Thunder grumbles all around. The storm’s fury is drained, lightning trails dragging their bedraggled tails through the sodden sky above.
The dragon has flown away. For now. Moments ago, it blazed through the sky, dropping stones of ice and frightening the earthbound denizens of the tiny communities below with screaming winds and threats of rotating clouds.
But, even as I write, the wind moans around the doors and windows anew, a reminder that the dragon is not dead, but only gathering strength—this being the season of rain and wind.
I used to love the storms. I still do, but don’t tell my friends.
It is a guilty pleasure of mine, standing and watching the lowering clouds blowing in from the west, listening to the raucous downpour against the metal roof while anticipating the greens of the fields and the wildly variegated colors of the wildflowers on the wooded hillsides, all dependent upon the moisture the dragons leave behind for us.
But there is terror still. And danger. I feel the collective fear from those awaiting the warning siren’s call to seek refuge and shelter.
I care about that, too. But mostly, about them.
Shall we always be torn between the two? Safety and danger? Drought and ample rainfall? Famine and plenty?
Sadness and great joy.
It’s the week we remember that in a much more fundamental way. At least for those of us who claim to follow Jesus, it is a week of remembering overwhelming joy and elation. And a week of remembering breathtaking loss and defeat.
And, come the new week, it will be a time of celebrating unimaginable jubilation and great wonder.
Jesus’ triumphal entry into Jerusalem; Joy and anticipation!
The Last Supper and the Garden, and the trials followed by the crucifixion: Crippling anguish and the loss of dreams of conquest.
Resurrection dawning: Awe and splendor without end!
When the dragon is rampant, we believe that our hardships will never stop. A dark, unending tunnel that winds into ever-deepening blackness.
We’ve all been there. Oh, not like His followers experienced in this week in history. But we’ve been in the black hole with the dragon raging overhead.
The older I grow, the more I am aware of the dichotomy—ever-present and ever-looming. Great joy and great sadness, one after the other, a seeming never-ending parade.
But, if this week in history reminds us of nothing else, it is that dragons will be defeated. Perhaps only temporarily in this lifetime.
But, the day is coming…
No more night. Never again will the dragon fly.
I’ll wait. With you, I’ll wait.
Even if the rain is pounding on the roof again.
“Were you there when they laid him in the tomb? Were you there when they laid him in the tomb? Oh, sometimes it causes me to tremble, tremble, tremble. Were you there when they laid him in the tomb?” (from Were You There?, African-American spiritual)
“Nature is mortal; we shall outlive her. When all the suns and nebulae have passed away, each one of you will still be alive…We are summoned to pass in through Nature, beyond her, into that splendour which she fitfully reflects. And in there, in beyond Nature, we shall eat of the tree of life.” (from The Weight of Glory by C.S. Lewis)
My social media feed and even my personal messages have been full the last day or two with some variant of the message.
“It’s Friday, but Sunday’s coming!”
I get it. I do.
It’s what we call Holy Week; throughout the week, we celebrate the death and then on Sunday, the resurrection, of our Lord. It seems that much of the world does the same, even though they are not believers—not true participants in the result.
But, this week has always been a melancholy time for me—my thoughts filled with sadness that Jesus died, betrayed by a follower whom He loved, abandoned by most of His other followers, and beaten and tortured to death by foreigners who occupied His homeland.
And, on a personal level, other events have crowded in, making the days even more melancholy. I’m almost wondering if I can participate in the reenactment of the joy that comes after the sad “holy week”.
Resurrection day, commonly called Easter, will dawn with light and music. We will—rightly—raise our voices in praise to our God in gratitude for His great gift of salvation, of redemption.
But, I know there are people—many of them—who will be in our churches, sitting beside us in the chairs or on the pews, with hearts overflowing with sadness and sorrow still. Even on this, the most joyful of days we mark in our calendars, they will mourn, or wait for bad news, or sit in pain—awaiting relief that may never come in this life.
We sang the old hymn a few weeks ago in the fellowship I’m blessed to be part of. It’s an old song about the cross Jesus died upon.
I admit, I don’t always think about the words when I’m so familiar with a song. I’ve sung this one all my life. But, I thought about the words this time.
The song was written by Isaac Watts, well known for his contributions to our lexicon of worship songs. The chorus, however, was added more than a hundred years after Mr. Watts wrote the verses.
The original words are deep, wonderfully so. The chorus, not so much, but it too is well-loved, nonetheless.
The hymn is now known as At the Cross, although originally Isaac Watts named it Alas, and Did My Savior Bleed. You may already be humming the tune as you read this.
I’m just not certain about the last line of the added chorus we sing.
“And now, I am happy all the day.”
I’m not. I’m just not.
I am grateful beyond expression for the astounding gift of grace given to us at the cross. My joy at knowing we follow a risen Savior is uncontainable. Uncontainable!
I will sing with abandon (I promise you—I will!) of His victory over death.
Hallelujah, Christ Arose!
But, I will also mourn with those who mourn. I will cry with those who cry.
Almost certainly—in that very service where I sing with abandon, I will weep as my Lord did when His heart was moved for the mourners.
Sunday is coming! Again and again, it is coming.
We rejoice. We mourn. We serve. Until that day when God will wipe away every tear.
He promised He would. And, He is faithful.
What a glorious day!
He is risen indeed!
“Then the men asked, ‘Why are you looking among the dead for someone who is alive? He isn’t here! He is risen from the dead!'”
(Luke 24:5b-6a, NLT)
My friends—those who know me well—would say, “Of course you did! It’s Spring.”
They wouldn’t be wrong. I saw daffodils—and bluets—and crabapple trees—and quince bushes—and…the list could go on forever. Spring is beautiful; not only for what I see, but for what it represents.
New life. The awakening of things that have slept—almost the sleep of death—for all the months of a cold, dark winter.
I saw those, and felt them, on my walk this morning. But, that’s not the beautiful thing I saw.
The wind is blustery today—almost a gale at times—blasting from the south. At my back as I walked toward home, it picked up many things, traversing the schoolyard I was passing. The thing I thought beautiful caught my attention, not only by the sight of it, but because I heard it first.
Paketa, pak, pak, paketa, paketa, pak.
The clattery sound of aluminum on pavement went on and on.
A beer can, thrown from a passing car (or by a wandering pedestrian), had been rescued from its dirty, wet place of inactivity beside the sidewalk, perhaps even saved from the ignominious fate of being chopped up by a passing lawn mower as it made its rounds.
Freedom! Tumbled over and over by the fickle wind, the used-up can traveled a block or more up the road before I lost sight of it. For all I know, it’s still going.
Silently, I cheered it on. But, even before the can left my sight, my mind was freed, just like that aluminum container, from the fog that had overtaken it as I sat in the little coffee shop I haunt with some frequency.
The first thing I thought about was an old game we used to play, much like hide-and-seek, called Kick the Can. I don’t suppose many children nowadays play it.
In the game, as I remember it, one kid was IT, having to find the others who hid. But, when he espied them, he would have to run as fast as he could, attempting to beat them to the can, there to count them out.
“One, two, three, on David!”
But, if David, who was hiding, knew he had been sighted, he could run faster and, kicking the can as hard as possible, gain a new lease on life, taking off to hide in the landscape once more.
I use the pronoun, he, because in my personal experience, all the players were boys. As it happens, the Lovely Lady to whom I am married played the game a time or two in her childhood, too. Right in the neighborhood where we live today.
I look out my window as I type, the house across the street filling my vision. The Lovely Lady tells of the Wards, an older couple who lived there in those days.
Anyone can tell you the game needs to be played at twilight, and just past, as darkness settles over the landscape. But somehow, older people in those days tended to begin to think about heading to bed at dark, especially in the summertime, when the daylight doesn’t fade until nearly nine P.M.
The constant clatter of the can rolling down the street was annoying, but as the evening went on, the children would sometimes take advantage of the darkness to aim their kicks right at the garage door of the Ward’s house.
With some regularity, especially after the can had hit the metal door a time or two, old Mr. Ward would walk out the front door and, without a word, pick up the can, carrying it back into the house with him.
The kids would go home, disappointed, but kind of proud of themselves.
As I walked this morning, the smile had already reached my face before the little beer can rolled out of sight. I could still hear it (and that one in my mind), rolling on the pavement.
Paketa, paketa, pak, pak.
Did I really say the sight (and sound) of that old beer can scooting along the street was beautiful?
I did, didn’t I?
Somehow, it must be what it meant to me, much like the flowers that are awakening from their long winter’s sleep—almost the sleep of death, I think I described it—to new life, rather than just a beautiful sight. It wasn’t that beautiful to look at.
But, my mind didn’t only slip to the Lovely Lady’s old memory of summertime playtime as I considered.
I can’t avoid thoughts of new life. Life from death. The parallel is obvious to me.
The can was finished—no purpose and no intrinsic beauty.
Nowhere to go ever again. Ever.
As it tumbled up the street, it wasn’t just lively. It was exuberant!
Loud, even.
Well? The Teacher, soon to be Savior, did once tell the folks that the rocks would cry out in worship.
Aluminum’s not all that different, as far as inanimate objects go.
Maybe it’s my turn. And yours.
If clattery is the best we can manage, it’ll do just fine.
Joyful noise.
“God made us for joy. God is joy, and the joy of living reflects the original joy that God felt in creating us.” (G K Chesterton)
“He jumped up, stood on his feet, and began to walk! Then, walking, leaping, and praising God, he went into the Temple with them.”
(Acts 3:8, NLT)
The rain falls outside, finally. Months, it seems since it fell.
I should be celebrating. All about me is wet. Hydrated, they call it. At least, that’s what they would call it in the medical profession.
Like the earth, we need hydration. It’s why we drink water. When we are thirsty, having struggled through some grueling course—those obstacles that challenge and stretch us—we drink it. By the gallons, it seems.
So easy. Are you thirsty?
Drink.
I remember it from my childhood days in church, the call to all who are thirsty. Congregations sang songs about it—the thirst and the cure. Preachers shouted the words from the pulpits.
“Ho! Everyone who thirsts, Come to the waters; And you who have no money, Come, buy and eat. Yes, come, buy wine and milk Without money and without price.“
(Isaiah 55: 1, NKJV)
What could be simpler?
Are you thirsty?
Drink!
The scripture is a clear reference to God’s grace, His salvation offered freely. Millions, including me, have already satisfied their thirst in that fountain that flows without cost to us.
But, it’s raining now. And, some yet feel a desert inside themselves. Not from the lack of salvation, but from a deficit of joy.
The folks who wept at the reading of God’s Word in Ezra’s day knew that deficit.
“…for this day is holy to our Lord. Do not sorrow, for the joy of the Lord is your strength.” (Nehemiah 8:10b, NKJV)
One of my young artist friends who, I think, knows the feeling of being in the desert herself, today described the feeling of the rainy day as gently claustrophobic. It is the certainty of rain—life-giving showers from heaven—flooding the earth, but the unsatisfying reality of watching it from the cloister of her front room.
I know how she feels.
If you’re thirsty, then drink.
Can it be so simple?
When I was a child, I danced and cavorted in the rain. Soaking wet, my playmates and I floated sticks and dug channels in the earth for the runoff.
Joy-filled and water-logged, with no thought for the opinions of others, neither peers nor parents, neighbors nor passers-by, we were saturated with water and a wild love for life.
I want that again.
Who wouldn’t?
And the Teacher said to them, “I have come that they may have life, and that they may have it more abundantly.“ (John 10:10b, NKJV)
I am struggling, having passed through what have seemed like insurmountable obstacles over the past weeks and months. My soul is thirsty. Dry.
All around, the rain is falling.
Really. Pouring.
I wonder what I should do next.
For as the rain and the snow come down from heaven, And do not return there without watering the earth And making it produce and sprout, And providing seed to the sower and bread to the eater; So will My word be which goes out of My mouth; It will not return to Me empty, Without accomplishing what I desire, And without succeeding in the purpose for which I sent it.
(Isaiah 55:10-11, NASB)
My life for the last couple of weeks has been overshadowed by the Big Event. Playing brass music for the local university’s Christmas service is still cause for nervousness and stress in this veteran of almost forty years of the program. But, that’s all over now.
I expected to write about it today. I sat down to do just that, but it seems the story doesn’t want to be the subject of my mental wanderings just yet.
Instead, I want to talk with you about children. Babies. Toddlers. Teenagers. Ninety-year-olds.
All children.
Why are you wrinkling up your forehead like that?
Oh. Ninety-year-old children. I know. We’ll get to that soon enough.
Sunday night, a day after the Big Event was over, the old guys (and one young lady) in the brass ensemble played one last time, this event—my church’s annual Christmas program. Everyone was welcome to share what they had prepared. No pressure. Encouragement and approval for every performer, young and old, was guaranteed.
I had my worst outing of the whole season, missing more than my share of notes, but heard not one word of criticism. I expected nothing less from this joyful crowd. But what my ensemble did really wasn’t noteworthy on this night.
The beautiful little girl whose sisters were singing a duet was. She added to the music with her lovely dancing on the stage. Mama was worried she’d jostle the guitar-playing sister’s arm, but she was careful not to, pirouetting and flouncing in her own space. Her face beamed as she offered her talent to the Baby King.
There were so many others; there is not enough room here and you don’t have the patience for me to mention them all. The stage filled with kids in the pageant; a few shy beyond showing their faces, others standing on the steps and waving to the crowd. One after another, they brought their gifts, some flawed, some nearly perfect. All were met with approval from the folks who listened and watched.
Piano duets and solos soared—or limped—through all the notes. Vocal offerings followed the same pattern. Joyous applause was the inevitable result.
Ah, but look! The red-headed young man mounts the steps to the stage and, brushing the shock of hair from his forehead, begins a difficult arrangement of Rise Up Shepherds and Follow at the piano.
The jazz-voiced chords are difficult to shape the hands to and the arpeggios from bass to treble and back again require exact positioning of the fingers. There are some starts and stops along the way, but it is all brought to a triumphant ending, and with a flourish, the last note rings out from the big concert grand piano.
With a joyful thumbs-up to the whistling and cheering crowd, the young man strides to the steps, a grin affixed, permanently it would seem, to his lips.
His friend would follow a few moments later, as he and his dad offered up their version of Little Drummer Boy. Dad, with his guitar, sang each verse from the stage, while his son, smiling broadly the entire time, marched up and down each aisle tapping his sticks on a small drum hanging by a cord around his neck. As the song neared an end, the young man mounted the steps and stood, still striking the drum, behind his dad.
It might have been just a little bit of laughter in his dad’s voice that caused his voice to break (but I think there was more to it) when the words “then He smiled at me” came from his mouth. The young man was beaming from ear to ear himself. He didn’t stop beaming as he bowed from the waist, not once, but three times to the thunderous applause.
The two young men are friends and peers. Both have Down syndrome but are ever anxious to learn and share new things. Their joy is contagious; our desire to encourage them in it, completely understandable.
Christmas is for children. I’ve heard it again and again. I have always—in the past, anyway—disagreed.
Well? Surely, it’s obvious. The Christmas story is for all the world. The Gospel of Grace is freely offered to all who come to the God-who-became-a-baby.
Adults. Children. Teenagers.
Christmas is for all. It’s more than presents and carols; more than candy canes and decorations; more than tales of Santa Claus and of talking snowmen. It is.
So much more.
But—and I can’t get past this—our God began His rescue mission as a baby in a manger. He was helpless and dependent. Our Savior.
God came as a child.
And, when the child became a man, He shocked His followers by telling them the only way they could come to His Father was as children. Helpless and dependent. Lost.
Lost.
I’ve forgotten something.
Oh yes. Her. I didn’t really. Forget her, I mean. It’s just that there is pain. And tears.
But there is joy too. So much.
She climbed the steps carrying a violin. Helped by an older man, she ambled over to the piano where the Lovely Lady who lives at my house waited. Leaning over, clearly confused, she handed the violin and bow to the beautiful redhead. A bit confused herself, the pianist talked to her for a moment to reassure her, then handed the violin back to her.
There were notes from the piano and a tone drawn timorously from the violin. Then, as the piano began to play the first notes of Joy to the World, the melody also flowed from the violin. It wasn’t perfect. It didn’t matter.
When the last notes faded down to nothingness, the crowd cheered and applauded louder than ever. I wiped the tears and smiled at the Lovely Lady as she returned to her seat beside me.
Christmas is for children.
The violinist has lived nine decades. She was recognized for many years in our fellowship as a wise woman, a source of advice and wisdom for many young mothers and middle-aged empty nesters. The love and respect she knew from all were well deserved. And she reciprocated those qualities many times over.
For the last several years, we’ve watched her change as an illness has robbed her of memory and wisdom. She still beams as I greet her, but my name is not on her lips anymore. That kind nature has not been lost, but there is no gleam of recognition in her eyes, nor personal bits of conversation when we speak. And therein lies my sadness.
Ah, but the joy is there, too. I heard it in the voices and applause when she finished playing. I feel it when I realize that even in this time of the dear saint’s life, a second childhood if you will, she knows her God and Savior.
Her husband, constantly at her side, related that as my brass group played the instrumental prelude earlier in the evening, she sang every carol. It wasn’t just humming; she sang the words and the tunes.
She does. She still knows her Savior and He knows His dear child.
Christmas is for children. Old and young.
It’s for the Infant, weak and helpless, who was laid in a manger all those years ago.
It’s for the little girl, dancing, carefree, on the stage beside her sisters.
It’s for the young men, adult in age but children in spirit, who will need the care of others their whole life, but who will always have more to give than they ever take.
It’s for folks like you and like me, sometimes arrogant in our certainty, but more often, childlike, coming before a God who knows us. He knows us and still, He loves us.
It’s for the old ones, who have lost the ability to remember and to function as they once did. The Creator of all that is has never forgotten them. Ever.
He won’t forget us either, as we come weak, helpless, and lost.
He became like us, that we might become, one day, like Him.
Christmas is for children.
I pray I’ll be one all my days.
I pray the same for you.
For unto us a Child is born; unto us a Son is given… (Isaiah 9:6a, NKJV)
But Jesus said, “Let the children come to me. Don’t stop them! For the Kingdom of Heaven belongs to those who are like these children.”
(Matthew 19:14, NLT)
It’s not my favorite chore. But then, none of them is. I’d just as soon take a long walk with the Lovely Lady, or sit and nap in my easy chair. Still, time spent outside with the two black labs is never dull.
One friend reminds me that this is hero’s work, cleaning up after the family pets. His little girl says it is, so it must be true.
Hero’s work. Yeah, right.
Well, someone’s got to do it. I had made my rounds and was just finishing up on this beautiful early March afternoon when I heard it. The traffic noises had dwindled down to nothing and the dogs were off dozing in the sun, so there were no other distractions besides the cardinals and the finches.
I stood for a moment and listened. The tall pear tree above my head was buzzing. It’s not normal for trees to buzz, I know. Trees creak. They howl as the wind blows past their branches. Once in a while, they crash down as the storms toss and tear at them.
Trees don’t buzz.
But this one was. The ancient tree, most of it past the age when it will ever bear any edible fruit, already is covered — absolutely covered — with beautiful white blossoms. Even though the subfreezing nights will return again before the calendar says spring is really here, today there are buds everywhere.
The bees don’t know any better. They are swarming the blossoms, virtually swimming in pollen, some of which they will share with other trees, and some of which they will selfishly keep for their own purposes.
It’s a fair trade.
image by George Schober from PIxabay
Can I tell you something? I just stood and listened to the bees today with joy in my soul.
Why joy, you wonder? Well yes. It could be that I love spring, while I do not love the season which precedes it. That could have something to do with it. But the real reason, at the heart of things, is Winnie.
You know. Pooh.
Winnie-the-Pooh.
That buzzing-noise means something. You don’t get a buzzing-noise like that, just buzzing and buzzing, without its meaning something. If there’s a buzzing-noise, somebody’s making a buzzing-noise, and the only reason for making a buzzing-noise that I know of is because you’re a bee.
(from Winnie the Pooh, by A. A. Milne)
Child-like joy.
The reminder of kinder, quieter days — when one stood under trees to listen to bees, or gazed over fences at the cattle on the other side, or skipped rocks across ponds just for the pure delight of it.
It has been a hard winter. Oh, I’m not talking about the weather. By that standard, the winter has been mild.
But, I will attest that winter has gripped my heart in its cold, gray grasp for too many months. The deaths of family members and illnesses that wouldn’t relent for anything have frozen me in place for much too long.
The bees tell me the world is turning to a new spring. My walk this afternoon did too, in a different sense.
I happened past the school nearby as the students were released for the day. Striding along the sidewalks, I was soon shoulder-to-shoulder with several of the rowdy eleven and twelve-year-olds. Talking with and shoving each other as they headed home, they moved a bit slower than this sixty-something-year-old man.
Until I tried to pass them.
One boy had squeezed through a gap between two others as he tried to catch up with his friends, so I attempted to do the same, saying, “I’ll just slide between you, too.”
“Oh, no you won’t!” one of them retorted.
The boys didn’t really even look at me as I moved between them, but they both sped up immediately, matching my pace. Side-by-side for the rest of the way through the housing complex and past the Boys and Girls Club, we walk-raced.
I was ahead for a second or two, and then one or both of them would push past me, laughing and talking smack all the while. We reached the point at which we would part company at about the same time, but I conceded the race to them.
The smaller boy left me with these words of wisdom:
“Yeah. I think we really blew you away.”
Joy. Spring is coming. It is.
Old men get older. Young folks blow them away, in so many ways. And that’s as it should be.
Returning home a little later, I invited the Lovely Lady to come stand under the pear tree with me. I wonder if the neighbors were laughing at us. It doesn’t matter. We stood there with smiles on our faces as we listened to the sound of spring approaching.
After supper, I was sitting wrapped in thought when I heard a message come in on my phone. A young man I’ve known since he was three or four had sent a note to thank me for things I don’t remember doing. He talked of example and friendship and teaching, mentioning attributes I wouldn’t have assigned to myself. As I read, I again felt new life being breathed into my spirit.
Some days, when we least expect it, joy explodes again and again, painting the backdrops in greens, yellows, and bright blues.
For a moment, I thought I heard buzzing again. Spring is about new life, blossoming fresh and clean.
It seems I always feel the need to find a spiritual application to these little experiences I write about. There is always something to learn.
God is faithful to keep His promises. Spring will always come.
But, you already know that.
The joy of His extras, though — That’s just fuel enough to get us through the cold, gray days still to come.
Time to store up some honey.
Or, something even sweeter.
Pleasant words are like a honeycomb, sweet to the soul and healing to the bones. (Proverbs 16:24, NET Bible)
The year‘s at the spring, And day‘s at the morn; Morning‘s at seven; The hill-side‘s dew-pearl’d; The lark‘s on the wing; The snail‘s on the thorn; God‘s in His heaven — All‘s right with the world!
(from Pippa’s Song, by Robert Browning)
The pallet of pavers sits right outside my office window. It is a reminder of joy.
Hmmm. I suppose that’s not something you hear every day.
How could a stack of red brick-like pavers symbolize joy?
That, I suppose, would depend on your perspective. It’s not really the pavers themselves that turn my thoughts to joy, but merely my recent experience with them. It’s possible by the time I’ve done the labor necessary to utilize the rectangular chunks of concrete, I may have a completely different frame of reference for them.
Life is like that. Today, joy. Tomorrow, toil. After that, who knows? Joy again. Or, pain. Perhaps, even sadness.
But, what about the pavers?
And, the joy?
Not my joy—well, not exclusively mine—but I was there to get a taste of it.
Perhaps, I should explain.
A friend, who lives next door to my grandchildren (yes, to my daughter and her husband too, if it comes to that), offered to sell me the pavers a couple of weeks ago, so we made a deal. I would need to pick them up myself, no small feat, since there were more than three hundred of the heavy little bricks.
By myself didn’t sound like such a good idea.
I recruited my grandchildren to help me load and count them. Since they live next door to the fellow with the pavers. And, since there are four of them and only one of me. You know—by myself.
So it was that on a recent afternoon we found ourselves in the mid-July heat counting and stacking. Ninety-five degrees Fahrenheit sounded less furnace-like when I was in my air-conditioned living room than it did at the tailgate of that pickup truck.
The sun beat down and the sweat poured from our faces and various other locales. Still, there was nothing but good-natured teasing and joyful banter from the kids and their mom. Black widow spiders and crickets galore did nothing to change the mindset.
Perhaps it was the hundred-dollar bill I offered beforehand that set the mood. No, it couldn’t have been that; there was no such offer.
Maybe, it was the ice cream and pizza I had promised them. Again, no. All I promised them was the chance to help an old man move heavy, dirty pavers from one place to another, all while keeping track of how many they had each moved.
They worked with joy! With no promise of any payment whatsoever, they labored in the blasting sun for over an hour. Joyfully. And then, they offered to come to my house and help me unload every single one of the despicable things.
I don’t understand it. Whatever happened to the carrot or the stick? Shouldn’t they have been either offered a reward for their work, or conversely, a punishment should they refuse to comply? Isn’t that how children learn?
Joy. Simply in achieving a task and spending time with people they love. This is a mystery to me. Really. A mystery.
Perhaps we can work this out.
I am a follower of Christ, also known by the title Christian. We Christians talk a lot about joy, sometimes scolding folks who are unfortunate enough to call it happiness instead of by its proper title. I wonder if that’s the right way to go about demystifying joy.
Possibly not.
Still. What about this thing called joy?
Maybe we could start with, since I am a Christ-follower, well—Christ. You know—the author (the initiator) and editor (perfecter) of our faith. Come to think of it, there’s a passage that says just that. And here’s a surprise; the verse talks about joy, too.
We look to Him, the author and the finisher of our faith, who, for nothing more than the joy of completing the thing, gave His life on the cross, discounting the shame, and sat down beside God in heaven, at the right hand of His throne. (Hebrews 12:2 ~ my paraphrase)
Our Savior, the One who set us on the road of our faith and who will bring it all to completion, came for the joy of doing just that!
I’ve heard it suggested that the joy which was set before Him was being able to sit down beside His Father in Heaven. But He already had that before He came. If that was the joy talked about here, He needn’t have come at all (Philippians 2:5-8)
Yes, He was elevated to that position again, but He wasn’t working for that as a reward. Simply for the joy of accomplishing the task before Him, He came in love for the whole world.
I don’t need to tell you His work conditions weren’t the easiest. Early in life, His parents had to flee their homeland to find safety for Him. As an adult, His people rejected Him. The religious leaders hated Him, persecuting Him and His followers endlessly. He had no place to sleep. He was hungry. He knew the sorrow of losing loved ones. And finally, one dark day, the humans He came to save killed Him.
Joy? It’s still a mystery to me.
And yet, there is something…
Oh, yes! The children. My grandchildren. They did that. For the joy right in front of them, they endured.
And, there it is.
He said to them, unless you become like this little child, you’ll not see heaven. (Matthew 18:3 ~ my paraphrase)
As a little child, with joy and humility, we are to serve. In heat, sweating and thirsty. In cold and rain and floods and sickness and poverty and turmoil and…
He calls us to joy. Always.
Let this mind be in you, which was also in Christ…
Joy. In the journey.
And, while we move the bricks.
A joyful heart is the inevitable result of a heart burning with love.
(Mother Teresa)
I pray that God, the source of hope, will fill you completely with joy and peace because you trust in him. Then you will overflow with confident hope through the power of the Holy Spirit.
(Romans 15:13, NLT)
It’s blackberry season. Where I live, anyway, it’s blackberry season. Maybe it is where you live, too.
The experts in such matters tell us blackberries are not actually berries but are fruit. Nobody really cares.
When one tastes the sweet, slightly tart fruits made up of seeds and juicy ovules, the immediate impulse has nothing to do with discussing their nomenclature or species, but only with devouring as many as possible.
Image by siala from Pixabay
However, I do have a problem with blackberries. They say the best ones you’ll eat are the ones you pick yourself. They say. And, that’s why I’m not happy today.
Did you know the word bramble is used specifically to describe blackberries? You know what a bramble is, don’t you? It’s an impenetrable thicket.
Yeah. Impenetrable.
There’s a reason they use the terms bramble and impenetrable when talking about blackberries. Blackberries have thorns. Oh, those experts (the same ones who tell you it’s not really a berry) will tell you they’re not really thorns but are prickles. Never mind that those prickles can cut through even denim material with ease. They’re thorns.
Thorns. Berries.
Berries. Thorns.
Thorns. That’s what I see.
I know the berries are there. I know they’re good. I’ve tasted them. I’ve poured them like candy over my ice cream. I’ve eaten the cobbler and the pie.
Pure delight.
But I’ve sucked the blood from the cuts on my hand, too.
Pain.
I see thorns.
I don’t think I’ll pick blackberries today.
So, here I stand in the middle of the briar patch—you know, that’s what a bramble is, don’t you? Here I stand in the middle of the briar patch, looking at the thorns, and I’m hungry. Oh sure, there are blackberries all around, but oh—the thorns!
You’re laughing at me again, aren’t you? Here I stand, all dejected, and you’re laughing at me. Or, perhaps not.
Perhaps, the thorns have caught your attention, as well. You’ve been pricked more than a few times. The delectable blackberries you knew were yours for the picking surround you, but all you see are the hateful thorns.
May I say two words? Just two?
Br’er Rabbit.
Yes, you read that right. Br’er Rabbit. That long-eared scoundrel from the pages of Uncle Remus. Or, if you prefer, from the frames of Disney’s Song of the South.
Br’er Rabbit. Born and bred in the briar patch.
Me, too. Br’er Paul. Born and bred. In the briar patch.
Perhaps, you too.
Our old friend, Job, it was who said the words: Every human born of a woman lives a short life, and even that will be full of trouble. (Job 14:1 ~ my paraphrase)
If that’s not enough, our Savior said it this way: While you walk around this spinning ball of dirt and water, you will have problems. Don’t let it get you down; I have already contended with the thorns and come out on top. (John 16:33 ~ my paraphrase)
We were all, every one of us, born and bred in the briar patch. There are no exceptions. For all of us, there are successes and failures, joys and sorrows, mountaintops and valleys.
We pick the delicious fruit. We lick our wounds.
We rejoice. We weep.
We give thanks to a good and generous God, as we walk toward our destination.
And, when we stumble in the brambles and the dark of night, we remember the light He promised would light our way. Again and again, we test its power against the darkness. Again and again, there is no contest.
Your words are a lamp to walk by, a bright light to illuminate the path ahead. (Psalm 119:105 ~ my paraphrase)
Together, we walk. Through the briar patch.
Eating the fruit along the way.
And, it’s good. In spite of the thorns, it’s good.
Even when I walk through the darkest valley, I will not be afraid, for you are close beside me. Your rod and your staff protect and comfort me.
(Psalm 23:4 ~ NLT)
From this nettle, danger, we pluck this flower, safety.
(from Henry IV ~ William Shakespeare)
Not to seem like a Scrooge, but something’s bugging me. Really.
In less than a week, it will all be over again for a year. Parties. Pageants. Concerts. Shopping. All done.
The post-holiday depression will soon have many folks in its grip. It’s a real thing. You could look it up. Or, Google it. Whatever. We get used to the people, the good cheer, the busy-ness. And then, just like that, life has us again. It’s grip, tenacious and oppressive, threatens to choke the joy from our daily journey.
We crave the extraordinary, the fresh, the exciting. Life after Christmas seems to offer less.
Less.
I hear the voice in my head. I have written of it before. Most readers will have heard it themselves, at one time or another.
“Sure, Charlie Brown, I can tell you what Christmas is all about.”
Linus, his ever-present blanket dragging the floor behind him, is walking to center-stage and calling out, “Lights, please.”
Word for word, he quotes Luke’s version of the angel’s announcement to the shepherds. (Luke 2:8-14) Ending with on earth peace, goodwill to man, he retrieves his blanket (tossed aside during his monologue) and exits, stage left.
Spectacular!
Angels! Lights! Music!
That’s what I’m talking about!
Wait. It is what I’m talking about, isn’t it?
Perhaps we should move on a bit. I’m not absolutely sure Linus had enough time in his moment under the lights to give us the whole picture.
You see, the shepherds got together and actually went to see the thing themselves. This thing. That’s what they called it. This thing. It’s all there in the verses that follow. (Luke 2:15-20)
The excitement they felt as they went was palpable; they had to see with their own eyes what had been described to them in such an extraordinary fashion. I would too, after a display such as that in the heavens overhead.
They got to the place they had been directed to and found—a baby. A normal newborn baby with an exhausted mother and her worried husband-to-be.
It is what they were told to look for, but the Savior of the world? This baby, squalling and wrinkled, red from the trauma of childbirth, the long-awaited Messiah?
But, it was exactly what the angel had described—exactly as they had been told. They went on their way rejoicing.
But, I want to know the rest of the story.
The next day, did they awake and wonder about this whole thing? The Savior thing? The Messiah thing?
What did they do the day after that? And, the day after that?
Two or three years later, when the child’s parents had to flee with Him to Egypt, did they hear about it and wonder? Twelve years later, were they still paying attention at Passover when the boy taught the Rabbis in the temple? Did one of them taste the wine that had been water in Cana, or see the boats foundering under the weight of the fish in the Sea of Galilea?
Did they ever again feel the awe and joy in their lifetimes? Ever?
Or, did they feel the let-down of disappointment, of expectations unmet? They had felt the surge of emotion, of certainty that better things were to come. Did they live out their days in disillusionment and doubt?
And again, perhaps I’m focusing on the wrong thing. I tend to do that, you know. The red-headed lady who raised me could have told you that.
You just can’t see the forest for the trees, can you?
Details get in the way; peripherals seem to jump into the spotlight. It’s what we do with our celebration, isn’t it? Every year.
Trees. When the forest is spread out before us in plain sight.
We look for the spectacular, the incredible. He wants us to see the thing. This thing.
The spectacular thing? He came as a baby. Not a king. Not a conquering hero. He came as a crying, stinking, weak baby.
The incredible thing? He came for us. You. Me.
Did I say life after Christmas offers less? I did, didn’t I? That’s not what I meant to say. Without Christmas, the coming of a Savior—the thing the shepherds trooped to Bethlehem to see—there is no life. Well, not real life, the kind that matters in the end—in eternity.
The tidings of great joy had nothing to do with the frightening messengers. It had nothing to do with the star-gazing magi who would wander into the narrative later. It certainly has nothing to do with our parties and tinsel and gaudy lights today.
This thing is a baby lying in a manger—our Great God come down to live, and walk, and teach us. Not in a flash of light and joyful celebration, this thing would take another thirty-three years to be fulfilled. And still, there would be no flash of light. In fact, it would become dark at midday as He died for us.
I’m trying to look for the thing this year. Not presents. Not music. Not joyous fellowship.
This thing.
Savior. King. Hero.
Baby sent from God.
Once in our world, a stable had something in it that was bigger than our world. (C.S. Lewis ~ English author/theologian ~ 1898-1963)
And the angel said unto them, “Fear not: for, behold, I bring you good tidings of great joy, which shall be to all people. For unto you is born this day in the city of David a Saviour, which is Christ the Lord.”
(Luke 2:10,11 ~ KJV)
Waiting. It’s not my strongest ability. It’s not even close to the top ten.
You’d think it should be.
For most of us, it is one of the activities in which we have the most experience. Hours. And hours. Waiting.
She said she needed to go see the Social Security folks. And, would I go with her? I agreed, so earlier this week, we set out for our destination.
We expected a really long wait. The full waiting room (don’t you just love that name?) didn’t allay our fears in any way. Rows and rows of folks. All waiting.
Everyone has been there. No, not necessarily at the Social Security office. I mean waiting. We’ve all been there. At the doctor’s. The hospital. The courthouse. The DMV.
I love how the waiting rooms are full of lively conversations, laughter, and joy. Oh, wait. They’re not, are they?
Silence. Dread. Expectation of failure. These are the emotions of the waiting room.
I sat, watching (in silence) the same people walk one by one out the door of the government office the other day. Not one was crying. Most were even smiling.
Still, the faces of those waiting were grim, with a host of feelings written in their eyes, on their mouths. Impatience. Disgust. Worry.
My companion and I sat, mostly in silence as well, our own emotions written to be read by other observers, I’m sure. We sat and awaited the adventure before us—the adventure of the interview.
Yes. I did say that. Adventure. What is to come. Anticipation.
They do come from the same place, you know—adventure & Advent.
The time before, when we wait. Waiting, in hope or in dread.
This time of year is tricky. With the rest of the world, we await the coming joyous event.
I look around me and I see a lot of emotions. Somehow, folks don’t all seem joyous. Many are downright sad. Others seem disillusioned, almost bitter.
Somehow, even the folks who have been all happy-clappy through this season in years past seem a bit more sober. Introspective, even.
I wonder.
Maybe I was the happy-clappy one. The one who couldn’t see through my own giddy expectation to notice others weren’t enjoying the waiting. Perhaps I, who awaited the coming day with wonder, couldn’t see that others just sat wondering when it would all be over.
I see them now.
Sometimes, I am them.
We drove along this evening, the Lovely Lady and I. It seemed they filled my vision, the Christmas lights spelling out the word HOPE in foot-high letters on the fence.
She didn’t see them. I motioned in the general direction and still, she didn’t see them. Frustrated, I stabbed my finger straight at them and her eyes followed it across the field ahead.
Oh! Now I see it!
I intended to take a photograph later, but I forgot. It was well past midnight again when I wandered over that way. This time I couldn’t see the letters. Pulling my light jacket tight against the frigid north wind, I walked right up to the fence, a quarter of a mile away. Then I saw that they were still there, just not lit up. In the middle of the cold, dark night, they were still there. Even though I couldn’t see them.
The letters are still there. They’ll shine again tomorrow.
They will.
HOPE.
In letters that reached to the sky, He wrote it. Some don’t see. Some can’t see. Not without help.
While we’re waiting, perhaps we could talk amongst ourselves. It’s time to point to hope. To talk about hope. To live in hope.
We do. We live in hope. We live there.
The world is waiting in the dark night. (Isaiah 9:2)
Waiting for hope.
Hope will shine bright.
It’s time to point the way. Time to speak up in this waiting room. Time to walk out in joy and wonder.
While the world waits.
Hope will shine.
Hope looks forward to the Glory to come; in the weary interval of waiting, the Spirit supports our poor hearts and keeps grace alive within us. (A.W. Pink ~ 1886-1952 ~ English theologian)
