flying

We went to a wedding last week, the Lovely Lady and I. Mostly, I went along to be her driver, but she claimed she needed to have a companion to sit with through the ceremony. I’m not sure that was true but, putting on my too-small suit, I went anyway.

I’m glad I did. I always am, somehow.

Her cousin’s daughter was getting married. I suppose that means the bride would be her first cousin once removed, but I’m not so sure about my relationship. Am I intended to call the young lady’s new husband my first cousin once removed in-law in-law?

The music was lovely, simply because the Lovely Lady was involved, along with her brother. Then the wedding itself was wonderful, probably because the bride (my first cousin once removed in-law) and her groom (now, my first cousin once removed in-law in-law) enjoyed the process much more than most couples do. There was laughter and there were tears, mixed in with promises and rings, and then more laughter. All in all, a wonderful ceremony with God at the center, and the two kids got hitched.

We stayed for dinner, visiting with the Lovely Lady’s cousins—my cousins-in-law (perhaps we should stop beating that poor defunct equine for the time being). It took a while to visit with all of them, there having been nine children in the family. Lovely folks, every one of them.

Soon, it was time for dancing. I should mention that I don’t dance, my problem being (besides my rather strict upbringing) not my two left feet, but the propensity for my body to want to descend to the level of my feet when they inevitably get tangled in each other.

Soon, the band leader was calling for all the married couples in the room to get out on the dance floor. Some did, but most of the cousins stayed where they were. Some, I think were like me, knowing that staying put was the best path to avoiding embarrassment. Others were just happy to watch the younger ones enjoy the music.

As the dance went through a verse or two, the band leader had the folks who had been married for a year or less sit down. Then, he called for those having been married five years or less to drop out. Ten years was the next cut-off, then twenty, and so on.

We laughed, the Lovely Lady and I, as new dancers snuck onto the dance floor. A few couples had noticed the trend and wanted to see if they could be the last ones left.

Sure enough, one of her cousins and her husband were the last couple on the floor, at nearly fifty years of marriage. We laughed and clapped, and went back to our visiting—reliving old memories and reveling in the company of family and friends.

I commented that it wasn’t fair for the band leader to expect the old people to be the ones who stayed on the dance floor longer than all the young folks. Doesn’t he know the old geezers don’t have the stamina to outlast all those kids?

But, other thoughts came to mind as I laughed at my own wittiness. It took a little while because the thoughts were a little fuzzy. Most of my thoughts these days begin like that—almost like trying to remember a name that’s just beyond my grasp. It’ll come eventually, but sometimes I just have to quit trying for it to break through to the surface.

I knew it had something to do with waiting. And gaining strength. Somehow, the couple who had taken their time to get onto the dance floor—waiting—were tied up in the concept.

Last night, as I sat in my easy chair, I heard an old song in my head. So familiar, from many years ago.

Now, where did that come from? What were the words?

Ah, yes!

They that wait upon the Lord shall renew their strength.
They shall mount up with wings.
They shall mount up with wings as eagles.

I had it! Finally, I had it.

Old folks, waiting for God.

And no, I don’t mean like the British folk tend to describe their old people in nursing homes—God’s Waiting Room, they call it.

I mean old saints, faithful folks, who know from whence their strength comes. It’s not from vitamins; not from doctor’s prescriptions; not even from physical therapists manipulating muscles and bones.

But those who trust in the Lord will find new strength.
They will soar high on wings like eagles.
They will run and not grow weary.
They will walk and not faint.
(Isaiah 40:31, NLT)

I’ve mentioned my repetitive dreams of flying before, soaring with arms spread, through the air. I still haven’t done that in real life. There have been times I’ve wondered, though…

Early this morning, I dreamed again. I suppose it was the direction this essay has taken that inspired the dream.

This time, I wasn’t flying. But, I had been invited to participate with the local university’s track team. Cross country. Miles and miles. Some of the others, the kids, tired as we ran, dropping out to walk and sit by the side of the trail.

In my dream, I kept running. Me! Closer to seventy than to any other decade. I kept running.

Okay. It’s not flying. But, running is good.

Almost as good as dancing.

Alas. Dreams come to an end. Morning comes; the sleeper awakes. I walked (painfully, due to a slight back issue I’m experiencing) to the little coffee shop I’m haunting these days. And, here I sit, pecking at the laptop’s keyboard, remembering.

Nothing’s changed, physically.

But, I’m waiting. Trusting.

God won’t fail us. He won’t.

I hope to dance someday.

Fly. Run. Walk.

No pain. No fatigue. No dropping out.

He gives strength for today.

And, bright hope for tomorrow.

And, hand in hand, on the edge of the sand,
They danced by the light of the moon.
(from The Owl And The Pussycat, by Edward Lear)

My health may fail, and my spirit may grow weak,
but God remains the strength of my heart;
he is mine forever.
(Psalm 73:26, NLT)

Do you remember it?

I do.

Nothing quite matched the feeling of pedaling down the paved lane, firmly ensconced in the big, comfy saddle. Pumping for all you were worth, flying low, both arms would be spread out like great pinions on the hawks that ruled the sky above.

Look mom! No hands!

Was there ever such a feeling? If there was, I don’t remember it.

I wanted to soar with the eagles. Riding that bicycle was as close as anything I ever experienced.

“I bet I can ride all the way home without touching the handlebars!”

“Bet you can’t!”

All the way up the road, this tow-headed kid rode, arms outstretched, and legs pumping. The smile on his face didn’t leave for an hour after he reached the gravel circle drive—without once grabbing for the handlebars in panic.

Soaring.

I never had the dream as a kid. It only started when I was grown-up. It’s a strange dream for an adult to have, or at least, to admit to having.

For years, I’ve dreamed of flying. Not in an airplane, but really flying, arms spread wide, climbing on the wind currents and looking down at the open spaces below, for all the world like an eagle.

No fake wings. No super-hero’s cape.

Just me—arms spread wide. Flying.

It wasn’t the kind of dream that terrifies. I’ve had my share of those. Falling from the edges of cliffs so high the ground below can’t be seen—Running from terror behind me, feet sticking to the ground like a fly in molasses.

Those dreams steal your strength while you sleep.

The soaring dream though, that one always left me wishing I could sleep a little longer. I was happy when I had that dream.

I want to soar with the eagles.

I realized today that I haven’t had the dream for awhile. I’m not sure why. I thought earlier tonight, as I lay in bed with sleep eluding me, that perhaps it had something to do with my taking up bike riding again.

It’s possible. I no longer stretch my arms out and pretend to soar, but I do feel like I’m flying low sometimes. There’s a freedom and a childlike joy in riding the country roads and byways at breakneck speed, pushing—always pushing—faster.

Maybe I just don’t need the dream anymore. It may have absolutely nothing to do with the cycling.

The prophet, way back before Jesus, said the words. I remember singing a song with them set to music as a child.

For they that wait upon the Lord shall renew their strength.
They shall mount up with wings; they shall mount up with wings, as eagles.
They shall run and not be weary; they shall walk and not faint.
(James Granaham ~ 1840-1907)

New strength. Stamina to go the distance, while younger, stronger folks drop out.

Wings to fly. Wings like the eagle’s.

Soaring.

And suddenly, I also remember the funny (nearly) saying which I first heard a number of years ago.

It’s hard to soar with the eagles when you’re surrounded by turkeys.

Inexplicably, my mind is drawn to the memory of an annual event in a village not too many miles away from the beautiful town in which I reside. While it’s no longer advertised due to a lot of negative (probably for good reasons) publicity, this little town featured (and still does, by some accounts) something they called a turkey drop during their annual festival.

Small planes would buzz the crowds at low altitudes—and low speeds—as a person in the craft dropped live turkeys from the window.

That’s right. Live turkeys.

It wasn’t always a pretty sight. Turkeys don’t fly much. Some, not at all. There were always a few that made it to the ground relatively unharmed. Then there were the ones that simply splatted on the ground below, dying immediately.

Turkeys don’t fly much.

They’re not known for their nobility (or mobility, for that matter).

In the wild, they hide, using the ground cover to avoid their enemies. If you’re not looking for them, you would almost never see one.

They blend into the scenery. The most you’ll ever notice is their distinctive Gobble, Gobble, Gobble call. It’s how they attract each other. While remaining invisible to most of us.

I’ve never dreamed about being a turkey.

We were created for better things than hiding in the bushes and calling to each other.

Yet somehow, that seems to be what we do, more often than not.

I want to have a bigger impact on my world than that.

There’s still time. The sky is still up there waiting.

I just hope I don’t have to grab for the handlebars before I reach home.

Soaring.

…and there is a Catskill eagle in some souls that can alike dive down into the blackest gorges, and soar out of them again and become invisible in the sunny spaces.
(Herman Melville ~ American novelist ~ 1819-1891)

Have you never heard?
    Have you never understood?
The Lord is the everlasting God,
    the Creator of all the earth.
He never grows weak or weary.
    No one can measure the depths of his understanding.
He gives power to the weak
    and strength to the powerless.
Even youths will become weak and tired,
    and young men will fall in exhaustion.
But those who trust in the Lord will find new strength.
    They will soar high on wings like eagles.
They will run and not grow weary.
    They will walk and not faint.
(Isaiah 40:28-31 ~ NLT)

He's Taken Leave

Random wanderings with Paul Phillips

Still Dancing (Sneaking Onto the Floor)

All The Way Home