Where the Wild Things Are

A few days ago, my husband and I sought out the wonders of spring in the mountains.  A trail, historically a pilgrimage for wildflowers, was recommended to us.  We hiked all the way to the end of the trail and saw nothing green other than some winter-weary rhododendrons and some scraggly pines that were barely holding on.  It was a pleasant hike, but nothing shouted out of the ordinary.  Other than the mild temperature, the woods around us appeared to be stuck in the monotones of January.

On the way back to the trailhead and our truck, we spotted a small side trail that did not even appear on the map.  We hiked about a mile in, again a nice path, but where were the flowers?  A wildflower pilgrimage planned for next week might need to be rescheduled.

We returned home.  In the remaining afternoon daylight, Bill washed the vestiges of winter off our old truck.  And I headed into our barren yard, littered with branches and sticks from howling winter winds.  Time for spring cleanup.

And there, I saw them.

Under disintegrating leaves blown like snowdrifts against the large rocks and amidst large tree limbs crisscrossing the hill, wrestled down by icy storms, in the most unexpected places, I found wildflowers scattered all over the hillside.  I assumed there was nothing there.  And I almost missed them.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The wonders were already there, and I was just now discovering them.

In our comings and goings, our doings and done, the familiar and ordinary, God sometimes ignites a burning bush on our path to get our attention.  He reveals Himself in unexpected ways and in unlikely places.  And calls our names.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Our grumbling and complaining blind us not just to the possibilities of so many wonders all around us but the actualities of which we are so unaware.  God has given each of us a patch of ground.  What do we find there?  Not so much wild flowers, but what God has already planted, nurturing throughout the seasons.  He surprises us with the evidence of His Presence and faithfulness all around us.  

These tiny unexpected flowers manifest hope.  Not the wishful thinking of the world, "Oh, everything will be ok." But the steadfast hope of God on whom we can stake our lives. This world is not so barren at all, but thriving and ready to burst forth.  Right down to details underfoot and often ignored, God reminds us are not alone.

Fear not, for I am with you. Be not dismayed, for I am your God.  I will strengthen you.  I will help you. I will uphold you with My righteous right hand.  Isaiah 41.10

God guides us on trails not on any map. But we do not aimlessly wander. Our paths are not unknown territory to Him. This place where we are is not a wilderness at all, but where the wild things are. Who or what has He put on our trail today? How is He trying to get our attention?

And then, how do we respond?   All of creation rejoices. The trees hold up their arms in praise. The birds sing among the branches. In ancient times, flowers were even carved into the columns of the tabernacle. As God renews the face of the ground, the wonders comprise His manifold witness. The awe we feel is a call to worship.  And a reminder of His steadfast love.

 

 

I Have No Idea What That Means

For the past ten years, a few times a month, I volunteered at a local medical clinic where recently arrived refugees from all over the globe received their initial health screenings.  Most of these individuals and families had been in the United States for only a few days or weeks.  Nearly all lived, suffered, and survived in refugee camps far away from their home country or city for an extended period of time, sometimes years, sometimes even decades.  

And here they were in yet another country with a very foreign culture, engulfed in a language that makes no sense to them at all, and among people who spoke very very fast to them, even the southerners among us.

I am woefully limited in my language skills.  But it is amazing what can be communicated without words.

I was not trained as a nurse or physician, but was able to point to an eye chart, weigh each person, measure their height, all by using hand signals or working with an appointed interpreter, if we were able to access someone who speaks that particular dialect or language.

 

To measure visual acuity, we used a universal chart which utilizes direction, not familiarity with letters.  Standing on a line twenty feet away and covering one eye at a time, the individual merely pointed in the direction of the letter.  For line 1, they would point to the right.  For each subsequent designated letter, they pointed up, down, right or left.  The figures on each line appeared smaller and harder to see.

It was simple enough for a child of four or five years old to master.

But sometimes, this simple task seemed overwhelming.  To some individuals, those figures had no meaning at all.  They could not understand what they are supposed to do.  The letters just looked like black marks on a chart taped to the wall, a very strange and undecipherable foreign language....until someone showed them how to do it.

I have learned to wait.  In our American culture, we expect quickness and efficiency.  But as in so many areas of our lives, waiting produces an entirely different result.  At first, I thought hesitancy meant they didn't get it.  But I learned otherwise.  Understanding requires time to take hold.

Sometimes they would watch a sibling or parent take the test.  Sometimes it just took a few minutes to get a grip.

And then, suddenly when it made sense, I could see it in their faces. There was a glimmer of comprehension, "Oh, that's how to do it." Some started by shyly pointing a finger in the right direction.  But my favorites were those who rose to the occasion, dramatically swinging their arms as if conducting an orchestra.

A couple of months ago, an ancient woman in a wheelchair surprised everyone.  No one expected her to be able to complete the task.  Should we even try?  She sat in her wheelchair, facing the chart.  There was no indication that she understood the instructions.  A few minutes passed. And then, I detected a small movement, subtly moving her index finger to the right, barely perceptible.  I gave my hands a little clap to encourage her.  I pointed to the next line and the next figure.  Again, she sat silently.  Her granddaughter was ready to give up and move her back to the waiting area.  But then, her tiny wrinkled hand pointed down, so faintly I would have missed it, if I had not been carefully watching her.  

We moved slowly, one figure and one line at a time, until she finished at the 20/20 mark.  We all applauded then.  

I took her by the arm to help her onto the scale.  She relaxed in my arms as if we knew each other like old trusted friends.  She smiled meekly at me.  And my heart went out to this woman who survived so much suffering and lived through turmoil and displacement.  She was not much older than me.  And yet, she was starting over in this strange new country with her family where she will slowly, so slowly, begin to comprehend with gestures of grace and kindness from strangers.

To some individuals, the things of God have no meaning to them at all.  How can we translate grace and forgiveness and steadfast love in ways that others can understand?  Is the gospel just incomprehensible marks on a page to them?   Slowly, so slowly, hope in Jesus begins to make sense.  And God's faithfulness comes into focus.

When we share our faith, it may seem so foreign in this culture that others don't understand.  Even to read the Bible, they may reply, "I just don't get it."  They may have no idea what it means.  But we can show them by how we respond.  And we can wait.  Not giving up, but letting grow.  

Even as God has waited on us.

It is not a lack of interest, but a matter of waiting for the gospel to sink in and suddenly make sense.  And sometimes, that takes a long time and a lot of love on our part.  Give God the elbow room to manifest Himself.  Trust in the slow work of God. He reveals Himself -- and rarely in our timing.

And slowly, so slowly, His grace seeps in.  What does the gospel mean?  You are loved.  In every language.

Because Of The Yet In It

It is in those long fallow periods of time when nothing seems to happen, God brings to the surface His mighty work.  We just haven't quite gotten to the yet.

Just a week or so ago, emerging from a patch of dirt and old mulch on the side of the house, a little bit of green began to appear.  And each day, just a little bit more.   The irises are coming back, I said out loud. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I sent the picture to our former neighbor up north, a nurturer of flowers of every kind.  But as she responded, "Ours look nothing like that!"  

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

She is still abiding in the yet of things.  Hers will emerge when the weather warms up, but not yet. We live in different parts of the country, and it appears, different seasons. 

It is coming, perhaps still not visible, His goodness growing under the surface, but it is coming.  Redemption comes in unexpected moments and seasons different for each of us.  God's favor appears in unlikely ways, not to surprise us, but for us to learn to trust Him.

Yet is not a word of wishful thinking, but of hope. Yet appears in the Bible 424 times --what is coming, what is waited for, and in Whom we can stake our lives.  No matter what is on the surface, God goes deeper than that.

I may see only barren ground, but God sees a garden still in the yet -- already growing, forming something new and strong and beautiful in us for His glory.  Even in the hard stuff, His favor covers us, even multiplying what is yet invisible to us.

That patch of dirt conveys not His absence, but His deeper Presence.

Plants that are called annuals last only for a few months.  But the perennials keep reappearing. In the deep of winter when the ground is hard as a rock, and it seems all color has disappeared, we can have hope, because of the yet in it.  Even then, God appoints His steadfast love to watch over us. Every day is a story of His faithfulness.  And as I heard an archeologist gleefully reply the other day, "Every day, a surprise." She knows the profound is still hidden.

Because of the yet in it, the flowers bloom every spring. The delight and suddenness should not take me by surprise. Because almost a hundred years ago in 1929, an elderly aunt on a fluke or by intention, transplanted a clump of mature irises from her garden to my mother's house when my mom was just ten years old. It is possible that was all this old woman had to share -- a gift of hope at the beginning of what would become widespread economic hardship. But a simple kindness is never a wasted effort.  We can never know how God will powerfully use those acts of grace.  Nor how it may encourage someone in time of hidden need.  Even a hundred years hence.

Those transplanted irises took root, spreading by growing thick underground stems called rhizomes, each shoot and root all connected, and forming new plants.  These plants increase so rapidly that the key to flourishing is to divide and share.

From that time on as my mom grew up, every time she moved, she dug up a clump of those irises out of her garden bed and transplanted them into a new location.  When my mom and dad grew old and finally moved to a condo, we dug up some of those thick roots. And in all of our moves, we too left behind a gift of ancient irises and planted anew. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

And when they flower every year, no matter the storms, rocky soil, or drought, they remind me of the yet in our own lives.  Even when things look bleak, God is doing a mighty work, a thousand blossoms ready to burst into view.  Even then. Even in this. 

The blossoms don't last but a few weeks.  But they leave behind a promise of yet again.

What is God forming in me right now?  Maybe it is not yet a time of revealing.  Not just waiting. Not just watching.  But of growing in relationship with Him.  

Though the fig tree should not blossom,

nor fruit be on the vines,

the produce of the olive fail

   and the fields yield no food,

the flock be cut off from the fold

   and there be no herd in the stalls,

yet

     I will rejoice in the LORD.

I will take joy in the God of my salvation.

GOD, the Lord, is my strength.

He makes my feet like the deer's.

He makes me tread on my high places.

                Habakkuk 3. 17-19

 

Because a Person Can't Have Too Many Shoes

Several years ago on a densely humid day, my husband and I attended the wedding of a friend.  I looked through my dresses to choose one that would be appropriate for both the celebration itself as well as the oppressive 98-degree summer heat that only Memphis can produce.  But I also needed to pull out my nice black shoes.  Comfortable or not, those shoes were the most appropriate for the occasion. 

But sometimes comfort is not the point, as my daughters often remind me.

I have several pairs of shoes, those for running, daily wear, and those for special events stored in shoe boxes, gathering dust on the upper shelf.  But for this designated situation, what is needful?

What do we wear into His divine appointments for this day?  

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The LORD reminds me, wherever I go, to bring the name of Jesus there.  And for that, I need to be equipped for the occasion with the gospel translated into every shade and style, in heels or in hiking boots, the footwear of my new nature.  No matter the occasion, informed, conformed, transformed by the Holy Spirit.  Not just mindful of Christ, but the mind of Christ in me.

Oddly enough, when I change shoes, God changes my vision.  I think about different things when I wear my running shoes.  I approach an engagement from a different perspective when I need to dress up. I see circumstances and people with a new heart.

God makes me aware of these strategic moments in time, space, and the people around me. Not often enough, standing barefoot before Him, realizing, "...for the place you are standing is holy ground." Exodus 3.5.

No matter the occasion, we are all surrounded by those who don't know what Jesus looks like and those who hunger to know if this God of ours is real.  Our shoes don't reveal that.  But our hearts do.  The gospel changes our hearts, and hence, not just our actions, words, attitudes, and vision, but how we love others.  And no matter in the office, grocery, or even church-- there is someone here who doesn't know the love of Jesus.

May we change into our gospel shoes no matter where we go.  We never know who will sit next to us or engage in conversation, total stranger, casual acquaintance, or close friend. We never know their very real struggles or carefully disguised desperation.

The good news is not an accessory, but the truth and grace that lets others know:  You are seen.  You are heard. You are loved unbelievably.

...having shod your feet
          with the gospel.
              
               Ephesians 6. 15

What shoes do I need today?

Walking Differently Into This Mess

Lord, make us instruments of your peace.
Where there is hatred, let us sow love;
where there is injury, pardon;
where there is discord, union;
where there is doubt, faith;
where there is despair, hope;
where there is darkness, light;
where there is sadness, joy.
Grant that we may not so much seek
to be consoled as to console;
to be understood as to understand;
         to be loved as to love.
For it is in giving that we receive;
it is in pardoning that we are pardoned;
and it is in dying that we are born to eternal life.
Amen.
 
This prayer of St. Francis of Assisi reflects not just thoughts of a patron saint, but tangible actions of a rebel.  Not just an attitude, but his heart. And he reveals that because we are Christ-followers, whatever is before us, we can walk differently into it.
 
His prayer, written in the early 1200's, could easily have been composed on a laptop today.  He proposes not a new trail around to avoid our impenetrable thickets, but a different way of walking through those same difficult landscapes.  We scan the skies for a rescue helicopter, and yet forget to pray for a courageous heart and well-worn hiking boots. God calls us to "Go this way, right into the fray," even with blisters, poison arrows or ivy, and no road atlas with a highlighted route.
 
Push back the darkness.  And in the process of walking with God, discover His unexpected wonders along the way.

One line of Francis' prayer was written in neon lights when I read these words the other morning: Grant that we may not so much seek...to be loved as to love.
 
I have been praying about a hurtful situation from years ago, a wound that still threatens to bleed out every time I think about it.  Lately, I was led to pray differently, not this time for the hurt to go away, but to pray for this person:  Soften their heart and change their mind.

Over the weeks and months, on the outside of things, no visible difference in our interactions has emerged. But as I prayed, unexpectedly I realized my own heart softening toward this person and my own mind changing. What to do, how to pray, how to respond, how to love.  I don't know what is happening in that person's heart, but I am clearly aware of the tectonic shift in my own. See differently, walk differently, love differently.  How do we approach and navigate with a new heart because we are Jesus followers?  How should we?
 
For if you love those who love you, what benefit is that to you?  For even sinners love those who love them.  Luke 6. 32
 
Jesus says we can love a whole lot better than that.  Love your neighbor.  Love the stranger among you.  And as He did in His own life, Jesus takes it one notch further:  Love those who are dead set against you.  Even those we want to vilify to justify our own hurt or hardness of heart.
 
Loving others not that we would be loved, but because we already are loved by the Almighty.  Not we have to, but we get to. Not an obligation or chore to love, but we can't help but respond with unexpected grace.

God places impossible people in our lives simply because we need to love them, even through the uncountable complications. And providentially, we may perhaps be appointed the only one who can really love that particular person. Everyone struggles with something. All of us, no exclusions. Everyone is deeply wounded in one way or a dozen, often and maybe mostly, below the surface. In loving difficult people, we realize God's love even more steadfast in our own difficult hearts with plenty to spare. Write His name all over it.
 
...and those who love His name shall dwell in it.  Psalm 69. 36

I am trying to learn to love without any immediate response, whether someone ever hugs back or not, or without any response at all. Because grace never expects a return. And someday, someday, God's steadfast love may defrost the hardness and radiate through the cracks, and they just might blink. Or the warm light of Jesus finally permeates our own brokenness.
 
In his own simple words, St. Francis spelled out what rebellious love looks like.  We live in a broken world. And God shows us daily how to go forth and walk differently into this mess.   Pray, serve, forgive the hurt, come in peace, welcome inconvenience, bring healing as we are able, seek their best, bless the LORD even as we bless others, willing to take a long pilgrimage through a barren land, trusting God even in what looks like a hopeless hundred-mile wilderness. There are no lost causes in God's world. Nothing, but nothing, He cannot redeem.
 
Walking that way may not ever be acknowledged, nor ourselves be accepted, but we can be faithful to God even as He has loved us.  Faithfulness never evaporates, but lingers ever stronger over time. And God strengthens us to live that way. He never expected us to walk or love alone.  "I am right here with you."
 
Faithful is never "just faithful."  Never underestimate the rootedness of the profound, covering inestimable acres farther than the horizon.
 
Loving that person may be the strongest witness we will ever bear before others.  What if it changes the course of the day or a conversation? What if it completely alters the trajectory of someone's life? Even our own.  Others are always watching us to see if this God of ours really changes hearts, and if our God is real.

Some things simply require the slow work of grace upon grace.  

It is not that one day something might happen.  Something is already afoot. 

Soften my heart. Change my mind, O LORD.