Smoke and Wonder

Tonight the neighbor across the street built a fire.  While I never saw as much as a flicker of flame, it mesmerized me. 

A fall evening is one of my favorites.  Being at home for an evening also strikes my fancy (maybe because it doesn’t happen so often).  When I get both (fall evening and night at home), it’s a treasured thing.  Tonight, I got both. 

To enjoy this wonder, I went on a stroll through the neighborhood.  That’s when I saw the fire.  Or, kinda saw the fire.  As I crested the small hill near our place, I literally stopped stock-still in my shoes.  Across the street was a glimpse of glory.  Smoke from the neighbor’s fire was floating into the nearby pasture and colliding with the low-lying afternoon sun that was streaming through the trees.  This collision created a magical land of color-tinted mist.  It was breathtaking.  It truly was.  The outline of trees, the long fence-line, the silhouette of the house and barn – everything added to this picture of pure wonder.

I didn’t want to miss the view, so I decided to mow the lawn so I could enjoy it a little longer.

And I thought about how perspective changes things.  Being too close to smoke burns the eyes like Dixie.  But standing back, it creates something that stops me in my tracks.  Fire destroys; really, it signifies death, but from a distance, it can create a masterpiece of a show. 

And I thought about fires in life.  I thought of sorrow, fear, poverty, death, loneliness, sickness, pain, hurt, rejection, fractured relationships – the list could go on and on.  Up close, the fire burns and burns and seems to kill and destroy.  But what if the smoke is creating a bit of what I saw tonight?  What if it’s a showcase of hope to the passerby? 

I want that to be true of my fires. 

And then I thought of all the good things about fire.  About how one of my favorite things on earth is a circle of chairs filled with people I love around a blazing fire.  A time of friendship, communion, joy, relationship.  Can the smoke from my relationships, my joys, my mountaintops also create a thing of beauty that directs those around it to the Maker of this beauty?

I want that, too.  In joy and in pain, in sickness and in health (sounds like marriage vows), may the smoke from the fires of my life be carried on the wind and collide with His light to create beauty. 

Perspective changes my feelings about fire.  

Fare Thee Well

Sometimes cows have it so nice. 

Like when they want to swat away unwelcome flies that hover, they use their handy tails. 

Today, I wish I had a tail, and that with one mighty swing, I could send an unwelcome guest packing. 

It’s the age old friend and foe: change. 

For months now, I’ve smelled it brewing.  Its whisper has been in the air, announcing its arrival.  And today, it came. 

I don’t do change well.  I am emotional and I attach easily.  Two things that do not mix well with “the big c word.”

I am blessed enough to have a life filled with fine people.  People who make my life rich.  And good.  And hard sometimes.  And right now, it seems as if so many of them are in a time of transition, of change.  And it’s hard for me to let go. 

I’m grateful to be an employee at a place that is so much more than just a job.  One thing that makes it that way is the people I work with.  They have become my companions, my comrades.  We invest together.  Laugh together.  Play together.  Conflict together.    It’s a lot of together. 

And today, the together part changed.  We send a few people on to other horizons next year; today was a last day of what we know.  We laughed at corny old jokes, retold the same favorite stories, and made goals of what we’ll do next.  And suddenly, it was time to say goodbye.  And nobody knew how.

I just wished for a tail.  I want to swat this all away. 

Oh, but I can’t. 

Other changes loom.  Key people in my life moving on.  Some changes are behind me, but still sting.  Five months ago, I bid farewell to my roommate of three and a half years, and I did not fare so well through it all. 

We all face it, over and over, again and again.  Looking back over the past ten years of my life, it is riddled with it.  Adios, farewell, so long, adieu.  And with every farewell to every chapter, it feels like I leave behind people who I care about.  People I can’t do together with anymore. 

Tonight, I listened to Ellie Holcomb drone out the words of Scripture . . . Comfort one another with these words, we shall always be with the Lord . . . and this promise hit me in a new way.  I remember moving home from Thailand, leaving people of my heart an ocean away, when the idea of fully realizing God’s presence and being together with friends and sages from the ages became the sweetest thought to me.  I think I learned to long for heaven more over that change.  But tonight, being reminded of that promise opened my eyes to another Truth – as followers of Christ, we can enjoy this together that we love so well even before the sweet-by-and-by.  We follow the same Jesus.  It keeps us together from afar.  We sit at the feet of the same Lord.  Some more together.  There is a common denominator here – it’s Him. 

Paul the Apostle said it so well: “He is before all things, and in Him all things hold together.” 

Maybe one of those all-things he’s talking about is the family of God.  I like that.  A lot. 

So, I may moan and groan when change comes around, but I guess I don’t need a tail to swat it away.  Because I serve a God who doesn’t need to keep His whole family in the same room to keep them together.  He doesn’t even need to have us all on the same continent. 

That thought, I can fare well with. 

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. 

Putting an IS between an R and a K

I inch my way across the platform which stands 10 meters above the surface of the water, my toes feeling the edge.  I look down, inhaling.  Deeply.  I pause, wondering if the risk is too great.  I muster up every ounce of courage within and take one small step that sends me spiraling downward, downward, downward into the clear blue.  I come up for air, water bubbling around me.  I shake my head to rid myself of the adrenaline and let out a call reminiscent of an Indian victory chant.  I feel untouchable, for I have conquered the jump. 

That was twelve years ago.  When a dare was something to be taken, when a risk greatly raised excitement levels.  When I longed to forge boldly into the unknown, just to see what could be found. 

While I still love a great adrenaline rush, I am not quite the risk-taker I once was.  Caution has replaced some of the daring within me, responsibility sometimes overrides risk. 

But I never want to live my life void of risk. 

I heard Ravi Zacharias throw out a closing quote in one of his sermons this summer that has been mulling around in my head since I heard it. He was speaking to a group of young adults and strongly encouraging (a stronger verb would work better, but I can’t think of one) them to put “all of their eggs in one basket” when it comes to who you trust, the Savior of the world, and how you live out your life with those around you.  His final words were those that stuck with me:  “The greatest of human gifts are set to work only when people are prepared to risk everything.” 

So risking brings about the things that are valuable, huh?  Think about what you consider valuable.  Was getting that thing of great value a risk? Is keeping it a risk?  I think of the parable of the pearl of great price, or the man who finds a field, or even the risk the father took on the prodigal son.  As I ponder what I count valuable, I find that each item certainly holds its own risk. 

And then I think of this: Christ risked it all for the plan of redemption. 

So, could we say that we are being like Christ when we take risks? 

I’m not talking about high dives and bungee jumping here (although some could argue that there’s something there, who knows?), but what about taking a financial risk to help another in need?  Or risking your reputation to follow a seemingly odd dream that God placed in your heart.  Or risking hurt by allowing hope to stay alive in an unmet desire.  Or, what I think can be the hardest of all, risking rejection and pain by opening your heart in relationship with those around you. 

You name it, if it is valuable, it is risky. 

A few months ago I planned to take my crew of 8^th and 9^th graders to Tallulah Gorge State Park.  We signed our lives away on these scary little yellow slips that acknowledged that we knew the risks of hiking on a gorge floor.  Every motherly instinct within me flew to the surface as I saw the rocky path that zig-zagged across raging waters.  I was ready to turn the whole crew around; it looked way too risky.  But with promises of help from the dads that were on the trip and 15 pleading sets of eyes, we went on.  We helped each other over slippery rocks, we scrambled up rock ledges, and we held tightly to outstretched hands that helped us stay on the tiny path right beside the river. 

And we had So. Much. Fun. 

Was it safe?  Not always.  Was it risky?  Certainly, (but so is driving your car).  Was it fun?  Absolutely.   Will we soon forget it?  Not a chance. 

So where in my life might God be asking me to take a risk?  Where might He be asking you to risk it all? 

I’m pretty sure we’d be better for answering that call. 

Adolescents vs. Egg Shells

Yesterday I did something extraordinary.  I used an oven.

I love to cook.  I really do.  But I rarely do it.   Dinner most nights consists of whatever I feel like throwing into a frying pan.  It’s always ready in 5ish minutes.  It’s always edible, but only occasionally delicious.  I always give Ms. Roommate a fair warning before she picks up a fork to sample. 

But going to a potluck requires one to reach beyond the frying pan.  So I pulled out the recipe book, rolled up my sleeves, and got to work.

I was two minutes into my project when I felt myself calming from the inside out.  Flour was flying, eggshells piling up in the strangest of places; the kitchen was beginning to resemble a classroom after an art class. 

But while the room was cluttering, something inside of me was straightening.  While the mixer whirred, my anxiousness settled.  “This is therapy,” I thought to myself. 

How can holding a spoon stir something so deeply within me?  Follow my thought pattern here…

When you cook, you know that if you follow the recipe, you will get the product you’re aiming for.  More or less, at least.  When you separate an egg and beat the white, it will stiffen.  When you add flour to hot milk, it will thicken.  When you forget your cake in the oven for three hours, it will burn.  When you mix butter, sugar, flour, and a few other necessary items together, you will get cookies.

Kinda nice to have a place to retreat to where formulas work.  Where an outcome is known and expected.  Where if you do X to Y, you will get Z. 

It kinda seems like most things in life don’t work in such a predictable fashion.  Yes, there are some laws, some formulas (sowing and reaping, for one), but mostly working with people, ourselves included, reminds us that there are not always formulaic solutions.  A pep talk may inspire one and infuriate another.  Sometimes we need a call-out; other times we need an extra dose of friendship. 

In her song “Fireflies and Songs,” Sara Groves asks this question: “Were you surprised our hearts were not like ticking clocks, with faces and hands easy to read?”  I’ve often thought about that line.  About how we truly are not creatures of predictable formulas.  About how we are wired to be relational, for we were made in the image of a relational Being.  About how the ultimate revelation of Truth was revealed in the person of Jesus Christ.  Not in a formula, or a three-step process, but in a relationship. 

Goodness, we all know those things called relationships can get sticky.  The can cut long and wound deep.  And even after all of our love, care, and guidance, those we invest in ultimately have to make decisions for themselves. 

But oh, how rich they can be.  How much wealth we can acquire from them.  How something can resound deeply within us, whispering “for this fellowship, we were made.” 

So, I choose the friend over the formula in my relationships.  I choose the adolescent over the egg shell in my career.  And I choose to pursue a relationship with my Father rathern than demanding that He reveals the whole picture in my faith. 

And every once in awhile, I’ll pull out the old mixer to satisfy the need for a formula within me.