On the mezzanine above my shop, I sit waiting for words. My head is inches below the corrugated metal roof—all that stands between me, the howling wind, and the driving rain tonight.
For a few moments earlier this evening, I ventured out into the weather. With an umbrella above my head, I took care of a necessary task before rushing back inside. My socks are still wet from the torrent that overflowed my shoes as I crossed the driveway. My arms still feel the pull of the umbrella as the updraft threatened to lift it (and possibly me), Mary Poppins-like into the atmosphere.
I’m happy to be where I’m safe. And, where I’m warm. The thing is, I have no guarantee of either. None of us do.
This mezzanine below me is not as sturdy as I’d like. Oh, I’m sure the structure would be up to the minimum building standards, but when I jump up and down, the floor bounces. The light fixtures hanging below me rattle and jingle. Something tells me perhaps I shouldn’t jump up and down.
I suppose it’s like the fellow who complained to his doctor of the pain in his finger. When the doctor asked when the finger hurt, the fellow bent the finger backward and said, “When I do that.”
The doctor replied, “Well, don’t do that.”
I’ll stop jumping up and down.
Still, I don’t feel quite safe up here sometimes, between the floor that bounces and the ceiling with pounding rain and howling winds assailing it from above. I wonder if I should go downstairs to the solid concrete floor until the storm has blown itself out.
Between.
It’s not all that comfortable a place to be. Sometimes, it doesn’t feel all that safe a place, either. And yet, it’s where we spend most of our lives.
This week, the one between our annual celebration of the birth of Jesus and the beginning of the new calendar year always seems like between to me. The year is effectively over and yet, there is a week of days to live while we wait. For the new year, we wait.
Between.
I’ve spent some extremely uncomfortable days at the end of a year or two. Three years ago this week, my siblings and I were stuck between the last century and the future as we said goodbye to our childhood home. Two years ago, I waited with trepidation and even a little anger for the music store the Lovely Lady and I had poured our hearts into for all of our married lives to wind down to an untimely end.
Between isn’t comfortable.
Still, it is where we live if we are followers of Christ.
What we once thought secure—what we once deemed prudent—has been revealed to be the shakiest of structures imaginable. Leaving behind that old path to certain destruction, we have struck out, across bridges of faith and along avenues of wisdom. Still, we have not yet arrived in our destination.
Leaving behind that old path to certain destruction, we have struck out, across bridges of faith and along avenues of wisdom. Share on XBetween, we venture, carried on the wings of eagles and, curiously, sheltered under them, as well. (Psalm 91: 1-4)
On His path, we find safety; in His shelter, rest.
Between.
Looking back, there is nothing to convince us to return, no matter how solid—how safe—it appears.
Our home is up ahead. Up. Ahead.
From here, we look up there—up ahead—and know we are safe in His hands. Safe, on the way to safety.
Let the wind howl and the rain blow!
We’re not home yet, but you can almost see the light shining out the windows from here.
This is the land I have been looking for all my life, though I never knew it till now…Come further up, come further in!
(from The Last Battle ~ C.S. Lewis ~ English author ~ 1898-1963)
I want to live above the world,
Though Satan’s darts at me are hurled;
For faith has caught the joyful sound,
The song of saints on higher ground.
I want to scale the utmost height
And catch a gleam of glory bright;
But still I’ll pray till heav’n I’ve found,
“Lord, plant my feet on higher ground.”
(from Higher Ground ~ Johnson Oatman, Jr. ~ American preacher/songwriter ~ 1856-1922)
© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2018. All Rights Reserved.
