I’ve been a little under the weather the last few days. That means staying in bed a lot later than normal and sitting around the house the rest of the day.
The natural result is that I have been feeling a bit down this week.
In an effort to budge myself from my easy chair yesterday (and, coincidentally, out of my moodiness), I suggested to the Lovely Lady that I might go write a line or two. Her response surprised me a little.
“Are you going to write about sad stuff and make everybody else feel the same as you’re feeling?”
Misery loves company.
It was a favorite maxim for the red-headed lady who raised me. Chiefly, it was her favorite go-to to remind her children that peer pressure would bring them to an unhappy end. Troublemakers attract troublemakers. Abusers of substances do their best to draw others into their addictions.
Even the Apostle, my namesake, quoted a Greek playwright in 1 Corinthians 15, suggesting peer pressure can be damaging.
“Communion with the bad corrupts good character.” (from Thais, by Menander)
I wonder.
What if I’m the bad? What if the one bad apple that spoils the whole barrel is me?
Perhaps I’m being a bit extreme in applying the truisms. I only started out to remind myself not to make people around me miserable. I never intended to accuse myself of being rotten to the core.
I’ve always thought of myself as the influenced. What if I’m really the influencer?
And yet, today, as I started down to the coffee shop, I couldn’t help myself. I gazed at the tulip tree on the corner, remembering it a mere two days ago. Brilliant in its blazing purple and pink decorations, it was the gleaming harbinger of spring. My heart had almost sung at its appearance just hours before.
Now?
It stands—dejected and brown—savaged by the cold front that howled through the day before yesterday. What kind of song can be heard when the petals hang sagging and rotting on the branches?
I did the only thing that could be done.
I took a photo to share with my friends and acquaintances. Surely, you will want to share in my disappointment.
Misery loves company.
Peer pressure. Do you feel miserable yet?
This afternoon, I walked up to the nearby university to collect the Lovely Lady from work. As we walked back home (along the very same sidewalk near which the tulip tree stands), she pointed out the green and growing flowers along the way. She mentioned the warmer temperature today and we talked about the happy interactions we each had this morning.
That’s odd. I felt joyful, almost grateful, as we neared our home. The bright daffodils in the yard, most of them planted decades ago by a wonderful man who had a big influence in both our lives, finished the job as we wandered up the cul-de-sac.
As it turns out, joy and gratitude love company, too. Just as much as misery does. Maybe more.
Peer pressure.
The daffodils planted by my father-in-law over fifty years ago still have the power to lift the spirit. Especially when viewed in the company of one who knows and loves me.
It works with friends. And, siblings. And, maybe even dogs.
I took the photo of the daffodils because I just had to show you. Fabulous, aren’t they? So much better than misery.
His promises are still sure. Springtime and Harvest still roll around at His behest.
One day, He will wipe away our tears and we’ll live in the light.
Encourage one another.
Peer pressure.
“We should all be thankful for those people who rekindle the inner spirit.” (Albert Schweitzer)
“So encourage each other and build each other up, just as you are already doing.”
(1 Thessalonians 5:11, NLT)
She said she wanted to drink coffee with me. We set up a time one recent afternoon, and I drank coffee. She drank water—said something about not having caffeine this late in the day.
“Lightweight.” I tossed the word out lightly, as a joke. We both laughed.
I think it was the last light thing we talked about that afternoon. I’m not going to give away any tasty morsels of the deep things we discussed; not going to disclose any private details of confidences shared.
It was a weighty discussion. Oh, it wouldn’t rank up there with international peace talks or a theological debate about Calvinism vs. Arminianism, but it was pretty heavy.
Come to think of it, we did discuss Calvinism. Momentarily. We know better than to waste time arguing.
Gravitas.
I keep coming back to that word as I consider the time we spent there, her with her water bottle and me with my coffee cup. It’s what our words had; what the entire visit had. At least, in my thoughts, it did.
Usually, the obscure words I use here are inserted purposefully. My primary editor, the Lovely Lady, complains (facetiously) that she is often forced to use a dictionary. I’m always secretly happy to hear that. Today, I think it’s important enough for the meaning to be clear.
Gravitas means to have weight, to be taken seriously.
I first heard the word used about a seasoned politician who was added to an election slate so the primary candidate would be taken more seriously. The commentators opined that he added gravitas to the campaign.
That afternoon, we shared our life stories. Oh, not the whole story, but some important parts. I cried. She cried.
Life is hard. Sometimes, it’s ugly. For some, the ugly goes on and on. But, in almost every story, there is beauty and joy intertwined with the ugly.
I said I wasn’t going to tell secrets, and I’m not. But, I do want to mention one of my memories that was shaken loose in the heavy conversation that afternoon.
I was raised in a believing household. I grew up in the church, believing in Jesus at an early age. I never walked away from that decision.
That doesn’t mean I walked the straight and narrow path laid out by the beliefs of my fellowship. Not by a long shot.
Believing and following are two different things.
At age nineteen, as I prepared to leave home for a new place, many miles away, I was determined that there I would live the life I wanted. Away from the straight-laced and narrow expectations of my parents and that fellowship, I would follow the path I chose.
I knew they only wanted what was best for me. I did. It didn’t matter. I wanted what was fun. And, maybe even a little wild.
On my last Sunday at home, I was surprised when the pastor of the church called me to the front. As he explained that I was leaving home and the fellowship I had known since infancy, I noticed the Elders making their way to the platform, circling around behind me.
These were men who knew me when I was a baby in my mother’s arms. They knew how unkind I could be, how argumentative, how rebellious. I couldn’t imagine what they intended as they surrounded me that day.
They prayed for me! Putting their hands on my back and shoulders, one after another, they gave me into God’s care and protection, saying kind things about me as they did it.
I can still feel their hands on my shoulders today. Seriously. The weight of those loving hands, the knowledge of their care and prayers, have followed me through the nearly five decades since.
Gravitas.
I don’t remember those men ever doing that for another teenager walking away from home for the final time. I still wonder why they did it for me.
God knows.
He does.
And for some odd reason, instead of running wild as I had planned, within a couple of weeks of my move over eight hundred miles away, I was looking for a new fellowship of believers, finding the spiritual home I needed. There, I met the Lovely Lady. I raised my children. I have served and been served.
Someone in that group of men knew I needed that experience at that exact time in my life—knew I needed to hear those words. On that day, I needed to hear them.
This is important. It has gravitas—weight.
The wise man said the words centuries ago:
Like apples of gold in settings of silver, Is a word spoken at the proper time.
(Proverbs 25:11, NASB)
We get so tied up in the pretty stuff, the shiny things, of the first half of the verse, that we often miss the importance of the second.
We need to be ready to speak the words—words of encouragement, of correction, even prayers—when the people around us need them.
Apologies need to come to our lips readily—right when we see our fault. Relationships depend on them.
Compliments should be there in the moment they are earned. Not flattery, designed to earn us something. Compliments, building up, encouraging good things for others.
Reminders of who we are as children of a loving God should be on our tongues in the instant they are brought to mind.
Beauty and worth will be the result. Yes. Maybe even golden apples in settings of silver.
It may still take a year or two to see the beauty. And the value.
They may remember it for a lifetime.
Kind words can be short and easy to speak, but their echoes are truly endless.
(Mother Teresa)
Preach the message; be ready whether it is convenient or not; reprove, rebuke, exhort with complete patience and instruction.
(2 Timothy 4:2, NET)
None knows the weight of another’s burden.
(George Herbert)
My sister-in-law had just met the Lovely Young Lady for the first time. She wasn’t wrong. I’ve done my best to hold onto her for the last forty-five years.
A keeper.
“That’s a keeper, Paul!”
The neighbor boy, Warren, yelled the phrase down the banks of the drainage ditch. I had just landed a large perch with my old cane pole, my bait being one of the long, wriggly earthworms we had dug up just moments before. We kept the perch, along with a few more that day.
“You kids need a keeper!”
The words of disgust came from the lips of an aging passerby in the shopping mall. They were aimed at the group of rowdy band kids who hooted, and whistled, and wrestled, oblivious to the constant parade of grown-ups around them.
We probably did. Need a keeper, that is.
All of the above events came to mind during my sleepless hours last night. My brain has been wrestling, trying to come to grips with the immense meaning of a tiny word.
Keep.
Our use of the word is almost exclusively understood to mean retain possession of. It means that. It does.
But, it means that and so much more. The original meaning of the word implies (besides possessing) holding tightly, guarding closely, and even fighting for.
Castles in medieval times had a keep, a fortified castle within the castle, intended as a last defense, a place of ultimate shelter where enemies could not break through. It was a place of protection for the defenseless, of strength for the weak, of safety for all that was valued.
The passages in the Bible that speak of God keeping and blessing mean well more than simply being His; they imply being held and guarded against all dangers, dwelling in His fortress—His castle keep.
A strange subject to mull over in the small hours of the morning, you think?
I don’t disagree.
The fodder for my thoughts had only been introduced moments before I finally succumbed to the tyranny of the clock, well after midnight. I laid myself on the bed knowing I would not sleep because of the turmoil inside my brain.
Often, the late night hours are a time when I chase my ancestors into the past—perusing old books, searching online databases, and thumbing through materials in my keeping from family members who are gone but not forgotten. Last night, I found something that grabbed my attention.
I’ve flipped through the pages of the old Bible before. It was my great-grandfather’s, given to him by his mother in his 18th year. The date on the flyleaf is January 1, 1881.
I’ve never found anything of value to my search in its pages before, besides the mourning ribbon for President Garfield upon his assassination nine months after my forebear received the Bible. I think I may have even seen this little yellow ribbon previously and gone past, dismissing its message in my search for facts.
The ribbon in the pages of the little Bible says simply, “Keepers.” I cannot find any context for it in my searches for who my great-grandfather was.
And yet, there is context to be found.
It’s easy to believe, at times, that we are worthless—merely sinners living in a fallen world. We who follow Christ know that we are redeemed, but often we are discouraged, believing that things will never change—that we will never change.
The reality—a reality reinforced again and again in the old Book—is that we are keepers.
Worth being held.
Worth being protected.
Worth being valued.
Keepers. Kept by a Keeper. Who will do all those things. And more.
That ribbon has clearly lodged at the same place for many, many years. You can see where the color has leached into the paper on either side of it.
Last night, I read the passage where it sits. I think I needed to be reminded.
For you have been born again, but not to a life that will quickly end. Your new life will last forever because it comes from the eternal, living word of God.As the Scriptures say, “People are like grass; their beauty is like a flower in the field. The grass withers and the flower fades. But the word of the Lord remains forever.”
(1 Peter 1: 23-25, NLT)
I’m keeping the Bible. And the ribbon.
I’m still looking for clues to who my ancestors were. But, I know who I am. It’s who you are, too.
Keepers.
With a Keeper.
Living here in His keep.
Protected. And, blessed.
The Lord bless you and keep you; The Lord make His face shine upon you, And be gracious to you; The Lord lift up His countenance upon you, And give you peace.
(Numbers 6:24-26, NKJV)
The ache for home lives in all of us. The safe place where we can go as we are and not be questioned. (Maya Angelou)
Sometimes I say things I’m not sure I believe. It’s not a game; I just need to hear the words out loud to be able to decide.
If I believe them or not, I mean.
These particular words, I said for the first time a couple of months ago. We were sitting at a familiar corner in my little town when they escaped from my mouth. Still, I didn’t blurt them; I announced them rather thoughtfully.
I’ve had time to think about them—to play with them in my brain and in my spirit—since then. I’ve decided I do believe them. So last weekend, as the Lovely Lady and I sat at the same corner waiting for the light to change, I spoke the words again.
I may have been a little more forceful this time.
“We’re next. I think I like being next as much as I actually enjoy going.”
She gave me that look. You know.
That look.
I’m certain it was the same look she had given me weeks ago when I said the same words. I suppose she expected—since I hadn’t reiterated it again since then—that I had thought better of the original statement and wasn’t going to repeat it again.
I haven’t.
And I did.
It’s a traffic light I’ve waited for many times. We often shop at the grocery store just past the corner. McDonald’s is on that same corner. When I’ve ridden my bicycle with friends on occasion, it’s a familiar point at which to cross the busy highway.
I’ve studied the progression of the different lanes and the timing of the lights. I know when each lane will begin to move and when they will stop (well, except for those few who invariably blow through the just-changed-red light at the last moment).
Others have done the same thing as I. One can tell by the brake lights that darken as the cars ahead anticipate the opportunity to move on in their journeys. It’s clear in the edging forward that begins as the stream of oncoming traffic begins to wane
When my cycling friends are with me, we’ve been known to start across the highway before the light changes, seeing that the crossing lanes have no oncoming traffic.
We’re next!
I don’t want to argue about my thoughtful statement. I’ve simply come to the conclusion personally that the anticipation, the certainty we’ll soon be moving again in the direction of our destination, is at least as exciting to me as the actual journey.
You see, actually moving entails effort. Sometimes, it even feels dangerous (those red light runners, you know) to enter the flow of traffic again. And, to tell the truth, frequently it’s just more comfortable to sit right where I am.
You’ve seen them, haven’t you? The efficient ones. Checking their lists while they wait. Putting on lipstick. Texting their moms.
Those are the ones I don’t understand. I sit drumming my fingers on the steering wheel, counting down the seconds until the light changes. Those folks, the efficiency experts, often become so enthralled in their idle-time activities that they forget they’re next. Horns will honk. Possibly. We are in the South, you know.
Still, we don’t always enjoy waiting.
Oh, we can adapt; we can fill the time with other diversions, but soon we are absorbed in those undertakings and forget that we’re waiting. Then again, we can sit idle—stressed and worried about what’s coming next.
But, being next means being ready.
Preparation is required for next.
As when driving, one must be set for what lies just ahead. Equipment must be in good condition. Our minds must be alert and primed for action. Eyes open. Reflexes tuned.
Can’t you just feel the adrenaline rush now? I can!
The red light in front of me notwithstanding, I’m ready to go.
“A subject uppermost on my mind which I wanted most to emphasize…is our customer service philosophy here at Walmart, ‘You’re always next in line at Walmart.'”
(Sam Walton, founder of Walmart, Inc.)
But as for me, I watch in hope for the Lord, I wait for God my Savior; my God will hear me. (Micah 7:7, NIV)
Even if you’re on the right track, you’ll get run over if you just sit there.
It was just a bit of whimsy, a slogan to print on a magnet shaped like an old steam engine. My dad slapped it on the old Frigidaire over fifty years ago. It still makes me laugh.
Sort of.
Nowadays, it’s more likely to make me think of the other phrase we use commonly, the origin of which is also most likely in the dim history of the railroads.
I’m beginning to see the light at the end of the tunnel.
Except, I’m not. Seeing the light yet.
It’s been a dark season. Sadness piled upon dread; covered up in anticipation of worse to come.
I’m not the only one.
Our old friends sat around the table the other night and one of the ladies said the words.
“There are a lot of people dying, aren’t there?”
Nobody really answered her, but I heard a collective hmmm and the table went silent. Each of us, lost in our thoughts, was seeing the faces of absent friends and hearing the voices of people we loved, voices we’ll never hear again this side of heaven.
It’s why I’ve not shared many of my current writings with my friends and social media followers for the last several months. I’ve been seeing some of those faces and hearing many of those voices nearly constantly for a while. And, when one is in dark places, it doesn’t seem the kindest thing to usher others into the darkness.
I’m going to chance it, though. That moment with my old friends made me realize that perhaps we need to talk about it. For a little while, anyway.
I trust you won’t think me unkind.
Now. About that tunnel.
I’ll admit it; what got me thinking about tunnels was actually a bright spot in a little trip I took with the Lovely Lady recently. We stopped by to visit one of our favorite bridges a few hours away from where we live.
She’s the one who saw it. I was driving, so I would have never seen the conjunction of lovely points of light if it hadn’t been for her keen eye.
“That’s amazing! You have to see it!”
She is not given to flights of fancy, this companion. She’s the one who helps me see reality when I drift away from it (as I frequently do). I’d hold onto all the balloons and float into the sky to oblivion, but she knows to use her trusty BB gun to bring me back down before I hurt myself. I need her.
But on this day, she could hardly wait for the truck to get parked so she could hurry me up the hill and point out the scene. It’s in the photo on this page.
At precisely this spot, one may view the most beautiful highway bridge in the state, under which runs the Missouri Northern Arkansas Railroad, leading over a lovely trestle (above a rushing river), and straight through a thousand-foot tunnel cut through the nearby hillside. That’s the tunnel, there through the railroad bridge, that tiny arched blob of shadow before brilliant light.
The photo doesn’t do the view credit. And yet, we were giddy as we stood there, with the richness of sunlight playing with shade and the drawing together of the individual points of beauty into one single vista.
The moment has passed.
I have spent hours with the photo open on my computer monitor since then. And, as has happened so often over the last few months, the shadows eventually return, even to this place of light and beauty.
I know there is sunshine on the other side of that tunnel. I see it clearly. Still, that blob of shadow fills my vision.
I bet it’s dark in there—there in that tunnel. Even with the end in view, it’s dark and gloomy.
It’s dark in here, too—here in this tunnel I’m making my way through. But, I sense I’m not alone in here.
Even though it can seem so lonely, many of us have brought our tattered pieces of cardboard in and have built little makeshift shelters for ourselves under which we huddle, shivering and shaking, as the trains pass noisily by.
I won’t dwell on the darkness, on the loneliness, on the fear that this passage will be beyond our strength. If you’ve been in here, you already know. Probably better than I.
I find myself asking if the tunnel ever ends—if the darkness ever gives way to sunshine again.
I’m not the brightest crayon in the box; I readily admit it. But, like Mr. Tolkien’s innkeeper, Butterbur, I think I can see through a brick wall in time. And I think I may be seeing a glimmer of that light, finally.
I’m asking the wrong questions.
The apostle, my namesake, suggested in his day that his troubles were temporary and light. More than once, he wrote the words. His point was that we’re aimed for better things, things that will make the events filling our sight today seem minor in comparison.
It doesn’t trivialize our life experiences. The pain, the fear, and the losses can’t be dismissed with the snap of our fingers. We still must endure them; still must make our way forward through the darkness. But, something is waiting at the end, something that will make all the dreadful things we’ve struggled through fade in importance.
Did I say I’m asking the wrong questions?
I stood, here in this dark tunnel, the other day, and I think I finally saw through that brick wall. Momentarily, at least. New questions came to my mind.
Who put this tunnel here? And why?
Perhaps, I’m being simplistic. I don’t think I am.
Tunnels are not made to create hardship, but to alleviate it. They are placed to facilitate progress to the goal, in locations where the conveyance could never—never!—make any headway without them.
And, in my head—and heart—the words resound. Words I’ve mentioned here before.
“For I know the plans I have for you,’ says the Lord. ‘They are plans for good and not for disaster, to give you a future and a hope.'” (Jeremiah 29:11, NLT)
They are words to encourage us. In the midst of hurting and paralyzing fear, they remind us that there is more.
More.
I’m reminded that the Word is light for our pathway and our feet. I trust Him. I’ll walk in that light.
Traveling to the Light at the end of the tunnel. Step by step, walking in the light He gives for today.
I’ve camped out here long enough. You?
Tunnels don’t make good campsites.
Time to move on ahead. That way.
Towards home.
This may take a while.
‘Maybe,’ said Elrond, ‘but let him not vow to walk in the dark, who has not seen the nightfall.’
(from Fellowship of the Ring, by J.R.R. Tolkien)
But forget all that— it is nothing compared to what I am going to do. For I am about to do something new. See, I have already begun! Do you not see it? I will make a pathway through the wilderness. I will create rivers in the dry wasteland.
(Isaiah 43:18-19, NLT)
She asked me if I could fix the rotten trim on the exterior of her house. She’s alone now and the love of her life isn’t around to work his magic anymore.
And somehow, the sun keeps beating down on it, and the rain keeps seeping into it, and the paint keeps shrinking off of it, and the years keep passing.
She is overwhelmed. I get it.
But I am merely a retired shopkeeper and sometime writer. I don’t have any magic in my hands, and certainly, no carpentry skills honed by constant use over the years. When I have picked up a hammer and saw, I’ve usually been a helper, taking instruction from those who do have skills.
I may have attempted a few things on my own—sheetrock repair, laying a vinyl floor, even stripping a hardwood floor before refinishing it. But I promise you there was no magic—no great skill—involved.
But we’re talking about windows here!
Windows? I know how to look out of them at the world spinning on its way. While drinking my coffee. With a book in my hand. Sometimes, I yell at the unruly dogs through them. Mostly, I sit beside them and read.
I don’t have the slightest idea of how to replace a sill, or a sash, or even a casing. There are angles to get right, and joints to fit carefully. Gaps to be caulked (if the joints haven’t been fitted carefully).
And, there’s glass. Always close by. Always ready to be cracked. Or chipped. Or smashed outright.
Still, she is overwhelmed. I give in. Reluctantly. And, with reservations.
“I’ll come look at it. No promises.”
She smiles.
The looking thing I promised to do? It’s a disaster. There’s a rotted sill here, two rotted side casings there, and everywhere I look, cracked and ruined head casings.
I go from window to window, and then back to the ones I’ve already examined, exclaiming in dismay.
And, there are door sills. And, corner trims. And, even lap-siding.
She’s overwhelmed? I’m flabbergasted!
“I can’t do this! This is way past my capabilities. Sorry, I just can’t.”
She understands. We’ll find someone else to do it.
Still. I wonder…
A talk with my brother-in-law is in order. He knows me. He’s been the skilled laborer beside whom I’ve toiled, holding boards while they were sanded, and propping trim up in place while it was tacked securely. He knows what I’m capable of.
That, of course, also implies he knows what I’m not capable of.
“Exterior window trim? Oh, you can do that. Come look.”
I follow the man outside his workshop, around to the back where we stand in the tall weeds as we gaze at the old single-hung, single-pane windows lining the wall. Pointing here, gesturing there, he gives me a quick tutorial on what needs to be done.
After my mentor finishes his instruction, he reiterates.
“This is something you can do! But, if you do get into trouble, I’m just a phone call away.”
I can do this! His confidence becomes mine. Not to mention, I’ve now got back-up if I make a mess of things.
But, as I head home, with every intent to call her and tell her I’ll do the job, I see once again, in my memory, every single window, door, and wall that needs attention. Except, they’re not single; they’re one huge collection.
I can’t do this.
But, wait! That’s it, isn’t it? No, not that I can’t do this—that it’s a huge collection of labor to be tackled and not individual tasks to be accomplished.
Finally, I know what to tell her.
“I’ve decided to give it a shot. One window. To start. Yep, just one. We’ll go from there.”
She is not sure, but one is better than none, so she agrees.
I started with the worst window. The one on the southwest side. The sun beats down on it daily, even in the winter. The rain blasts against it nearly every time a storm blows through.
Last week, I started on it. The one window.
Tomorrow, I’ll brush a final coat of white paint over the new wood (which I’ve measured, and sawed, and nailed), the caulk (you knew the joints wouldn’t fit that well), and the primer (I may have had help with that). It’ll be finished.
I’ve even done the one beside it.
The red-headed lady who raised me, drawing an old saw (the word kind, not the wood-cutting variety) from her interminable collection, would have suggested that I bit off more than I could chew.
I didn’t.
I’m simply doing the job set before me. One window—one door—one piece of siding at a time, I’m going to do it.
One task at a time.
The one who knows me says I can do it. Who am I to argue with the witness of such a man? He’s seen my victories and my failures. He’s heard me crow about a job completed; he’s heard me mutter under my breath about several I couldn’t finish on my own.
But, there’s more to this than these old windows and a faulty door frame or two, isn’t there? Surely it’s clear I’m not only talking about a handyman job to be done.
All my life, the unattainable goals have risen before me. I’m sure I’m not the only one.
I can’t help but think about others (besides her) who are overwhelmed today.
The one he loves has been taken from him, and he has no clue how he’ll ever function normally again. But, he can set the alarm clock for tomorrow morning. And, see how it goes from there.
The doctor said the word to her yesterday. Terminal. The future is suddenly so utterly burdensome and black that she can’t imagine how she’ll ever cope. So many decisions. So many hard conversations that will have to be endured. But, maybe just one phone call today. Just one. After that? She’ll just have to see.
Does it never end—the waves that seek to oversweep us?
I have, numerous times, sat at the seaside and wondered. As far as the eye can see—waves racing to the shore. They seem never to diminish.
And, just as those literal waves seem so unassailable as we look at them, the metaphorical ones appear even more insurmountable as our spirits consider them.
Financial issues, family problems, sickness, loss. A college degree to be earned, a contract to be fulfilled, a parent with dementia to be cared for, a promise made that appears impossible to be kept.
And yet, the One who called us has guaranteed to see it through to the end.
With us. Beside us. In us.
For I am sure of this very thing, that the one who began a good work in you will perfect it until the day of Christ Jesus. (Philippians 1:6 ~ NET)
image by Prateek Katyal on Unsplash
But we have to run the course set out in front of us. One day at a time. Or perhaps, just one step at a time.
The Israelites, tired of wandering in the wilderness, had to put their feet into the water of the Jordan before the water moved out of their way. One step. And another one. And another one. All leading home. (Joshua 3:14-17 ~ NET)
Home.
The Promised Land lies ahead. Not very far, now. But, then again, maybe many miles. Still, we’ll get there one step at a time.
Overwhelmed simply means we’re ready to be overshadowed.
Most gladly therefore will I boast of my infirmities rather than complain of them—in order that Christ’s power may overshadow me.
(2 Corinthians 12:9 ~ Wey)
I have another window to do next week. One more.
After that, we’ll see.
Not overwhelmed.
Overshadowed.
Therefore, since we are surrounded by such a great cloud of witnesses, we must get rid of every weight and the sin that clings so closely, and run with endurance the race set out for us…
(Hebrews 12:1 ~ NET)
Faith is taking the first step even when you don’t see the whole staircase.
(Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. ~ American minister/activist ~ 1929-1968)
The words, written in verse centuries ago, are quoted frequently, even today.
I don’t disagree.
I’m remembering a weekend, some time ago, when I reveled in the harmonious, percussive notes of a skillfully played hammered dulcimer, listened in awe to the sweet, mellow tones of my favorite trumpet player, and wiped away tears at the conclusion of an amazing vocal duet rendition of an aria from an opera (you read that right, an opera).
In between those numbers that weekend, I played and sang a bit myself, as well as heard several other artists who were skillfully adept at their craft.
This savage beast’s heart was soothed. Forawhile. But, for some reason, I hear something else in my head tonight.
Well, it’s been a busy week in Lake Wobegon.
I can even hear the quiet, smooth tonality of Garrison Keillor’s baritone voice as I write this, although I’m not quite sure why those words come to mind.
I suppose I may have been a little down in the mouth recently. You know—the worries of life are starting to pile up here and there; the things I usually can control have gotten away from me a bit.
Instead of a perpetual grin, the corners of the mouth are turned down somewhat, and it’s harder than usual to work up to a smile.
Thus, the descriptive phrase down in the mouth seems to cover my attitude most appropriately.
Every time I ever heard Mr. Keillor utter the opening sentence to the story-telling session on his radio program, I was struck anew by the name of his fictitious town.
He avers that the name comes from an old Native American word meaning the place where we waited all day in the rain for you. It is not exactly the correct origin for the word it sounds like, woebegone, but it comes awfully close.
The idea of waiting in the rain for someone who never arrives just about describes the depth of the feeling of being woebegone, a word that really comes from the Middle English meaning beset by woe. Either way, an apt description for someone who is down in the mouth.
As I sat and listened that weekend to the jaw-droppingly beautiful tones that emanated from the young lady’s silver trumpet, my inner being was touched. And then, as mother and daughter sang their operatic duet in a language I will never understand, I ached for more.
But more of what?
I know by experience that I soon tire of the same music, played or sung again and again. A recording would not suffice, nor would simply attending recitals day after day to hear the artists ply their craft.
I am convinced beauty on earth is given to remind us there is more. Something more satisfying is to come.
More.
What we have here, beautiful as it may be, is only a shadow of what is to be ours one day.
Many centuries ago, the writer of psalms understood that, even as he struggled with his own inner sadness. He was woebegone, down in the mouth, but still, he wrote deep calls unto deep, and told of his Creator’s unspeakable love and glory, evidenced by the world around him.
Like Job, the afflicted one, he outlined his troubles and then reiterated, for I will yet praise Him. (Psalm 42:7-11)
Some of us drown our sorrows with alcohol, some with work, some with denial. I listen for hours to music, reveling in the intrinsic beauty of the chords, and the harmonies, and the melodies.
For all, it is the same. The time comes when reality must be faced.
The music ends, the fat lady sings, if you will.
We who believe have a promise that will still keep us on the path. The knowledge, the certainty, that there is more is enough to give us strength and perseverance to go on through what lies ahead.
Not around and not under. Through.
I don’t know about you, but I’m going on.
The oases along the way—the music, the fellowship, the joy—those only lend credence to the promise that we’re just nomads, travelers in this world, on our way to a better place.
I’ll be the first to admit that I’m enjoying the soundtrack while I’m here.
Musick has Charms to sooth a savage Breast,
To soften Rocks, or bend a knotted Oak. (The Mourning Bride by William Congreve ~ English playwright and poet ~ 1670-1729)
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 think I first heard the insult from one of my brothers. He didn’t make it up himself.
Maybe you’ve heard it, too.
“Well, I. . .”
“That’s a deep subject—for such a shallow mind.”
It was funny the first twenty times. Eventually, I learned to start my sentences without the mention of the water source.
I thought about it again today when my young friend interrupted my monologue about some things I’ve been pondering recently.
“Those are some big thoughts you’ve been having, Paul.”
In my head, I immediately finished the idea for him.
. . .for such a tiny brain.
He didn’t say the words and probably didn’t even think them, but still—I couldn’t help but wonder. The red headed lady who raised me used to say it differently.
“You’re getting a little too big for your britches, Bub.”
It’s a funny thing, though. I remember her buying me bigger pants when I outgrew the ones I was wearing. Same thing with shoes, and shirts.
She didn’t want me to stay a small person. From her diminutive height of five feet and four inches she looked up to her taller sons, two of us eventually reaching six feet, with pride.
She never wanted anything else but for us to grow. She never wanted anything less than for us to reach further.
Parents are like that, you know.
Somehow, much of society wants nothing more than to pull us back into the teeming mass of the everyday.
Don’t get above your roots!
Remember where you came from!
Time and time again, the crowd pulls us down and reminds us that we need to fit in—to conform.
Ah, but I remember being in crowds with my Dad. When you’re a kid, crowds are a pain. You can’t see anything—can’t get anywhere.
But, with Dad, all I had to do was ask and, within seconds I was sitting on his shoulders, above the crowd. No more looking through legs and around fat torsos. No more stumbling and being shoved.
Parents are like that, you know.
But the day comes when the child is too big to sit on shoulders, too heavy to be carried through the crowd. By then, they’ve learned to stand on their own feet and to see far ahead of the crowd. One would hope anyway.
I encouraged and aided my own son to adulthood and then, stood aside and bragged. Well, not exactly bragged. But, I still remember the first time a co-worker of his praised his abilities and his work ethic.
Ha! The first time? I remember the last time it happened, just a day past.
Parents are like that, you know.
And a voice came from heaven, telling them, “This is my only Son. I am exceedingly pleased with Him.” (Matthew 1:5)
Evidently, there is another Father who wants His children to excel.
He gives us the tools to do just that—lifting us when we can’t see, carrying us when we can’t walk, encouraging us as we gain strength and wisdom.
Parents are like that, you know.
One has to wonder: Why is it we seem to be satisfied, all too often, with the norm?
Why do we stay a part of the crowd, when we have the advantages we’ve been given?
Why are we afraid to grow? Why are we afraid to excel? Why are we afraid to stand tall?
I wonder. Surely I’m not the only one with big ideas (rattling around in a tiny brain).
Perhaps, it’s time we started acting on the big ideas.
It seems likely that we’ve stood on the edge of the dream for too long. I think I hear a voice, almost like that of Aslan the Lion in the Chronicles of Narnia, calling us further up and further in.
Still encouraging. Still calling.
Parents are like that, you know.
He turned swiftly round, crouched lower, lashed himself with his tail and shot away like a golden arrow.
“Come further in! Come further up!” he shouted over his shoulder. (from The Last Battle ~ C.S. Lewis ~ English theologian/author ~ 1898-1963)
Now look here, gal, you’d better be yourself And leave that other stuff on the shelf You’re country, baby That’s plain to see
Don’t get above your raisin’ Stay down to earth with me (Don’t Get Above Your Raising ~ Flatt/Scruggs ~ American Songwriters)
“I’ll just take this with me, okay? There might be a poem in it I can use.”
I looked over at the Lovely Lady as I headed toward the door earlier tonight, waving the thin volume in the air as I spoke. The little book of popular poetry from the nineteenth century had come from her parent’s home (and possibly her grandparent’s before that), so I felt I needed her approval.
Smiling at me, she told me to take it. She never expected anything less when she brought it home a while back.
The little book of verse is lying open on my desk even now, along with three or four others. I really didn’t think I would find anything spectacular in it.
Poetry is just poetry. Sometimes.
Men and women in the past did just as many of us do today, sitting and meditating on our days and nights—remembering that we haven’t accomplished what we intended—recalling some important lesson we don’t want to lose in the gray haze of our busy lives. Dashing down words onto a page, we save the thoughts for another night, or another morning. Line by line, the thoughts and words take shape, achieving a semblance of wisdom or wit—or not.
As I glanced through the little book tonight, my eyes fell on the concluding line of a poem by the man who penned the words to that great old hymn, This is My Father’s World. The line is copied above, but I’ll repeat it here to save you the trouble of looking for it.
Faint not—fight on! Tomorrow comes the song.
I froze in the act of flipping to the next page. Then I reached for my phone. Only a week ago, I saved a thought in my notes there, a thought that had arrested me one afternoon. One afternoon—on one of those days.
You know the kind of day I mean. The cares and troubles of the world already pressing down on you are joined by a mountain of tasks to be completed. To add to it all, nothing is going as it should. Nothing. One failure after another—one disgruntled patron after another, lead to the terrifying feeling of drowning.
The words I wrote that afternoon are still there, where I saved them in black and white, and the fear returns.
There are days when I panic and wonder, how do I get to tomorrow from here?
The fear of drowning is real—the fear is—even if the danger is not.
My mind wanders and I see an eight-year-old lad with short blond hair and brown skin crouched beside a swimming pool. Wound up like a spring, he is watching the camp’s activity director closely. The man holds a silver steel ring in his hand and then with a quick motion, releases it into the air to fall in the deep end of the pool. Within a second, the boy is diving into the water, eight feet deep and well over his head.
The idea is to retrieve the ring from the bottom of the pool more quickly than the other boys have achieved the task. He is sure he can do better. There is no fear at all in his mind—yet.
Dropping quickly, he heads for the spot he last sighted the target. As he nears the bottom, his ears begin to pop; the water pressure at that depth is much higher than in the air above or even in the shallows of the other end. No matter, he is still confident, but for some reason cannot see the ring.
His eyes have started burning in the chlorine-treated water and his ears are actually hurting a little now. The boy finds himself a little disoriented, but looking above through squinted eyelids, determines where he is in relationship to the sides and the water’s surface, and continues feeling along the bottom of the concrete pool. Then he feels it.
No. Not the ring; He feels the fear.
He is running out of oxygen in his lungs. He had taken a huge breath prior to jumping in, but his discomfort has used up precious time and burned more air than he expected. It is all he can do to persevere and grab the ring as his hand contacts it.
No, it wasn’t the ring after all, but only the grill around the pool’s drain.
Now panic really is gripping him, his heart pounding uncontrollably in his chest, but he won’t give up.
There! There it is! He has it in his hand and heads to the surface. But, in his panic, he forgets to push off on the bottom and is left to flail and kick his way up, eight long feet to the life-giving oxygen.
In his mind, he is drowning. He can’t get there; the pressure in his lungs is too great. He will have to exhale and breathe in before he reaches the surface. It hurts too much! He knows he will die, simply knows it!
Just as he exhales, the pressure exploding from his mouth and nose, his blond head emerges from the water. Gasping the precious, life-giving oxygen into his lungs, he stabs his hand above his head in triumph—just as if he hadn’t given up all hope just seconds before—and shows the ring to the waiting group.
Two things I remember, fifty years along the road of life. Two things.
The waiting group of swimmers wasn’t all that impressed. No one congratulated me on persevering though the panic. In fact, not one of my fellow campers ever admitted to feeling that same fear. Not one.
Neither did I. Never. Until now.
The second thing? I had to do it all again the very next day. And the next day, and the next.
Life keeps coming at us. Daily. And, we either face it and go through, or we fail in our aspirations. We persevere and push on, or we are overcome and give up.
I don’t want anyone to believe they are the only one who feels that fear. The thing I’m sure of is there is someone close to me and to you right now who is feeling it. Maybe you should ask the person next to you if they’ve ever felt the panic. If they’re honest, they will remember a time. They might even be going through it right this minute.
How about it? Are your eyes burning? Are your lungs bursting? Is your heart beating so fast you think it may never recover?
Be strong! It matters not how deep intrenched the wrong, How hard the battle goes, the day how long; Faint not—fight on! Tomorrow comes the song. (From Be Strong by Maltbie Babcock ~ American hymn writer ~ 1858-1901)
When I am afraid, I will trust in You. In God, whose word I praise, in God I trust. I will not be afraid. (Psalm 56:3,4 ~ NIV)
Now? 
