Old Tales

“I wonder what sort of tale we’ve fallen into?” 

These words of Samwise Gamgee have been roaming around my head these past 24 hours. 

Sam asks this question because he, as Sam does so well, is hoping to encourage Frodo that their journey filled with hardships is going to be worth it.  Where just like the heroes of the old adventure tales, in the end the difficulty would make sense because they would see the tale in its entirety. 

Today, I ask Sam’s question.  But, I confess, not with his optimism. 

What sort of tale, indeed. 

I feel like everywhere I turn right now, I see people struggling with deep, suffocating loss.  With stuff that really makes no sense, plot twists in this tale that seem completely misplaced.  My heart feels weary just in the watching, in the bearing of others’ burdens.  What must it be like to be one closest to this loss?  To be centered in these tales?  I can’t imagine.  The sidelines hurts bad enough. 

Today, I feel weary from it. 

I’ve caught that word tale somewhere else lately, too.  It’s woven into an Andrew Peterson song that has been on repeat in my brain.  In his characteristically clever way, Peterson paints the picture of God catching the tears of us broken people, and one day allowing us to look back on those tears – which we will see as old tales. 

But all day today, I've been wondering how some of these tears could ever be known as old tales.  Old tales are stories worth repeating.  Old tales are stories that inspire.  Old tales are stories that we connect with, long for, love. 

That doesn’t sound like these tears. 

Oh, but I must know, I must cling to the fact that these tales are not over.   The Author has not reached a plot twist He didn’t see coming.  He is still writing the tale.  And when needed, He sets aside His pen to catch the tears of the broken. 

And He whispers hope.  He gives warm assurance of His presence.  He gently reminds that He is not done with this tale. 

Elizabeth Elliot once wrote this: “Of one thing I am perfectly sure: God’s story never ends with ashes.”

I claim that tonight for the hurting.  This tale you’ve fallen into?  It might look like a pit of ashes right now, but He’s not done.  It doesn’t end here. 

He’s not finished.  And when He will be, it will be a tale marked by His faithfulness.  A tale that shows His sweet grace. 

What a tale, indeed. 

For all the Christys

This summer, I’ve been spending some time reading books, watching movies, and visiting sites that have connection to American history.  I’m teaching a history class this fall and am trying to  use this time to get a bit into a historical mindset.  I have a renewed appreciation for the signer of the Declaration of Independence, a greater respect for our country’s first leaders, a rediscovered gratitude for the independence we have as a nation. 

But then I wonder: how much has that American independent spirit permeated the way I live out my faith? If I’m honest, I know that it has affected me far more than I would like to admit.  I’d rather be my own person, be authentic, than blend in with the group of believers beside me.  I can quickly fall prey to the lie that I can do it just fine on my own. 

But I know I can’t.

Did Jesus teach individuality?  Not really.  He told us to follow.  He modeled what it was like to live close to people. 

A few months ago, some of us from church got together for a game night.  It was a fun evening with lots of snacks to eat and many laughs to share.  I needed to laugh.  I had been wrestling through some things of my own the week prior to this.  I was depressed about my station in life – playing pity party for all the difficulties of being a single woman in 2014.  I needed to step away from that and just have fun.

A rowdy Dutch Blitz game broke out, and being a sucker for this sort of competition, I had to join.  There was lots of slamming cards on the table, yelling at opponents, and high-fiving teammates.  We were having a high old time.

And then I had this mini-epiphany.  I looked across the table at Christy, an 18-year old fine young lady who has been in my English classes for the past three years.  I like her.  A lot.  And suddenly the thought hit me: I need to be faithful in walking with Christ through this season of singleness because of Christy.  Because Christy is watching me.  Because Christy is only one of many young girls who are watching.  

Because many other women of faith have done it for me, are doing it for me.  Leaving an example, that is.  Being brave enough to live life close to others.  Showing me what it looks like to follow Christ through different stages of life.

Sometimes, that means throwing off the American spirit of independence and becoming more Biblically interdependent.  I want to do that.  For all the Christys out there.  

One Foggy Day

I woke up to fog this morning.

I groaned a bit when I looked out the window.  See, today was my personal retreat day.  Yes, I am fortunate enough to work for an organization that sees the value of solitude and gives each teacher one day off to commit to it.  And I was going to climb a mountain.  The skies were supossed to be blue and warm breezes were going to sweep across my sun-kissed face as I gazed out over the landscape and marveled at how much everything, both externally and internally, was perfectly in place.  Was peaceful. 

But the fog ruined my plan. 

Ironically, I've been facing some things that have me feeling conflicted, confused, torn.  I've often described this feeling in my journal as a fog.  I wish it would go away.  And sometimes, it does, and a gentle peace replaces it.  But then, it returns. 

This morning, I decide against the mountain climb and choose to hike the river trail instead.  All the way up, I drive in and out of fog.  I round a corner and come face-to-face with a blast of foggy white.  A few bends later, it vanishes.  The road dips, swells, and again I find myself amongst the dense white.  This continues the whole way.  In-and-out.  Round-and-round.  Up-and-down.

I moan because it feels so familiar.  So much like my life right now.  Where I find peace and clarity one day and uncertainty the next.  This in-and-out stuff has been confusing to me.  I feel conflicted--how can I be sure that I'm following the path God has brought about for me when it often feels so...foggy?

And then the thought begins to form: Fog requires faith.

For me to stop my car on a foggy bend in the road would not only be dangerous for me but would also pose a huge hazard for others.  Worse yet, what if I would react to the fog by whipping my car around and racing in the opposite direction?  Hazardous and stupid.  The best thing I can do is slow down, open my eyes wide, follow the yellow line, and keep moving.  Keep traveling the road God has led me on.

Because at some point, around some curve, the fog will break.    Afterall, the road is the same, it's simply the atmosphere that has changed. 

But it takes faith to remember that and continue in courage.  It takes faith to remember that this is the same road that seemed so clear and peaceful around the last bend.  It takes faith to remember that the One who cleared the skies is also navigating the fog with me.

So, in my car, I forge on.  I make it to my destination -- the river, a place low enough to escape the fog.

And in turn, in my life, I press on.  Rather than resist the fog, I choose to let God use it to cultivate the faith it requires.

And I pray that when the fog does lift, that the blue skies will shine down on a heart that has learned a little more of what it means to follow.