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 got 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 shuts and automatically locks. I evidently did not move fast enough. The door swung open just fine, but was quicker to swing shut than I’d remembered and pinched my foot between the concrete and the bottom of the door. With my head still hurting 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, 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, my body spun left, my legs firmly pressed into the wrought iron railing to the point of bending my waist over them. 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. 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. The bottom line? Personally, I have tried many things throughout my time of *drifting* without the life of the Spirit of God working inside of me. One just cannot out-maneuver God. And if one truly belongs to Him, He will go to great lengths to draw one back to the wondrous – not necessarily easy – life He promises to any 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
