Part One: When you least expect it… A relative quiet had settled over Saint Elizabeth hospital on that Autumn evening. The occasional sound of approaching, then fading footsteps on the tile floor outside the waiting room were all that broke the silence. Most of the staff had gone home, those remaining were going about the myriad tasks associated with caring for the sick and infirmed, readying each for the night ahead. I was feeling strangely peaceful, and, mildly fidgety as I awaited news. Although it is an obvious illusion, time seems to perceptibly slow through periods when one is required to wait. Having done ‘Hospital’ innumerable times with my daughter, though not what I would characterize as welcomed, this was a familiar sensation and routine. After what was in reality several hours – and seemed much longer – approaching footsteps could be heard which did not recede.
Entering the room, thrusting his right hand forward, “Are you Mr. Terry?”, the doctor introduced himself and his colleague. “You need to know that she is a very, very sick girl. She is quite fortunate to have gotten here when she did – parts of her body were shutting down and her internal problems were far more extensive than we initially thought. While she is stable and should be coming down from the recovery room to the ICU sometime in the next hour or so, she is by no means out of the woods – yet.” Still in scrubs, having come directly from the surgical suite to where I sat in the otherwise empty waiting room, the younger of the two surgeons was somber, almost conciliatory. I listened as the two took turns detailing the events of the past four and a half hours. The older a surgeon specializing in Gynecology, the younger a general surgeon who had been summoned after the first had initiated emergency surgery – only to realize the extent of her internal problems had been substantially beyond the scope of his capabilities. I listened intently, recording the conversations on my smart-phone as the two laid out a guarded prognosis for the days and months ahead. “Let me put it to you this way; her body has suffered a number of major physical setbacks, she is not going to be jumping out of bed tomorrow”, the older surgeon spoke animatedly, pressing open hands to his abdomen as he explained her condition. I was simply glad that Stacey was alive, and that both her rapidly declining condition as well as the prolific amounts of mounting pain over the past several days had finally been checked.
We had met some months before through circumstances which seem, in retrospect, rather ethereal. Sitting at home early one Saturday afternoon – single, bored, and lonesome, I had logged onto my computer. Remembering a Christian singles website which a friend had mentioned to me in passing months before, I’d thought it might be fun to read the personality profiles of potentially like-minded women. My intention had been to pass some time – I was not in a mindset to seriously look for someone, nor was I wanting to put myself on the market. I’d had lunch with my pastor the week before and during our conversation had shared that my recent history with women had been quite painful, “I give up! God is going to have to hit me over the head with a woman, I’ve not done well in that department.” It was true. I had made mistakes in years past and had done a fair amount of reaping what I had sown. Yet in the months following my daughter Jessica’s passing, I had come to a place of true surrender. In what would later be identified as one of my life’s defining moments, I’ll not forget sitting there in the quietness of my little apartment in the bay area, heartbroken, my life stalled, my future uncertain, making a heartfelt plea to God. “Lord, there is not much left. Yet what there is, you can have. All of it. No games. No compromise.” Now many months along with many trying circumstances later, there I sat, looking at the home page of that website.
I clicked on a link that suggested I would be granted access, only to find a profile page which required writing, as my memory serves, about nine separate paragraphs – synopses regarding my life, spirituality, likes, character, etc. I remember thinking, “This is nuts – and will take the rest of the afternoon!” But, I decided to go for it – my social calendar was anything but filled – the only thing looming was dinner with some friends later that evening. “Okay, I guess I’ll get started”, I thought to myself, and I began to write. Wanting to have the ability to see more than to be seen, and not wanting to attract a number of responses which would amount to a waste of time, I decided to write those synopses candidly, quite hard-hitting, with as much frankness as possible – using terms such as “I will not settle!” and “please do not respond if…” As one who enjoys writing, and who on this day had an abundance of time on his hands, writing that profile was a useful distraction and took nearly the rest of the afternoon to complete.
I was totally unprepared for the events which would shortly begin to unfold. I could not have known in that moment that I would be permanently deleting the profile I’d worked so hard on by day’s end – and for good reason. Within moments of completing the task at hand, everything was about to change. ◊ Part Two: Promises… kept.
Part Two: Promises… kept. Continued from Part One: When you least expect it… Bittersweet tears stained my cheeks as my car wheeled down the interstate. It had been an intense few days, culminating with the familiar voice of one of my favorite bible teachers on the CD that I’d made before starting home. Living in the Los Angeles area at that time, I’d traveled to Northern California the week before to attend my belated daughter’s birthday remembrance dinner. It had been good to see friends and family on the patio of the barbecue restaurant where we’d met last year, just weeks after Jessie had passed. Now, my heart was reflective as I made the trip back to L.A.. Though I’d listened to many of his teachings over the years – both recorded and live – this one was different, and intimately personal. As he spoke, I was beyond being captivated. He had outlined how God had carried him through times of hardship in his own life – through the losses of his daughter Jessica and earlier, his wife Terry. It had only been a year since my own daughter Jessica had gone to heaven. He had shared of how, in an auto accident, two of his children had been thrown through the windshield opening of their car and had been miraculously spared. Yes, I knew this too – for when she was eight years old, my Jessica had been thrown from our car through the windshield opening at fifty miles per hour and had been, as were his children, divinely spared any harm. He had shared of the difficulties – and of God’s sustaining hand – through what would otherwise be crippling loss. And, he had shared of God’s promise to him, initially given supernaturally while lying in an ambulance just minutes after his wife had departed this world for the next. Those words from Jeremiah had been confirmed to him many times through the years – including hearing his own Jessica recite them in a prayer the last time he saw her – just moments before hitting a patch of ice with her car and succumbing to the same injury that had claimed her Mother’s earthly life years before. As I listened, I understood his heartbreak. I also understood God’s promise – and providence. That same promise was being driven deeply into my heart, and became… mine. The words of the twenty-ninth chapter of Jeremiah, verse eleven, were being indelibly etched into my soul as I drove, and would play a key role in a future yet to be revealed.
“For I know the thoughts that I think toward you, says the LORD, thoughts of peace and not of evil, to give you a future and a hope.”
After taking nearly the whole afternoon to fill out a profile in order to gain access to the Christian singles website that my friend had shared with me months earlier, I had finally finished writing their required, detailed lifestyle and personality synopses, and clicked ‘Submit’. Then I logged on to the site. As I began to familiarize myself with the home-page layout, I noticed a bold field, ‘Online Now’. Clicking it, a new page loaded with a column of photos and their accompanying tag-lines. Next to the photos was a brief description including biographical information. As I scanned, my eyes stopped. “She’s pretty“, I thought. I clicked the photo of an attractive woman with the caption underneath, ‘A Fresh Start’. Reading her pointed yet thoughtful profile, I liked what she had to say. She appeared to be serious, sober-minded, and deeply committed to Christ. She was also by her own description quirky, clever, and goofy. I decided to write an encouraging note with words something like, “I enjoyed reading your profile very much. May God bless you as you search for the one…”, and clicked ‘Send’. “Hmmm… a fresh start. Wouldn’t that be lovely.”
Seeing the clock, I realized the afternoon was waning – and that I’d need to begin to get ready for dinner before long. Spending any more time on this website would have to wait. I busily straightened my cluttered table, washed up a couple of glasses and went to shut down my computer. As I grabbed the mouse and began to maneuver to the shutdown sequence, I noticed a small, flashing rectangle on the monitor. On closer inspection, I realized my computer’s browser was still open, and the Christian singles site was still up. The words inside the flashing rectangle read, “New Mail”. “It’s probably a ‘Welcome’ letter from the site’s admin.”, I thought as I opened the link. No, it was an e-mail from… her. My pulse quickened a bit as I sat back down to read and respond. “I very much enjoyed your profile. Would you like to chat?”, she’d written. I clicked the link and opened a dialog box on my monitor. Introducing ourselves, Stacey and I spent the next forty-five minutes or so exchanging some pleasant written dialog, each sharing thoughts and details and facts from one’s life, family, and faith. I checked my watch – and was out of time, on the verge of being late. “Hey I’m meeting friends for a bite to eat and need to shower. I’d enjoy talking by phone later though – typing is just not my thing. I’ll give you my number if you’d like, just dial star sixty-seven to hide your phone number when you call.” Computer chat is an interesting phenomenon. There was a caption at the bottom of the window that told me whenever she was typing. Having just initiated ratcheting our dialog up a couple of notches, I could see that she was writing a response, but had no idea what that response would be. Seconds ticked by. My inner voice kicked into gear. “This is probably the part where she tells me thanks, it’s been nice chatting, but no thanks”, I prepped myself. More seconds passed. I waited. More seconds. Then her words blinked onto the screen, “What time will you be home?”
My phone rang five minutes earlier than anticipated. “A good sign!”, I thought, answering. We talked for hours. As we did, I mentioned to her that I had been bored, lonely, not seriously looking to connect with anyone. I shared the conversation I’d had with my pastor the week before. It was then that she told me she’d been at a church worship service the night before, and had been literally on her knees before God, broken. She told me of her prayer, “I am tired of trying to find a suitable man. I give up. I give this area of my life to you, Lord.” She went on to say that while she’d been on the website for months, today she’d been online solely for the purpose of deleting her membership and had done just that, receiving a message afterwards that her profile would be removed by the following day. Then, moments before shutting down her computer – with no intention to ever be on that website again – she’d seen the same flashing rectangle as I had, proclaiming, “New Mail”. I was completely stunned. “What are the odds?”, I reasoned in my mind. “Are you there?”, she asked. “Yeah, sorry. I’m here.”, my voice trailed off. I was totally lost in thought, “There is an unseen component to this that’s beginning to get my attention.”
As we conversed, we transparently shared one another’s heartbreaks and triumphs, sorrows and joys. I told Stacey of the depression and profound sadness that I’d experienced after my daughter had gone to heaven. I shared how my heart had been refreshed and revived in Christ. Then I shared God’s promise – given to me from Jeremiah 29:11 as I had driven to Los Angeles that day. “For I know the thoughts that I think toward you, says the LORD, thoughts of peace and not of evil, to give you a future and a hope.” “Now I have goose-bumps”, she replied. There was a serious tone to her voice. “A few years ago, after twenty-five years of being a homemaker, mother and wife, I found myself alone. It was during this time that I was forming and pouring a concrete slab in the yard to place an outdoor table on. Many talks with God and a lot of tears went into that project. While I was working on it, God made me a promise. I scratched that promise into the corner of the concrete before it set.” ◊
Yes, the little things – all of which added up to the wonderful woman you became. There is so much more… no words now, only tears. I’m trusting the contents of my heart are somehow known to you. Oh honey to say that I miss you is like saying I miss light, or oxygen, or water. Yet, I gain comfort from knowing you’re whole, and have a new body, and see Him face-to-face.
Of all the people in our family, you always seemed to go through things first, usually painful things, scary things, at times life-threatening things. Though I miss you every single day, how fitting it is for you to get to the good stuff – the very fulfillment of our hopes – first. Good for you, Jess!
I love you Jessie. For now, I am only able to imagine – hearing your voice echo through my mind in response, “I love you too Papa, more than the whole wide world and all the trees.” ◊
A Modern Parable For the record, I know how to move a household. Growing up, my Mother and Stepfather moved nineteen times during my K-12 years. As to my own family, we were accused more than once of somehow having a subversive agenda insofar as many friends and relatives complained that we’d maxed out the ‘T’ section in their personal address books – and they’d had to buy a new one. Being a seasoned mover, when I began to pack up my belongings with the intent of putting them into storage, I remembered that I had a number of old Home Depot boxes from previous moves that I’d broken down and stashed. They have seen some action too. I think the Ebay classification for them would be ‘vintage’ or ‘gently used’ (yeah, right) moving boxes, although I doubt I’d get much for them. I digress.
Anyway, figuring that I’d originally paid three or four bucks apiece for them and did not want to waste money, I nabbed the old boxes from my closet. Then I folded, taped and assembled each one, proceeding afterward to load ‘em up with my earthly treasures. The first problem which arose was figuring out a safe way to stack the danged things. With dented corners, torn tops, and rounded sides, this was no easy task. But, with the help of more heavy duty packaging tape than I thought I’d need, I managed, sort of. The next steps in the process proved to be a bit more of a challenge. I live in a huge old Victorian house which has been converted to eight small apartments. Fortunately my apartment is on the ground floor, close to the main entry door. Unfortunately, outside the main entry door there remains a small flight of concrete stairs which one must traverse in order to get to street level. I’m a big fan of full disclosure – those who know me well would tell you that I’m not the most coordinated guy in town, which I’ve found both amusing and perplexing because of the unforgiving nature of the work I did for nearly twenty-five years in climbing and painting large – often very high – billboards. My klutziness is mainly due to my being ‘in my head’ a lot, and not paying close enough attention to what’s going on around me. Such was not the case when I was a teenager – back then I was just plain clumsy. My siblings will readily tell you of how everyone would grab breakable drinking glasses, dishware, etc. whenever I was about to get up from the dinner table.
So, the next step was to get the boxed goods from my apartment to my truck. Easy, right? One would think so. The first thing I noticed about the now full, roundish boxes with the afore-mentioned dents, tears, etc. was that it was really difficult to get a solid purchase with my hands on the cardboard when stooping to pick one up. But, I managed. Here’s where the fun started. I needed to get the boxes from my living room, out my front door, through the hallway, out of the main entrance, down the stairs, and to my truck. You’d think I would have had the foresight to open my front door before hefting a box off the floor – but no, I usually think of such things after the critical moment in which it would actually help has passed. So there I was, half bent over, balancing this once rectangular, crumpled box with my left arm and right thigh so I could open the door. Got it, that went fairly smoothly. Once through the doorway, the thought occurred to me that I’d really prefer to not have my neighbors possibly see what a mess my apartment is – and decided I now needed to close the door. So, again – left arm, right thigh. The box felt kind of mushy. As I reached for the doorknob with my free hand, the thing began to slowly slip down my right leg. In an attempt to correct for this unforeseen complication, I lunged forward with my free left leg – and solidly smacked the door jamb with the right side of my head. Hard. I’d bumped the door with the box in my arms and as my head made contact, the door had swung out of reach. Grumbling, I let the box fall to the floor. Was that a muffled, tinkling sound I heard as it touched down? I really don’t remember if I verbalized the contents of my brain out loud in that moment. I hope not.
Retrieving the box from the floor, my trip through the common hallway to the front entry was uneventful. The entry to my building consists of double doors. Facing them from the inside, the one on the left is for daily use, having one of those automatic door-closing thingy’s mounted on the top inside corner, and an automatically locking deadbolt. The door on the right is locked shut. Planning my strategy for getting the entry door open, I thought it best to set the box down this time. Easy. Now to twist the spring-loaded deadbolt, push the door open, grab the box and stick my left foot in the path of the returning door before it shut and automatically locked. I evidently did not move fast enough. The door swung open just fine, but was quicker to begin to swing shut than I’d remembered and pinched my foot between the concrete and the bottom of the door. My eyes narrowed (my children used to get as far from me as possible when this rare phenomenon occurred), my head still hurt from the first phase of this operation. I pulled my stuck foot out from under the door and flawlessly carried out my plan – until I came to the stairs. Still holding the door open with my left elbow, my field of vision was blocked in front of me by the box in my arms. Then I mis-judged the width of the landing. Stepping forward, my right foot found air, not concrete. Abruptly stumbling forward now, I immediately let go of the box and blindly grabbed for the handrail. The box, then airborne, cleared the stairs, hitting the cement walkway beyond, bursting one side completely open. A definite broken-glass ‘tinkling’ sound came from within. Finding the handrail, I grasped it tightly as my body spun left, my legs firmly pressed into the wrought iron railing to the point of bending my waist over the top, nearly doing a face-plant into the tall shrubbery adjacent to the stairs. I have no idea how both of my size thirteen feet landed squarely on the second step, but was eternally grateful they had.
I don’t like old moving boxes. Why?
When Jesus spoke the parable of the New Wine, He was contrasting God’s Old Covenant of law which was given to the Jews, with the New Covenant of love and grace which is offered to any who will come, thereby illustrating the incompatibility between Judaism and Christianity. It’s also worth noting the history of the Christian Church has seen through the ages many outpourings of the Holy Spirit resulting in many new works, pouring new wine into new wineskins. In a literal sense, new wine is fermenting. The strain brought about by gas pressure from new wine poured into old, hardened wineskins is that it would cause the wineskin to rupture. A new wineskin is pliable and will allow for expansion during the fermentation process. As time goes by, man, being predisposed to ‘fixing’ that which already works through a variety of things which can and do supplant the work of the Spirit, causes the wineskin to harden, thereby limiting the effectiveness of that which worked well when it was new and fresh and filled with the life of God. In His infinite wisdom, God then raises up a new work, or wineskin – and pours out new wine – people led by His Spirit – to fill it as He accomplishes His purposes through the agency of the Holy Spirit both in and through the church in a general sense – and specifically in the hearts and minds of His people. He removes both His blessing and His Spirit from the old, hardened wineskin – it has become too inflexible, too rigid, filled with what at that point amounts to empty religiosity.
So what’s the bottom line for me? I had wandered, trying many things in an attempt to fill the void inside of me throughout a period of *drifting* – without the life of the Spirit of God indwelling and empowering me. One simply cannot out-maneuver God. I am thankful that He has been patient and not withdrawn His presence from my life. He will go to great lengths to draw one, by faith in the finished work of the cross of Christ, into to the wondrous – not necessarily easy – life He freely promises to all who will come – or any who will return. It truly is as a friend said many years ago, “No matter how many steps away from God you take, it is always only one step back.” You see, it’s not about going backwards to where I was. It’s about leaving the past where it is – and moving forward from here, from now, setting my heart and my mind upon the things above. Summed up, new wine equals newness of life. And, new boxes equals less broken stuff. ◊ P.S. – My living room is now stacked with tidy rows of new, strong Home Depot moving boxes, each at the cost of a whopping ninety-seven cents. By the way, if you’re in the market for a bunch of vintage boxes, have I got a deal for you……
Part 3 of 3 • Continued from Part 2 “We planted the seed while the tears of our grief soaked the ground. The sky lost its sun, and the world lost its green to lifeless brown. Now the chilling wind has turned the earth hard as stone. And silently seed rise beneath ice and snow. And my heart’s heavy now, but I’m not letting go of this hope I have. That tells me Spring is coming.” ……………………………….~ ‘Spring Is Coming’ by Steven Curtis Chapman • ‘Beauty Will Rise’ CD The seasons of life. Sounds like a good name for a soap opera, huh? Yet, we all have them. Metaphorically, to name a few, they may represent times of growth and happiness, or periods of accomplishment and success, or perhaps a season of darkness, pain and despair. If you were to ask which season applies to my life today, I would have to say that it is transitioning from winter to spring. Thus the lyrics from the song above. Ironically it’s also the time of year in which I make this entry – early March. It is cold outside, and stormy today. Yet as I have been traveling the past few days I’ve noted the almond orchards adjacent to the interstate are in full bloom. The rolling hills which separate the Bay Area of California from the vast Central Valley are presently a lush mixture of vivid greens. Wildflowers are beginning to dapple the fields with an array of color and long-dormant daffodils have blossomed throughout my neighborhood. In my previous writing, I detailed how I’d gotten off course spiritually a number of years ago. I am sensitive to not wishing to come off here as being stuck in self-pity on the one hand or standing on a soapbox on the other. The truth of the matter is, in the years since, my life has in many ways been in steady decline. I have continued to experience loss in a number of areas including the end of my marriage, my decision to separate from the faith community I had loved for many years, leaving the ministry, coming to an age that I am no longer able to physically do much of the work I’d done in years past, resulting in financial decline, experiencing difficulty in relationships, and finally – just as I thought I’d hit the proverbial bottom – the loss of my child. The bottom just plain dropped away with that one. Some of these events have been as a direct result of my own rebellious heart and poor decisions which have, in the final analysis, resulted in my reaping what I had sown. Some I have chalked up to the adverse circumstances which are simply part and parcel to this life. Still, some events I cannot and will not comprehend on this side of heaven. None have escaped the notice of the sovereign Lord of the universe in whom we live and move and have our being. Rather, it is my firm belief that my circumstances are part of God’s divine plan for my life. There are mysteries in all of this, too – perhaps I shall explore them another time. While I believe God allows and at times purposely aligns things in my life – yes, even painful things, I do not believe His heart is that of a cruel ogre who takes pleasure in knocking people around. It saddens me when people blame God when much of the adversity we face is the result of living in a fallen world. Way back in my bible college days, one of my instructors lectured, “God is far more interested in what He wants to accomplish in and through your life than how comfortable you are at this moment.” I have not been comfortable for a long while. The Calendar In December 2009 I experienced something of an epiphany. Standing in my livingroom, I happened to glance at the large wall calendar adjacent to my couch. In the moments to follow, there was a break, a moment of clarity inside as my mind wrapped around what I was seeing – and what it meant. I focused on one word. July. Why would my calendar show that particular month? I was reaching for understanding. Then it dawned on me. I had cleaned my apartment in late July in preparation for my sister’s spending the night before we headed to Oregon and a family reunion the following day. As I’d cleaned I had noticed that my calendar at that time was dated ‘April’, the month Jessica had passed – and my life had, for any useful purpose, suddenly stopped. I updated the calendar and now, months later, I was standing there staring at ‘July 2009′, wondering why I had not noticed until then – when it’s something I’m normally fairly prompt at changing. In retrospect I see that point in time as the first sign of the thaw which would come to signify an ending to the deepest ‘winter’ of my life. “I need to get going, to begin living again!” was the singular thought in my mind on that December day. Much has transpired since. Through the inward change brought about by that moment and the many decisions which followed – spiritually, physically, emotionally – I have indeed begun to live once more. As a result, outward change is coming about. I am sensing God’s guidance. I am continuing to work through times of grief and will do so to one degree or another for the balance of my life. Yet as many close to me who have experienced great loss in their lives have encouraged, my grief is changing as well. I am at the same time proactively bringing this chapter of my life to a close. There have been many sorrows, many blessings, many lessons. I am certain the future will hold the same – yet one critical element that for me has been lacking through these past months and years is purpose. While I do not yet fully understand what the shape of my life shall be or exactly what that purpose is, I am moving forward and have prayerfully arrived at some major choices. The first has been to allow Jesus to be Lord in my life once more, to be as single-minded as I am able. Simultaneously, ‘doors’ have been closing for me in the Bay Area. Out of that has been the decision to start afresh in a new area, to physically move on. ‘Doors’ have been opening for that, too. In three weeks I will have packed and stored most of my belongings. At that time I will relocate to the town where I was raised, northwest of Los Angeles. I believe this move to be a transient one – just what is beyond is unknown to me for now and that’s okay. When I am finished packing, moving my things to storage and cleaning, I shall have one remaining task to perform before physically closing the door to my apartment. I will take down the calendar which still reads, ‘July 2009′ from my livingroom wall, and patch the nail hole where it hung. This, to me, signifies far more than the physical act implies. I will be closing the door to far more than my apartment. As I consider The Winds of Change in my life, the last line of the lyrics from the song I quote at the beginning of this writing come to mind. The words are eloquently sung, “Spring is coming, it won’t be long now, it’s just about here.” ◊ The Winds of Change• Part 1• Part 2
Part 2 of 3Continued from Part 1 What is it that makes a man a horse thief? Is it because he steals horses? No. A man becomes a horse thief the moment the thought to steal the thing is acknowledged in his own heart. ~ Chuck Smith I initially set out to write this post as a two-part series. Since my first writing, I have continued to meditate on the subject of change, and have decided to expand the series to three parts (or more?). In this installment, I’ll deal with inward change. After all, as with the ‘Horse Thief’ quote above, outward change is most often the result of that which takes place on the inside – first.
It has been said that the only real constant in life is change. From a human standpoint, we often become very uncomfortable with change in our lives, especially as one grows older – your mileage may vary. From a spiritual standpoint, theologians have argued points of view for centuries as to whether we, having a free will, engineer and orchestrate every change or circumstance in our lives as God looks on, or those changes have been preordained of God and we are as puppets on a string, having little input in living out our scripted lives on an eternal stage. Both positions in my opinion can be extreme and I tend to believe that each has it’s place in the grand scheme of things. However I do not wish to use this forum as a Bully Pulpit to argue the merits of Calvin vs. Arminius. For me to attempt to do so would constitute a fool’s errand. My thinking here has a far more immediate and personal application – if for no other reason than we simply live in a changing world – and my world is changing.
In my last writing, Part 1, I spoke of being in my little aluminum fishing boat, tucked into a narrow inlet on a lake as an unexpected windstorm came up. In the words which follow, I will endeavor to draw some parallels from that day, then apply them. Please note this is not an attempt to communicate a self-help guide on adapting to change, but my own thoughts and experiences with things both seen – and unseen – regarding to the changing circumstances in which I have lived in the past, as well as those in which I currently find myself.
First, my plan. I had spied out the inlet where I wanted to go fishing the day before and it looked to be idyllic. I had carefully laid out my gear that evening, stowing it in a place which would be easily accessible in the pre-dawn hours. I’d checked the fuel level in my boat’s gas tank, made sure the outboard motor was working correctly, and that my battery was adequately charged. In short, I was all set. Or so I thought.
Sometimes life gets in the way. Although I’d planned my outing well, and had done my best to be certain that I’d covered any contingency, my morning on the lake turned out to be nothing like I had envisioned. I hadn’t expected to overheat – and wished I’d thought to bring along some shorts. When the wind came up, I learned that my anchor wasn’t big enough to hold the boat as the wind speed increased. Had I paid closer attention to the fishing line I’d cast into the water, it probably would not have snagged the lake’s bottom and snapped as the boat drifted. Had I considered the fact that I and my boat were protected from the wind on the main body of the lake by the hills surrounding the inlet, I’d have left at the first sign of changing weather and possibly avoided the tumultuous ride back to the docks. With the onset of each of these events, I was required to adapt to the changing circumstances in which I found myself. Lacking sufficient experience with sudden windstorms, I did not respond in a proactive way at the time. Believe me, should I ever face similar circumstances, I will likely fare much better.
It’s all about the details. My point here is this; life happens in the otherwise mundane details of each day – not necessarily in the ‘big moments’, or during times of great indecision. It is in attending to those details, mixed with the experience one gains over time – often through adversity – that produces wisdom. I must confess here that years ago, I sadly allowed my heart to drift from God in significant ways and began to live for myself and my own indulgences. I have in the past few years, many times, made the singular decision to recommit my life, my purpose, my heart to God, then shrunk back. Why? Have you ever heard the saying, “The devil is in the details”? I have, and I frankly don’t like it because God’s revealed will is to be infinitely and intimately more involved in the details of my daily life. In retrospect, those so-called ‘big’ decisions I’d made to re-commit were no more than a nifty way to assuage the guilt and shame I continued to carry – because those decisions were not accompanied by a willingness to change.
Awhile back a guy close to me whom I hold in high esteem as to the level of integrity with which he lives admonished, “John, stop worrying about what you cannot give to God, and begin to give Him what you can – each day. You’re not going to succeed at being restored to a right relationship by making big promises to God that He knows you cannot keep.” I was floored at the simplicity – and force – with which he spoke. This is the part where I’d love to state that I immediately took those things to heart and began to do as he’d advised. Instead, I continued to flounder for some time, yet his words stuck. As time went on, still reeling in grief and despair from my daughter Jessica’s unexpected death last year, I began to call upon God in the quietness of my heart, asking Him to meet me where I was at, promising nothing but a willing, hurting, dented heart, and a soul that had become lean. No fanfare. No big flashy decisions I’m making for God. No self-deceiving attempt to make myself feel better about the state my life had come to in the years since I’d drifted off course. Since that time, the breath of God Himself has begun to rekindle the once cooled, dim coals of my heart to a soft glow – enough that I am once more beginning to see Him in the details, in the otherwise insignificant decisions I make through the day. I am overjoyed at seeing the once familiar fire-for-God in my heart begin to burn once more – and am giving Him what I can each day, understanding the life of peace I’ve known from experience is being formed in me once more. Yes, I continue to struggle in many ways, yet as I yield the circumstances I am in to Him, the shift inside is unmistakable. God truly is in the details. And though it begins with a singular decision to follow God in Christ, change of this nature – inward change – happens in the minutiae, in the small decisions and details of one’s everyday existence as one yields to the Master’s touch. While those small details may seem insignificant at the time, they add up to a life that’s moving forward once more as the winds of change continue to blow, both inwardly – and as a result in my outward circumstances as well. ◊ Part Three • Outward Change
Part 1 of 3 As I approached Collins Lake’s dock in the still, predawn light, the reflected silhouettes of the trees mirrored against the opposite shore were nearly perfect. I’d loaded my gear into the little aluminum boat, started the motor, and headed toward the ingress of a small stream which was located in a narrow inlet at the northerly tip of the lake. My hopes of catching breakfast were high. I noticed the wake of my boat behind me as I’d gotten underway. Small swells flowing away from the boat’s stern in a perfect vee had been the only disturbance to the otherwise glassy surface of the water. What a beautiful, clear morning it was.
It had been just after sunrise that I arrived at the inlet I’d chosen the day before. Twisting a switch on it’s cowling, the motor sputtered, then fell silent. Settling in, I had baited a hook, then cast my line into the ink-colored water. Although the morning had been quite cool, within a short time I’d begun to sweat. The combination of sunshine and still air prompted my mind to ponder the physics of the infrared portion of the solar-ray spectrum. I mused at how infrared rays do not rely upon a medium, such as air, to conduct the sun’s energy, but will heat any object they strike. That object, this morning, was me. Now fully exposed, I’d removed my jacket, donned sunglasses and a ball-cap to shield my eyes from the penetrating sun. Fishing would be slow going that morning. Who am I trying to kid? For me, fishing is almost always slow going.
After sitting awhile, taking in the pristine setting of which I was part, as I wondered just what my threshold for patience would be this morning I’d noticed that a soft puff of wind had momentarily cooled my skin. Then another. And another. Within a half hour or so a welcomed, gentle breeze had come up. The water no longer held the mirror-like reflection of the surrounding tree-covered hills. Now the lake’s surface was scalloped with tiny ripples, varying in size and direction according to the force of the air upon the water. I put my jacket back on, then dropped my boat’s anchor in an attempt to keep the rising wind from blowing my boat towards the shore of the narrow inlet. A few moments later, without warning a gust of wind sent the boat into a long rotating arc around the anchor line. My fishing hook evidently – and irretrievably – snagged on something on the lake’s bottom and my line snapped. Before I could finish reeling in the remaining line, the windswept boat reached the end of it’s arc – and anchor rope. Then it began to drag the lightweight anchor – and me – once more towards the shore. Acting quickly to avoid running aground, I switched the motor to the ‘On’ position, then yanked the starter rope which protruded from the front of the outboard motor. The engine spun to life.
I gathered the anchor and navigated to the center of the inlet, pointing the bow towards home… well, campsite. Breakfast this morning would be sans-trout. The once scalloped ripples on the water had intensified to a light chop, rhythmically slapping against the bow as I headed back. Unknown to me until I cleared the inlet, I’d been protected from the wind on the main body of the lake which now blew with force. My circa 1966 boat groaned as I struggled to steer – then hold – a course towards the docks. Now chilled – and getting colder – I managed to rifle through my belongings and found a hooded sweatshirt. It was then that I learned of the difference between finding and putting on a sweatshirt in the unyielding wind while trying to steer a boat in what had become very rough water. I finally prevailed and pulled the sweatshirt over my jacket. Then I lifted the hood up and over my ball-cap, tying it in such a way as to encircle my face, the bill of my cap protruding out from under the hood. White-capped waves now broke against – and over – the bow, sending copious amounts of water my way. I switched on the small electric bilge pump I’d recently installed to remove excess water from inside the boat and eventually made my way back. Once my boat had been securely tied to the dock, I walked back to camp, drenched and somewhat disgusted. What had happened to my pristine morning, filled with the hope of a fresh catch and a delicious breakfast?
Now years later, as I have considered that morning on the lake many times, I have noted several parallels between it and the subject of change. Every now and then, I have this thing in my mind that just ends up being difficult to put into words. On top of that, when I have found the words and have been able to articulate my thoughts with a reasonable degree of logical progression and clarity (to me, anyway), some have concluded that I’m just a very trippy guy. Pardon the 1970′s vernacular. What can I say – they’re probably correct. That said, it is my hope, with the help of the preceding story as a metaphor, to make sense in my endeavor to, as one reader of this blog commented, synthesize my thoughts and feelings with regard to change in my own life – past, present, and my hope for the future – into words. The winds of change are indeed blowing in my life – in significant ways. ◊
Part 2 of 3 is HERE.
My friend has a beautiful older home that’s tastefully decorated. He is a stickler for detail too – by his own admission to the point of compulsion at times. As I sat in his livingroom one day, I noticed something peculiar. There, hanging on the wall opposite from where I was sitting was a beautifully gilded museum-quality frame. One would expect that such a beautiful frame would possess an even more beautiful piece of artwork within it’s borders, as did the framed works of art on the adjoining walls. Yet as I looked at the frame and the place where one would usually see a painting, I realized that I was staring at a small, twisted-wire hanging cable which formed an upside-down ‘V’, draped over a hook screwed into the wall near the top inside border of the frame. A blank wall was visible behind. “Hey what’s up with the empty frame on your wall?” I had to ask. “It’s so I never forget those who have died, John”, my friend thoughtfully replied, a far away look was in his eyes. He went on to tell me that he had worked as a microbiologist and researcher during the early days of the HIV/AIDS epidemic and had seen many die, including some he’d come to count as friends. The frame is a silent reminder.
Thanksgiving was, all things considered, a joyous occasion. As I sat at the table in Lisa’s Mother’s house, surrounded by various family members, I mentioned that earlier in the day I’d thought of suggesting we set an extra place at the table in Jessica’s memory. Before I could explain that I’d immediately dismissed the thought, the room was filled with a combination of pained facial expressions and deep, visceral groans. Having the ability to be a bit clueless as to intuiting appropriate timing for commentary and topics for conversation, I was now kicking myself, “Boy-howdy do I ever know how to bring down a room.” My inner voice went into high gear. I did what I could to lift the atmosphere, some joined in expressing enthusiastic approval of this or that dish, others stating their disappointment with comments such as, “I’m never making that again. It sure looked better in the cook book than it tastes!” Soon the conversation had once more taken on a life of it’s own, all awkwardness disappeared. We had a fabulous meal.
Earlier, as I’d gone back in my mind to holidays past, I’d been thinking about how Jess could talk – I mean the girl could talk. I’d reflected on her ebullient spirit, the love she had for her family, how she loved the holidays. She’d eagerly anticipate seeing her younger cousins who’d likely spend part of each holiday with us. I thought of how she would intentionally wander into our livingroom and engage her Great Grandmother and Great Aunt in spirited conversation as the two elderly women sat together, warming themselves and dozing by the fireplace. How I loved those times when everyone was seated for dinner, a blessing had been asked, and we simply enjoyed being a family. No, remembering Jess by setting another place at the table for this holiday would not be a good idea because it simply wouldn’t seem like Jessica, if for no other reason than it would just be too quiet. Unlike my friend’s empty frame, in this case a silent reminder would not do.
In the time since we traveled to Gualala in November with Jessica’s husband Matt as he cast her ashes to the sea, I have sensed a rather profound shift in my grief-weary heart. I will stipulate up-front that the sorrow, intense at times, remains – and I’m doing my best to get through this first holiday season without her, as is the case with my family, extended family, and those closest to Jess. I guess to sum up, I find myself reflecting a little more upon Jessica’s life than dwelling upon her death these days. When I am longing for my girl, I seem to be dwelling a bit more on longing for the day I’ll be with her there instead of wishing she were with us here. Think about it. We often spend our lives pursuing longevity, amassing ‘stuff’, living in the expectation that each day shall be as the last, often feeling cheated or angry when poverty, tragedy, failing health, harsh circumstances and the like befall us. I do not think these pursuits are necessarily wrong, yet our lives are so very short in light of eternity and if that’s all there is to living upon this earth, how woefully we set ourselves up for a painful, hope-less existence while here.
Imagine with me for a moment what Jessica’s perspective is – at this minute. As one who believes the Bible to be God’s truth, then accordingly Jessica’s existence is beautiful beyond any of our wildest thoughts or imaginations. To live in the very presence of the One who took our every imperfection to the cross. To see and touch the scars in His hands. To experience His love in a tangible and present sense. Tears well up as I write – yet in that place they shall be wiped away by God Himself. How beautiful and how glorious are God’s promises, how real the ones pertaining to heaven have become to me as I contemplate Christmas this year, and beyond. Yes, there shall be another place set at the table for Jessica, but not here. This year she is dining with the King. ◊
