The Lovely Lady and I made a trek to Lowe’s today, in hopes of buying some sixteen-penny nails for our current project (the associate in the hardware aisle didn’t know what those were—seriously!)
I was disappointed and a little frightened by the Halloween display (yes, you read that right!) inside the front doors. Really. Halloween. Another thief trying to steal my summer.
But, being frightened is nothing new to you this summer, is it?
The news media has done its best to convince you that you must be frightened that cool weather will never return, and the world is falling apart politically, along with the certainty that financial disaster is right around the corner.
I watched a 4-minute video last night in which a young lady did her best to excoriate all you fools ignorant enough to not be terrified that the world is melting. Melting.
And, the drug cartels—no, no—the pharmaceutical companies, are spending millions to convince you that every disease imaginable is hiding under your bed, so you must ask your doctor to prescribe their latest chemical concoction if you want to have any chance to live out the year.
I have a suggestion.
Put that iPhone in your pocket, turn off the idiot box, and go outside.
Yes, it’s hot. So, take some water with you. Carry a towel to wipe the sweat out of your eyes (or, if you’ve still got a stretchy terry headband from the 1970s, you can wear that).
The grass is green. The trees are covered with leaves (read: shade in which to rest). For the most part, water is flowing down the creeks and rivers.
Remember when you were a kid? Nobody could have forced you inside on hot summer days. Now, voices from an electronic box have you convinced you’re done.
You’re not.
Not by a long shot.
I’m not trying to tell you what to believe. This is not a political statement—pro this—anti that.
I’m merely suggesting that we take back our lives. Live each day as if it’s a gift from our Creator.
Because it is. An amazing gift.
Fear is a thief. Don’t let it steal another minute of your life.
Oh, just so you know… The sweat washes off. Really, it does. And, the A/C feels a lot cooler after an hour or two under the summer sun.
To every thing there is a season. And, seasons pass.
They pass.
“I have told you these things, so that in me you may have peace. In this world you will have trouble. But take heart! I have overcome the world.” (John 16:33, NIV)
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)
We’ve been remodeling the old house for months now. Soon, we’ll be living in the Lovely Lady’s childhood home. Our hard work is beginning to pay off and I think the place is looking pretty nice.
A few folks in the neighborhood have stopped by to see how the work is progressing. Everyone likes the bathroom.
Strange, isn’t it? They also like the other rooms we’ve worked on, but the bathroom is the one they exclaim about.
I like the bathroom, too. It’s turned out very nicely. All in all, a comfortable space.
I stood in the middle of that room earlier tonight as a neighbor expressed her surprise at how beautiful it is now and I had a moment. You know. One of those moments.
The kind of moment when you don’t know whether to laugh or cry. The realization hit me that we had actually finished it. There was elation in that moment.
Done! It’s done.
There was another emotion in play, as well. I am reluctant to speak of it.
Really, I am reluctant. I have sat, staring at the monitor for a long time, not sure I can write the words. But, I think it’s important, so I’ll give it a shot.
Do you know how it feels to stand, faced with a job you know—absolutely know—you are not up to, and yet recognize that you have no choice but to try?
Have you ever simply stood and looked at a task, thinking I can’t do this, for hours? Seriously. Hours.
I lay under that house one day, pipe wrench in hand, having once again failed in my task, screaming—Really. Screaming!—at the pipes above, and then at myself, and yes—at God for putting me in that situation.
Again and again, in the course of the work, I was paralyzed by failure and fear—certain I was at the end of my resources.
I was sure I could only fail. Absolutely and finally.
Two points, I want to make here. More will come to mind, but I’ll stop at two:
1) When we look only at the problem and refuse to look past it to the solution, we ensure failure. At least until we can change our focal point. There is always a solution. Always.
2) You’re never on your own in solving the problem. Whether it was guys who wanted to offer advice—marginally better, to my mind, than sitting and staring at the offensive piece while imagining complete and utter failure—or whether it was friends and family who actually could help with the physical work, there was always someone to help bear the burden.
I suppose the reader will understand if I make it clear I am not simply talking about a remodel on a house here. Sure, that has been my mountain to climb for the last few months, but it’s certainly not the only mountain there is.
Unclimbable, some of those mountains. A person might be tempted to sit and wonder how in the world God expects us to get over that gargantuan pile of rock and rubble—perhaps, never even attempting the ascent.
Some have suggested the mountain need not be attempted at all. Well? Didn’t Jesus teach His disciples they could tell the mountain to be moved from one place to another if they had faith the size of a mustard seed? (Matthew 17:20)
Leaving aside the fact I’m not sure I have that huge a faith (have you seen the size of a mustard seed???), I want to assure you we don’t get to remove the mountains God has put in front of us in that manner.
It’s a funny thing, but when God puts mountains in our way, it is to help us grow in faith. James says it’s a joy to have our faith tested, because it develops endurance. (James 1:2-4)
I’m not sure I would call it a joy. These last few months haven’t been a walk in the park.
That said, the mountain cannot—will not—be prayed away. God put it there for a reason. There is only one way to the other side. Over.
Over.
Now, when I look at the result (and, I’m still not only talking about that bathroom), there is joy in knowing what has been accomplished.
It’s not like I carry treats in my pocket. But, you never would have known it, the way the rotund black lab kept her head against my leg as I walked.
She always has done that—kept her head against my leg when she walks beside me. It’s just that she’s never done it while I was mowing the yard.
Every pass—every step of the way. Back and forth we went, the black dog and I, almost as if I had her on a leash.
She could have left any time she wanted. The only thing keeping her there was her fear. And her trust.
It’s funny I should mention fear and trust together like that, isn’t it?
Perhaps, we should go back a few steps, before the terrified—and trusting—canine began to stroll with me on my accustomed pattern through the grass.
The August rains have arrived within the last week or two. I love these times. The summer, mild as it has been, has taken its toll on the verdant vegetation here in the foothills of the Ozark Mountains.
The trees have begun to shed extraneous leaves. The grass, still mostly green, had grown a little crunchy underfoot. Another week or so of the summertime heat, and it would have been brown.
Brown is not a happy color.
But, the August rains have come. Unpredictable—even for the folks who make a living predicting them—they arrive, unannounced except for the occasional rumble of thunder across the hills.
Still, the property is for sale and it must look as presentable as possible at all times. When one is dodging rain storms and still needing to mow the grass, you tend to slip the task in between showers and pray for the rain to hold off a few more moments.
I had completed the front yard and, looking up at the darkening sky, determined that I would have just enough time to complete the task in the fenced back yard. The rolling thunder in the distance gave warning, but I was confident.
Most folks who have pets will understand the dilemma my best friends found themselves in. Thunder means it’s time to head for the fraidy-hole under the storage shed.
But. . . The man who feeds us! He’s in the backyard. We must be with him.
But. . . The big booming noise in the sky! Something is going to fall on us any minute now! We have to stay here!
The need to be with their master won out. Covered with dust, they emerged from their hiding place to greet me. I took a moment to play with them, but soon returned to the chore of knocking down the crabgrass and weeds threatening to turn my backyard into a habitat which might soon have to be protected by the EPA.
We’re sorry, Mr. Phillips. You’ll need to move. We’ve discovered a colony of red-and-green spotted toads in your grass. No. They can’t be relocated. You’ll have to go.
So I mowed. And, the chubby black lab, who is one of the most vocal dogs that’s ever owned me, stayed with me every step of the way, whimpering and whining all the while.
She is terrified of storms. Terrified.
But, she trusts me. She knows she is safe when I’m around. On that day, terror was all around, but she knew where safety lay.
She walked, nose glued to my thigh, every step I took. Every lap around the perimeter—every row I mowed down and back—she followed, snout to leg.
The big, brave alpha-male stood aloof, watching her actions. Clearly, he wasn’t going to lower himself to such a place, groveling at my side. But, when I stopped for a moment to reassure the timid girl, his bravado dissolved like sugar in water and he was by my side in a matter of seconds, looking for his dose of reassurance.
I laugh as I watch the memory in my mind unfold again. But then again, my heart sees, in the memory, a picture of myself and the smile is wiped from my face.
Why do we hide from the storms in our life? What makes us retreat to our safe places—our fraidy-holes—to get out of the wind’s grasp and the crashing fury of the world’s turmoil?
In the storm, as steadfast as He has ever been, He works. Promises are fulfilled, His plans unaltered.
He walks in the storm. Still.
Not in spite of the storm. In it. On it.
I’ve been hiding. For a long time.
I don’t like the sound of that thunder.
Earlier this evening, as I practiced with the worship team at the church where we fellowship, I was already considering the words I would write tonight.
Preoccupied, I was surprised to see these words on the page before me as I sang:
Your sovereign hand will be my guide Where feet may fail and fear surrounds me.
Out there, the storm is raging, absolutely raging. Out there, the lightning flashes and the thunder booms.
It is where He is. And, we get to walk beside him.
Leaning against Him. Fear overcome by trust.
Out there, He walks.
Why are we still hiding?
Your grace abounds in deepest waters Your sovereign hand will be my guide Where feet may fail and fear surrounds me You’ve never failed and You won’t start now.
Sunday night late—the stoop seems as good a place as any to ponder. Big things, I always choose. Tonight, all I see is the moon, and it is big enough. Full, bright, and orange it was when earlier I stood with my love, taken with wonder. Now murky and circled with clouds, it only warns of rain to come in the soon dawning day. Monday with rain.
How does the joy and wonder turn so suddenly to foreboding? Where does the elation go when I am overcome with dread? It is not only the moon and not only the night that bring the sudden turnaround. Still. The questions remain. How so suddenly changed? Where can I go to retrieve the joy? Where is the queue to reclaim peace for my soul?
I wrote the words a year ago. They were never meant to share. Not with anyone.
Two nights ago, he called me—the man who is the rock. No, really. The Rock of Gibraltar. Or, so I have believed.
His close friends, two of them, have died in the last week. Another, even closer to him, is in the terrifying uncertainty of awaiting the doctor’s report.
He is shaken. Shaken.
We talked for some time and agreed on this certainty at the end of the conversation: We know the Peace-giver. In our prayers and gratitude, He gives His peace that we cannot understand.
His words, fear not, are not meant as a command to be followed religiously, in fear of offense. They are the assurance of a loving parent—a promise of safety, of wholeness, of perfect rest.
They are words to comfort and not to condemn.
And, as children are wont to do, we forget. We do.
And, like a Father, He reminds again. And again.
His words are fresh every time. His arms of protection cover—every time.
Peace. I am leaving it with you. Not the kind of peace the world offers, brokered by the powerful and ensured by weapons and threats. No, my peace is a gift to hold in your heart, where no man and no circumstance can plunder it. (John 14:27)
Where anger rules, peace dissolves. Where terror dwells, peace cannot live. Where worry spreads, peace is no more.
Does it mean our hearts will never be touched by these things? By no means.
Fear may pass through, anger may swell up, anxiety may worm its way in.
But His peace reigns. Just as Peter, when we begin to sink beneath the waves, we remember who rules those waves.
As we walk through the valley of the shadow, we recall who waits for us over there.
You know—over there. Where our home—our real home—is being made ready for us.
Here is the queue to reclaim peace—in exactly the same place it was the last time.
We’re next in line. Every time.
Peace.
Shalom.
God cannot give us a happiness and peace apart from Himself, because it is not there. There is no such thing. (C.S. Lewis ~ British theologian/author ~ 1898-1963)
And the peace of God, which passeth all understanding, shall keep your hearts and minds through Christ Jesus. (Philippians 4:7 ~ KJV)
Love takes off masks that we fear we cannot live without, and know we cannot live within. (James Arthur Baldwin ~ American playwright/social critic ~ 1924-1987)
There is no fear in love. But perfect love drives out fear, because fear has to do with punishment. The one who fears is not made perfect in love. We love because he first loved us.Whoever claims to love God yet hates a brother or sister is a liar. For whoever does not love their brother and sister, whom they have seen, cannot love God, whom they have not seen.And he has given us this command: Anyone who loves God must also love their brother and sister.
(1 John 4:18-21 ~ NIV)
They were kind enough to invite me to ride with them recently. The seasoned riders have trekked many miles together in the years I’ve been aware of them.
I usually ride alone.
It’s not that I don’t like being with people, but simply that the logistics are less complicated when I’m the only one who has to agree to the time and length of ride.
It would be just another ride for me, I thought, but one spent in a group of men who, like me, enjoyed the spinning of the crank and wind of freedom blowing on their faces.
I never expected to be transported back fifty years as I rode.
It was my own fault really. One kind member of the group, noticing my problem, rode beside me for a few moments and explained the theory I obviously didn’t grasp.
“You don’t ride much with groups, do you? If you’ll stay with the other riders, the ride will be a lot easier.”
It didn’t take a rocket scientist to understand his meaning. Riding in a group reduces the effect of the wind, making the ride much less taxing. One has only to watch a professional bicycle racing team to grasp the idea. Drafting, following each other closely, is only a part of the benefit.
I never have been good at that—staying with the group. I’ve got my own ideas of what works, what corners to turn, how fast to ride on the downhills, and how hard to pedal up the steep slopes. But, perhaps the kind fellow is right.
I tried to follow his advice—really, I did.
But, they went slower than I wanted on the downhill parts. Then they went faster than I was ready to try on the uphill sections.
And, besides that, my mind was already a thousand miles away and fifty years in the past.
I guess I’ve always done it—ridden at my own pace. Still, the fear that knotted my insides on that long-ago day should have taught me a lesson to remember for life.
There were usually at least five of us who rode together—sometimes more. Through neighborhoods and across fields, down into canals and over levees, we pedaled our nondescript bikes. Brothers, neighbors, schoolmates—it didn’t matter. Whoever wanted to ride went along.
I heard the voices calling and jerked back from my daydreaming.
Oye vato!
The four young men standing at the corner toward which I was heading had suddenly become aware of my presence. It took only an instant for me to realize what was going on.
As I was riding ahead of the group of ragtag boys, I had turned the corner into La Paloma without knowing it. La Paloma was a barrio, or neighborhood, in my hometown famous for the gang that wandered its streets. It has gotten much worse since my childhood, but even then, we knew better than to meander down its avenues idly.
The young men were headed into the street, coming straight for me. I remembered passing someone at the corner behind as well, and glanced back. Sure enough, he had moved onto the pavement, blocking my quick escape that way.
I was terrified. No other word describes it.
Terror.
I was also alone. I can only imagine the conversation of my comrades as they gathered around the corner, just outside the neighborhood.
Can you believe he went in there? What was the idiot thinking? I’m not going in! No way!
Fortunately for me, they didn’t take long to decide that somebody had to come in after the idiot. Just in time, all of them came riding around the corner, about the moment I was trying to decide which one of the guys in front of me I might be able to knock over if I rode at him full speed. I never found out.
As soon as the rest of the group came into view, the other boys moved back onto the verge of the parking area and simply watched us ride past.
We rode, nonchalantly and quietly, down the street, turning the corner and riding straight home. After fifty years, my heart still beats a little faster, remembering the fear, but also the relief.
To this day, I remember the peace that rode around the corner with those brothers and friends. We weren’t out of danger—not by a long shot—but the relief I felt was almost palpable.
One might think the lesson I learned on that day was of strength in numbers. I know the truth of that, but it’s not what I remember.
I remember peace. While still in danger, I felt peace, full and complete.
Odd, isn’t it? The name of the barrio and its gang, La Paloma, means The Dove. Thoughout time, the dove has been a powerful symbol of peace. And there, in frightening circumstances, with disaster just moments away, peace fell over this young boy.
In danger, peace lives, unafraid.
Peace is not the absence of danger, but it is the assurance of safety.
Perhaps I’m not the only one who feels the danger crouching outside my door today. I hear it in the words, see it in the eyes of both friends and acquaintances. Fear can stalk us as we see death take those we know and love. Terror is set to spring as the world around us grows more unfamiliar and threatening.
And yet, the Savior told us He was leaving us peace. It’s not the peace the world craves—the complete absence of danger and of conflict of any kind, but is a peace that supports in the middle of the storm. (John 14:27)
He was about to be tortured, tried in court, and put to death. And, He told His followers not to be troubled and afraid. Their world was about to crash down around their shoulders and they were to continue on with peace in their souls.
It doesn’t make sense. It never has from a human perspective.
Once in awhile, the Lovely Lady and I feel the need to retreat. The world presses in, its cares overwhelming the spirit. Last weekend, we went to the mountaintop for a day or two.
We stood, overlooking the world below and heard the wind blow gently over the treetops. In quietness, God speaks eloquently to our spirits.
Creation reminds us that our Creator is as He has always been.
We walked the hillsides of a green valley in the morning, as raindrops began to fall. The sound of the water from heaven on the canopy of leaves and pine needles above soothed the hurts and fears in our souls.
Ah, sweet peace.
The solitude reminded me that peace has already been given us long ago. We have only to remember where our strength comes from and realization of our certain salvation is renewed.
The psalmist wrote of it in his own contemplation. I lift my eyes up to the hills and I realize where my strength comes from. It comes from God the Creator, who made the heavens and the earth. (Psalm 121:1-2)
Not only in the quiet, but in the hubbub, in the tormented days, and the fear-laden nights, peace can be ours.
Not only ours, peace can reign. In our very beings, the terror is silenced, the fear put to flight. Peace reigns. (Colossians 3:15)
When all about us, men whisper of danger and terror in the dark, we don’t disagree. They do exist. They do have power.
But, our safety is not in weapons, not in hoarded wealth, nor even in governments. The peace those bring isn’t peace at all. It never has been and never will be.
Peace comes only from the Giver of all good gifts.
Safety itself is ours.
Even when we ride ahead of the pack.
The Dove, on silver pinions Winged her peaceful way. (from The Pelican Island ~ James Montgomery ~ Scottish poet/hymnwriter ~ 1771-1854)
I am leaving you with a gift—peace of mind and heart. And the peace I give is a gift the world cannot give. So don’t be troubled or afraid.
(John 14:27 ~ NLT)
It’s not a sight you’d expect to see, here in the foothills of the Ozarks. The lush wooded landscape, along with the numerous rivers and creeks that crisscross the valleys and hollows hereabouts, doesn’t bear much resemblance to the cactus and sand-smothered expanses of the desert.
Nonetheless, I know what I saw with my own eyes. While on a longish bicycle ride last week, I actually had to shake my head for a moment in unbelief.
Surely it was my favorite childhood cartoon come to life! Up ahead on the road as I crested a hill, a roadrunner stood, poised for flight.
photo by Dominic Sherony
Well, not for flight.
The earthbound birds prefer to outrun their predators with their strong and speedy legs instead of using their wings. They can run as fast as 20 miles an hour when pursued.
The thing is, I can ride my bicycle faster than 20 miles per hour. Downhill, anyway. And, I was headed straight for the unfortunate creature as he stood downhill from me.
All Wile E. Coyote-ish, I sped right toward the sprinter.
He, knowing that danger was approaching, ran for all he was worth. I gained quickly. I don’t know if he reached his top speed, but I do know I nearly ran him down.
Zig-zagging all over the road, he gave me no clear path to pass. It was evident that every instinct told the poor bird I was a predator, intent on his destruction. Regardless of the fact I was more intent on avoiding him than running him down, he only knew the terror that being close to death can bring.
At the last second, just before my wheels caught him up, the tricky fellow did the only thing he could do—the one thing he may not have known he had the ability to do—he flew up and off the pavement into the low-hanging branches of a maple tree that hung over the fence about twenty or thirty feet away..
He flew!
The bird that I have always believed could simply avoid any pursuer by out-running it, flew.
Any lingering thought of the Warner Brothers cartoon bird from my youth disappeared from my consciousness with the suddenness of a pricked balloon exploding.
The bird didn’t push the Acme weights off the cliff onto me, didn’t draw a railroad tunnel on the side of a cliff for a train to blast out of and flatten me, didn’t light the wick on a rocket to launch me into the stratosphere.
He flew away.
Gone. Just like that. Disappeared from my sight.
One moment, certain destruction—the next, salvation from on high.
Dare I say anymore? Need I?
Perhaps a word or two.
I’m not the only one who has felt the terror of late; I’ve seen it in the eyes of others. Many see all chance of escape disappearing from their sight.
Some fear for their future, others for their children’s. Aged and hardened old men weep in the darkness for the loss of their loved ones. Young men and women despair of hope.
All run as fast as they can, hoping for escape, but pursued relentlessly by their terror. There is no escape to be found.
I’ve written recently of the wings of eagles and the ability to run without tiring. They are a gift from God and there is hope in His strength. (Isaiah 40:31)
But, what if there is another way? What if the wings and the strong, untiring muscles are not meant to be tools for retreat, but a means of facing the powers that threaten us?
Perhaps, it is time, not for flight, but to fight. (Ephesians 6:10-18)
And yet, I can’t help thinking there is one more thing to be said.
What was it, now? Let me see…
Oh yes. I’m wondering if we’re all that good at identifying our enemies.
The birdbrain that ran away from me on the road that day thought I was his. I wouldn’t have harmed a feather on his body.
I wasn’t his enemy. At all.
Sometimes, fear makes our enemies seem stronger than they are. It even manufactures enemies where there are none.
Perhaps, after all, it is time for us just to stand.
Stand and see the salvation of the Lord.
Neither fight nor flight.
Just plain faith.
Salvation is certain.
Stand still.
Still.
He that flies counts every foeman twice. (from The Two Towers ~ J.R.R.Tolkien ~ English author ~ 1892-1973)
But you will not even need to fight. Take your positions; then stand still and watch the Lord’s victory. He is with you, O people of Judah and Jerusalem. Do not be afraid or discouraged. Go out against them tomorrow, for the Lord is with you! (2 Chronicles 20:17 ~ NLT)
I was out on a run this evening when her message arrived. Having nearly completed the first mile of a gentle three-mile run, I was feeling pretty good.
The music in my headphones suddenly stopped and the harsh clang of the message indicator hammered my eardrums. I glanced down at my phone, held tightly in the plastic-and-velcro carrier on my arm. The Lovely Lady had words for me.
I stopped. When she talks, I listen. Well, most of the time, I listen. Sometimes, I just appear to be listening. Perhaps, we’ll leave that subject for another day.
She couldn’t see my progress along the route on which I was running. The fitness program I use not only tells me how far and fast I’ve run, it sends a GPS signal to other interested parties, showing where I am.
She’s interested. I’m only half-teasing when I say she needs to know where to send the ambulance.
But tonight, she couldn’t see me.
I made a change or two to the phone while standing alongside the road, sending a message back right before trotting on my way.
“Can you see me now?”
It took a few moments for her negative reply to arrive, but I was already back to full speed, and didn’t want to stop again. I sent a curt, almost insensitive message.
“I’m just going to keep running. Sorry.”
The problem is fixed now, so there shouldn’t be a repeat of her trepidation the next time I head out to feed the fitness bug.
She needs to see me.
I know the feeling.
There are days, a lot like today—no, just like today—when I stop in the midst of all the commotion and overpowering sense of futility, and say the words. Sometimes, I say them right out loud—sometimes I shout them in the vacuum of my spirit.
Where are you, God? In all of this—this pointless exertion—are You here?
I can’t see Him.
On top of the commotion, a longtime friend’s mother was laid to rest today; and a young lady, whose acquaintance I made a few years back when she attended the local university, sent news that her father passed away early this morning. Another friend is grieving the loss of her granddaughter, only a year old.
I can’t speak for them. I simply know it is at times like these when I want most to know that God is near. And it is, for some strange reason, at times like these when I can’t see Him.
I can’t see Him.
And the music, which is the joy of life, has stopped. Either that, or I just can’t hear the sweet melodies and harmonies in my ears like I could before. Regardless, the silence is unbearable.
Blind and deaf, I stand—wondering if I’ll ever see Him again—uncertain if the sweet music will ever begin again.
It’s funny. If you stand in darkness and silence for awhile, the senses are sharpened.
I won’t leave you as orphans. The world won’t see me, but you will. (John 14:18-19)
Even when you walk through the valley of the shadow of death, nothing evil will touch you. (Psalm 23:4)
The longer we listen to the whisper of His voice, the easier it is to hear. In the quiet, He speaks to our spirits.
We only have to listen.
Still. I want to see Him.
I’m remembering today that we’re not home yet. Here, we see dimly.
There? Face to face. Clearly.
On that day, with our loved ones (if they were His followers), we’ll see Him.
What a glorious thought!
We’ll see Him.
That’s funny. I think I can hear music again, too. You know, there’ll be music in that place, as well. The thought brings joy.
I want to see Him. He does give glimpses here at times. Enough to give us courage. And strength.
So, I’ll keep walking.
You too?
We could walk together.
I’d like that.
So we are always of good courage. We know that while we are at home in the body we are away from the Lord,for we walk by faith, not by sight.Yes, we are of good courage, and we would rather be away from the body and at home with the Lord. So whether we are at home or away, we make it our aim to please him. (2 Corinthians 5:6-9 ~ ESV)
Open our eyes Lord We want to see Jesus, To reach out and touch Him And say that we love Him. (from Open Our Eyes, Lord ~ Robert Cull ~ American pastor/songwriter)
I would like to believe I’m much more intelligent than they. Some days (or nights), I think I could even prove the point.
Somehow though, that assumption is not always accurate. Oh, it’s not as if they are as intelligent as I; just that I am as ignorant as they are. Yes, I realize it might be a fine line, but there is a difference. I think. Or is it, I hope?
It was a dark and stormy night—no, really—a dark and stormy night. I was heading to bed after a frustrating non-writing session at the computer when I noticed a noise from the backyard.
The two large dogs, brother and sister, were out in the gale, staring up into the huge mulberry tree. I’ve seen that stance before. They have chased a critter up the tree.
This could take awhile.
There are a few things you should know about this situation. The first is these dogs are stubborn—tenacious—adamant, even.
Bull-headed, the red haired lady who raised me would call it.
I shone my light into the branches of the tree and found the object of their attentiveness. The critter was hiding his face, but as I moved around the storage building in my way, I was rewarded with a glance at his black robber’s mask.
The black monsters had treed a raccoon. The little fellow was lodged in the fork of the branch. He wasn’t budging.
Down on the ground, the black beasts weren’t going anywhere, either.
Stalemate.
This didn’t look encouraging.
I asked myself a couple of questions:
The dogs have a really nice, heated dog house in which to pass cold windy nights. Do you suppose they might just get cold and retire to their comfy home?
The trunk of the tree up which the raccoon had clambered is actually outside the fenced yard in which the big black dogs run. Is it possible he would just shinny down the rough bole and scamper across the ground to his lair?
Neither was likely. I did the only thing that made any sense.
I locked the dogs in the storage building. There is a carpet on the floor, laid there for just such eventualities, and I had the foresight to put their water bowl in with them—in case they had worked up a thirst in the commotion.
I locked them in and went to bed. Slept like a baby.
Very early in the morning, I did go outside again. Just for a few seconds. I shone the flashlight up into the tree to be sure, but I knew what I would find. There was no raccoon to be seen.
I opened the door to the storage building. My two best friends lay side by side on the carpet, asleep. It took them a moment to realize I was at the door, but they slowly got to their feet and stretching, ambled outside. It was as if none of the frenetic activity in the wee hours of the morning had happened at all.
As if nothing had happened.
They slept as well as I did. Five feet above the roof of the building in which they slept, the raccoon was lodged in the crook of the tree branch. Yet, they slept as if the critter were ten miles away.
As for the raccoon, his situation was not much different either. Ten feet below him, the great hunters were as close as they had ever been. Maybe closer.
When he could see them, he wasn’t budging. Not an inch. I didn’t stay out to watch, but I don’t imagine it was long after the door closed on the shed that he began his trek down to safety.
May I point out something? It may come as a surprise to you, but the raccoon was never in any danger.
Never.
Dogs don’t climb trees. Can’t. Won’t. They weren’t coming up to get him. So, the little fella just waited. Once they were gone, he would move, but not one second before.
But, he could have left the tree at any time he wanted! The tree in which he cowered was planted in a safe place. He never had to cower. Not one moment.
He was always safe.
I wonder. How many days—weeks—years have we cowered here when all we needed to do was walk to freedom?
While we eye the terrifying circumstances circling around us, safety lies as close as a few steps in the right direction.
But first, we have to tear our eyes away from the dreadful creatures below.
Perhaps, we have the need for a loving Creator to make the creatures get out of our sight. But, I’m not sure He needs to make them go away—not even sure if He will make them go away while we live in this world.
What if all that is necessary is for us to see that safety is already ours?
The prophet Elisha’s servant certainly needed that. It was one of my favorite stories in Sunday School many years ago. It still is. The servant rose up early in the morning and saw a terrifying enemy surrounding them. It was all he could see. Chariots and soldiers. Spears and clubs. Arrows and swords. Just imagine the terror. Imagine.
Surely, the prophet could have prayed for escape. A chariot from heaven perhaps? He had seen that chariot before. But no—he prayed that his servant would be able to see. That’s it. Open his eyes, Lord. He needs to see. (2 Kings 6:15-17)
Personally, I still find it hard to say the words. I want the easy escape. I want the miracle rescue.
Open my eyes.
Do the miracles come? They do. But, why pray for a miracle when He’s already made the way?
Sometimes the snarling savage beasts below just close their eyes and go to sleep.
Sometimes, we just need to get up and walk right out of the prison we’ve made for ourselves.
Open our eyes, Lord. We need to see.
You. We need to see You.
Crying is all right in its way while it lasts. But you have to stop sooner or later, and then you still have to decide what to do. (from The Silver Chair ~ C.S. Lewis ~ English author/educator ~ 1898-1963)
For I am the Lord your God who takes hold of your right hand and says to you, Do not fear; I will help you. (Isaiah 41:13 ~ NIV)
