She knows I really don’t like autumn. Okay. Let’s call it by its real name—the one that describes it to a “T”. Fall. I don’t like fall.
I’m adamant about it.
You know what adamant is, don’t you? Besides a state of mind, it’s a type of very hard stone, once believed to be impenetrable—like a diamond. Adamant. That’s me when it comes to disliking fall.
But, the question hung in the air. Her rhetorical one.
I mumbled something. It may have sounded like, “I guess it’s okay.” I glanced over her way. She wasn’t just glancing. She was frowning right at me.
I thought I heard a little cracking sound. I smiled. “Yeah, it’s pretty spectacular,” I agreed. I did. I’m sure I heard a cracking sound.
The cracking sound has been so constant and so loud for the last few days, it’s almost deafening.
Well?
How does one ignore the spectacular beauty surrounding him on every side? Every corner I turn, every hill I top, reveals another vista that beggars me for description.
The colors, the scope, the array of diverse shapes and hues are breathtaking. Indeed, they appear more striking and brighter than in any fall I can remember.
Perhaps, I’m only getting old and forgetful. Then again, perhaps not.
The reason for the cracking noise, the breaking away of the adamant, wasn’t obvious to me until a friend brought it to my attention tonight. She reminded me that I have suggested fall was simply prelude to the dead of winter, a season sent only to remind us of the bleakness to come.
She’s right. I have done that. I have.
I repent. In more ways than just this, I repent.
Our Creator—the maker of all seen and unseen—gives good gifts. (James 1:17) Good. Gifts. The seasons, even the ones we find uncomfortable, are from His hand, achieving exactly what He intended for them from the foundation of the earth.
While the earth continues in its place, they will continue. (Genesis 8:22) He promised it.
Why would we dread the good He has promised to us?
Oh, I know each of the seasons has its difficulties. It is true for every one of them. Even spring, with its new life and verdant beauty, has its floods and violent storms. Summer stinks of sweat and is sweltering in its extremes. Autumn brings cold rains and reminders of death as the lushness of all growing things flees the coming cold. And winter? Well, perhaps I’ll just leave that to your own cold, dreary thoughts.
But each of the seasons, every one, has its promise and its joys.
Our God gives good gifts.
Still, you know I don’t dislike autumn only for its physical reminders of what is to come, don’t you?
We are not, for all the attempts of the cynics among us, primarily physical beings. These bodies, astounding as they are (some more than others), are merely containers for the real treasure, the thing our Creator values above all other created things.
And yet, we become attached to our containers. We pamper them. We feed them. We exercise them. We care for them.
What we don’t like to be reminded of is that one day we’ll leave the container behind, like the empty wrapper it will become, and the real part of us, the part valued most by our Creator, will go on to its eternal home.
I wonder why we hate that reminder so. A friend of mine wrote today of his anger in the face of a friend’s death. Another person quoted a poem as they comforted a mother, still grieving her son after eighteen years.
I know, she wrote, but I am not resigned. And, I do not approve. The words were from the poet, Edna St. Vincent Millay. I don’t disagree with them.
Still. Winter is coming. For every one of us, it comes.
I’m no theologian. I don’t understand what God’s plan was. I don’t know if the earth was to be our eternal home, and He would walk with us here in the cool of the day for all time. Maybe one day we would just walk up to heaven to live with Him. I don’t know.
And, it’s okay. I think it’s even okay to be angry about our losses, to disapprove of the manner in which we are separated from those we love. We were never intended to die.
But eventually, it comes around to this: We are still eternal beings.
The winter of our lives is not ultimately about death, but about life. The Son of God who came to earth, giving His own life for us, guarantees it.
And just like that, I am—recently liberated from my prison of adamant—enjoying this season immensely.
Autumn has never—Never!—been so spectacular. I don’t want to waste another moment of its glory worrying about the season which will follow. Not another moment.
And so, this old container took my redeemed soul for a walk in the autumn rain today with the Lovely Lady. Laughing and soaking in the beauty of nature and the reminders of His grace and great love, we walked together, as we have in so many seasons before.
What a wonderful season in which to be alive. Physically. Spiritually.
And, my soul sings for joy. For some reason, I think I hear creation singing, as well.
Perhaps you know the tune, too.
O Lord my God, when I in awesome wonder Consider all the works thy hands have made, I see the stars, I hear the mighty thunder, Thy power throughout the universe displayed:
For as the rain cometh down, and the snow from heaven, and returneth not thither, but watereth the earth, and maketh it bring forth and bud, that it may give seed to the sower, and bread to the eater: So shall my word be that goeth forth out of my mouth: it shall not return unto me void, but it shall accomplish that which I please, and it shall prosper in the thing whereto I sent it.
(Isaiah 55:10-11 ~ KJV)
I left her in the passenger seat of the car. I was only gone two minutes—perhaps three. How could I lose her so fast?
What will I do without her?
“I’ll only be a minute,” were my last words to her. No I love you; not even a kiss on the cheek.
The world spun. Really.
Off-kilter, out of control. Panic.
“Here I am.” The words came from the back seat. She had only moved to leave the front seat empty for my sister, whom we would pick up at the next stop.
I passed it off as nothing, but the feeling of loss persisted. I didn’t let her see the tears. Well, maybe she saw them. She was kind enough to not bring them up when she gently teased as my sister heard about the little episode.
The tears have clouded my sight off and on for the last couple of weeks, much like the rain which has been falling around me for about as long. It’s almost as if God is crying in sympathy.
I know that’s not how it works.
It’s just how it feels sometimes.
Some folks don’t think God cries at all. But, I’m not sure it makes sense to assume the things our Savior did while on earth would cease just because He isn’t walking among us in a human body anymore.
He wept. It means He cried real tears, trails running down His cheeks, as He felt the pain and sadness of loss and sympathy. His eyes got red and His nose ran. His voice broke as He talked.
This man-who-was-God-Who-was-man demonstrated the standard even before the apostle who followed Him wrote the words: Weep with those who weep. (Romans 12:15)
I suppose it seems a little over the top for me to be so upset by such a minor thing as getting into the car and finding the Lovely Lady not where I expected her. Perhaps, it is.
But, we were headed to visit one close to us who really is in the process of losing the one he’s spent his life with. The tiny vignette offered me in that split second brought the reality they are facing into focus.
In that moment, the emotions I felt—confusion, fear, loss—helped me to understand what others around me are experiencing and what is spilling over into my spirit.
Last week, I was reminded of the time, a decade ago, when I was out of control. A friend had missed a rehearsal and was asked what had kept him away. It only took one word.
Vertigo.
That was the cause of his absence. Just hearing the name is a trigger—a thought that brings with it really bad memories. I never want to go through that again.
Dizziness so bad, the world spun whenever my eyes were open. Nausea that wouldn’t stop. Unable to even walk, I had to be led, leaning on anyone who would help.
Complete helplessness and inability to function on my own.
Funny. Today my world is spinning again. No. I mean spinning, as in not stable.
I’m aware of the basics of how our planet functions, rotating on its axis and revolving around the sun. That’s not what I mean. The world I’m referring to is my world—the place where I walk, and sleep, and love.
On that occasion, ten years past, when I was struck with very real vertigo, my doctor told me it was all in my head. Oh, he was sympathetic. But, he knew things weren’t really spinning around me as it seemed. A malfunction in my inner ear was the problem, not the world around me.
“I’ll give you some medication. It will make your brain think everything is fine. That’s what you need.”
The medicine would give me some much-needed equilibrium, a sense of balance, until my inner ear righted itself.
It didn’t fix anything. It just made me think everything was right with the world.
I don’t need medicine like that right now.
I need to see the world as it is—as its Creator sees it. Through His eyes. With His heart.
I know He promised He would never leave us. He won’t. In the middle of the darkest night, if we call Him, He is there.
In the light of day, He pours out His love. In the endless nights, He puts His song in our souls. (Psalm 42:8)
When we need it, there is a strong arm to lean on. Maybe two, if we need both of them.
I’m leaning. And tears are still falling.
Many I know are in the grip of vertigo right now.
Maybe we could all lean together while we weep.
They’re really strong arms.
Strong arms attached to One who knows what it is to weep.
As the deer longs for streams of water, so I long for you, O God. I thirst for God, the living God. When can I go and stand before him? Day and night I have only tears for food, while my enemies continually taunt me, saying, “Where is this God of yours?”
My heart is breaking as I remember how it used to be: I walked among the crowds of worshipers, leading a great procession to the house of God, singing for joy and giving thanks amid the sound of a great celebration!
Why am I discouraged? Why is my heart so sad? I will put my hope in God! I will praise him again— my Savior andmy God!
Now I am deeply discouraged, but I will remember you— even from distant Mount Hermon, the source of the Jordan, from the land of Mount Mizar. I hear the tumult of the raging seas as your waves and surging tides sweep over me. But each day the Lord pours his unfailing love upon me, and through each night I sing his songs, praying to God who gives me life.
“O God my rock,” I cry, “Why have you forgotten me? Why must I wander around in grief, oppressed by my enemies?” Their taunts break my bones. They scoff, “Where is this God of yours?”
Yes, there are scientific reasons for the terminology. You may seek them out for yourself. For tonight, I am just happy to sit on a stump and watch the shadows.
I watched the moon for a while, beautiful thing that it is, but as it approached its zenith, my neck objected, so I bent down to relieve the tension. That’s when I noticed the shadows.
The world is awash in shadows. At midnight.
The old mulberry tree, its spindly limbs bereft of leaves, stretches bony fingers this way and that across the cold sleeping grass. There’s a ghost story waiting to be told there, were the world not so brilliant in the moon’s glare.
I glance at the two Labrador retrievers cavorting nearby, and can’t help noticing their shadows mirroring their every leap and crouch.
Shadows in the moonlight. Creator’s handwork.
Basking in the beauty of the late night, I smile. For a moment.
Then I feel it.
I knew I would. There is a high-pitched whistle as I breathe in. And out. I struggle a bit to hold down the cough that is inevitable.
Time to go in. I bid goodnight to the dogs, with a warning for them to behave themselves until morning, and I head indoors. Indoors, where it’s warm.
I bring my shadows with me. Shadows of resentment. Shadows of doubt.
Shadows of negativity.
Wait. That’s a bit redundant, isn’t it? A shadow is already a negative, of sorts. If the object is the real thing—the positive, the shadow must be its negative. The un-thing, one might say.
So, here I sit, my un-thing weighing on my chest, and I watch the two dogs still cavorting outside—two black shadows dancing with their black shadows.
Not a care in the world.
I watch them and I am envious. Nighttime is the worst when bronchitis hits. The asthmatic aspect makes it difficult to breathe; the cough that follows makes it nearly impossible to sleep.
In the darkened house I lie watching the shadows. Shadows on my soul because of the shadow creeping into my lungs.
Do you feel sorry for me yet? You shouldn’t. I have come to realize that some shadows are darker than others.
Just tonight I read the words of a new friend, one I’ll probably never meet in the flesh, who is in his sixth year of suffering with cancer. His lungs and other organs are full of tumors, some even visible through his skin. Four surgeries, multiple courses of chemo, and still the shadows persist.
He sits in his chair, receiving the infusion of chemicals which will bring waves of nausea and pain, along with rashes, and he prays for those sitting in chairs around him.
He prays. For them.
I breathe as deeply as I dare, trying to keep from coughing and waking the Lovely Lady, but my mind is already on another friend who has a constant shadow, as well. Her lungs are working at a fraction of their capacity, the only cure, a transplant.
She’s not a candidate for a transplant. And yet, her cheerful encouragement comes as an almost daily occurrence—to friends, to strangers—she points out the bright spots rather than the shadows.
If we walk in light (as He is in light), we walk in community with each other, and in fellowship of His saving grace. (1 John 1:7)
We walk this road with heroes. Heroes of faith who show us the light rather than point out the shadows.
When we are in light, there will invariably be a shadow. But, you knew that already, didn’t you?
The shadow is strongest in the brightest light. Sunlight—moonlight—streetlight—you name it.
We can focus on the un-thing, the shadow, that comes from walking in His light, or we can keep our eyes on the things that are.
Life. Love. Heaven.
Things that are.
The Apostle (my namesake) was adamant when he spoke of it. The temporary things we are suffering here are nothing (un-things) compared to the glory we shall one day know. (Romans 8:18)
Some, like my bronchitis, are more temporary than any of them, likely to disappear within days. Others may last a lifetime. Or, they may claim that life even. It’s still true.
The shadow is not the real thing. It never will be the real thing.
I closed the door behind the man, having shaken his hand and offered a spoken blessing in reply to his.
Tears welled up in my eyes as I locked the latch and turned away from the door. Looking through those translucent prisms, by then running down my cheek, I walked over and flicked the light switches to the off position.
The rainbow-hued prisms disappeared along with the light overhead, but the vision in my mind remained.
I talk too much. That won’t be news to many who know me. But, as the men had wrapped plastic around the old glass counters before carting them out to the moving truck in the parking lot, I couldn’t help reminiscing aloud.
They are the very same glass counters which were in the little music store the first time I walked into it, nearly forty years ago. Then, the slight, white-haired old man leaned on the edge of the counter in front of him, a quizzical smile playing across his lips.
That is the vision that will not leave my head—the smiling man leaning, hands flat on the glass top of the counter.
Today (perhaps by coincidence; perhaps not) is the anniversary of the old man’s death. I told the men as much as they worked.
I still miss him. He was friendly and jolly, as well as stern and thoughtful. I loved his stories. I was frustrated by his stubbornness.
I love his daughter. I love being part of his family.
But, this is not a sad tale, even though I began it in tears. It’s not.
It is a story of blessings—blessings I can’t begin to count. They are blessings that are likely to pass on to the third and fourth generation. Or, so it seems to me.
You remember? You who were raised in a church and Sunday School? The words are right there in the Old Testament.
The sins of the fathers will be passed on to the third and even to the fourth generation. (Exodus 20:5) Years after the perpetrators are dead, their children will be dealing with the consequences.
You’ve seen it happen, haven’t you? Perhaps not in the extreme that passage brings to mind, but if you’re anything like me, you’ve seen it.
I’ll never be like my father! How many times did I say it, growing up? Fathers can make children so frustrated. And, in our childish frustration, we make promises—assuming we’ll never ever do that thing that made us angry.
Fast forward ten years, perhaps fifteen. A member of the current crop of teenagers in the house says or does something amiss, and the response comes from deep within us, without consideration. Immediately, the brain spins back over the years and the chagrin sets in.
How is it possible that I opened my mouth and my father came out? How?
But, wait! I said I would write of blessings, didn’t I?
So, I shall.
Just as the negative habits of our fathers and grandfathers are often stored up to be released at some later date, so too, good habits work to the benefit of future generations.
A heritage of blessings becomes to each succeeding generation a blessing, a way of life, a habitual practice of blessing those who come after.
My father-in-law was no exception, nor was my father. Mothers, grandmothers, grandfathers—not a day goes by that I don’t recognize the blessing of a Godly heritage.
It is part of God’s natural law, if you will. And, it does not in any way deny His power in changing hearts and in saving by His astounding grace.
But, with His own hands, He set the worlds in motion, designing the way their inhabitants function, down to the minutest detail.
And, just as those tears in my eyes earlier today made me see momentarily through rainbow-colored prisms, I realize that we see our world with the collective sight of those who have shaped us.
Good—bad—their influence is unmistakable.
We function, not in a vacuum (if there is such a thing), but in a constantly changing and ever-expanding world of influence, seen and unseen. Our every action and reaction has an effect on those around us.
Every one.
There is more, I know.
When we are drawn by the Spirit and saved by God’s grace, everything changes. His presence makes us want to do right, and even gives us the power to do it. (Philippians 2:13)
His presence in our lives makes all the difference.
Still, it should increase our understanding of our responsibility to those around us, rather than diminish it.
We have the power to affect the world for generations to come. We get to choose.
Good. Bad.
Blessing. Cursing.
I like Joshua’s thoughts on the matter as he made his choice and declared, with no ambiguity whatsoever, as for me and my house, we will serve the Lord. (Joshua 24:15)
Many who have come before in my life have chosen well—some, not so well. Most of us can relate.
There is no vacuum in which to live.
There may be tears to see through.
I pray they’ll be tears of joy. And, tears of temporary sorrow.
Prisms of light through which we see the world clearly.
Blessings.
I saw behind me those who had gone, and before me those who are to come. I looked back and saw my father, and his father, and all our fathers, and in front to see my son, and his son, and the sons upon sons beyond. And their eyes were my eyes. (Richard Llewellyn ~ Welsh novelist ~ 1906-1983)
