But Just Right

My mom was a professional violinist, and it always seemed, furiously practicing. Her fingers continually drummed even silently, practicing her repertoire, pieces she already knew and those she was engraving in her heart. She only ever read the Chicago Daily News, devouring it like the gospel itself, delivered on our driveway every afternoon.

Dad was a quintessential research scientist, crazy bushy eyebrows and all.  Even when he was home, well, he was not really there.  To him, reading was a waste of time. Why read when you could be inventing something?

My grandmother lived out my childhood with me.  She occupied a small first floor bedroom, busily keeping house for our family of six, including my two oblivious parents.

Every night, she pulled herself up the stairs with her arthritic knees to put me to bed with the story of the three bears.  It may have been the only story she knew by heart.  No book.  No pictures. Just the words. Just her raspy alto voice. Just the story.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

She didn’t talk about Goldilocks with beautiful long blond ringlets.  But she narrated the story of a little girl with unruly hair who wandered into a house looking for a place where she would fit in, a bowl just the right size, a comfy chair in a quiet room, being tucked gently into bed, no matter the chaos in the rest of the house. The story became a liturgy of memorized words and measured breaths. She sat sidesaddle on the edge of the bed, her soft warm leg leaning against mine.

I never knew whether the story was describing her life or mine.

I was not the curly-haired violin prodigy my mother wanted me to be, possessing legendary talent that compelled people to rise to their feet.  When I was old enough to read myself, I hid library books with a flashlight under my bed. Mom threatened to take them away.  “You’re going to ruin your eyes.”  “You could be practicing!” I was not just wasting time, but wasting my life. 

My three brothers pursued their own paths of giftedness, as one interest led yet to another. The house was a mess.  Mom commandeered the living room, her music piled high in stacks on the back of the piano and cups of cold forgotten coffee scattered everywhere like clues to a mystery.  My dad secluded himself in his laboratory at work, rarely realizing when it was time to go home. 

Dad thought in numbers and formulas.  All that mattered to Mom was notes.  For me, it was words. Dad loved his laboratory. Mom dreamed of Carnegie Hall.  I couldn’t wait to go to the library.  Three lives.  Three languages.

My grandmother saw our family's story being worked out page by page, and chapters unfolding season by season. And she understood me standing bewildered in the midst of it. The bears’ lives seemed so normal.  Quaker oatmeal in morning bowls.  A company of chairs in a book-lined living room. Soft beds with comforters.  And oh, how about a daily walk together in the woods?

Is that how other people lived?

I was never afraid of those ferocious bears.  Instead, they were a comfort to me, appearing in a story told faithfully every night. And always with a happy ending. Because in my heart, the little girl got to stay.

Close Encounters of the Wilderness Kind

There were better things I probably could have been doing than running on that sultry Tennessee-humid afternoon.  But I don't know what that would be. Cars inched past me on a paved nature loop, windows rolled up to keep the cool inside, the occupants comfortable and wide-eyed, looking for usual sightings that invite tourists and snarl traffic for miles.

I could have been one of them.  But I preferred being outside, running through the wilderness instead. 

There would be bears, I was sure of it. There always are. I see at least one almost every time I run that winding road. But what I witnessed while running that day was something I didn't expect. Something I will never forget.

One of my all-time favorite places to run is the 11-mile Cades Cove nature loop in Great Smoky Mountains National Park.  Weaving its way through a small valley surrounded by a ring of mountains, this narrow one-way ribbon of asphalt is known for wildlife sightings.  Or what our grandchildren call "rarely seen wildlife creature moments."

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

If you want to see a black bear in the wild, Cades Cove is the place to be. You may also see deer, wild turkeys, an occasional coyote, and for sure, the continuous splendor of trees.  

Several years ago on a steamy summer day, it was not the wildlife that was so unforgettable. Hovering in the upper 80s, the day was far warmer than the forecast had promised. Running that hilly road around the Cove in that late July heat, I rejoiced in every bit of shade that decorated the pavement, short promised patches of coolness, moving from strength to strength.

The daunting hills seemed to rise even steeper than ever before.  As I lumbered along, I was reminded of the ancient psalms of ascent that the pilgrims sang on their way up to Jerusalem.  I lift up my eyes to the hills. From where does my help come? My help comes from the LORD, who made heaven and earth. Psalm 121. 1-2

They sang through the hard stuff.  When they worshiped, they were sustained and strengthened by something more. As are we.

When I run, my unhurried pace urges reluctant thoughts to the surface. Going slow sharpens my eyes to what is hidden along the way, grasping the sight of a shy doe, a red-tailed hawk soaring, or a blanket of trillium in full bloom.  The mere act of running on long lonely roads dredges up prayers I would have never prayed otherwise, each pounding step shaking things up inside, and changing me a little bit more.  Running is not just a physical endeavor.

I think about stuff when I run. I write stories in my head. I compose essays. I pray differently in the fellowship of really big trees. And sometimes I sing out loud like the pilgrims.  Because in those moments, only God can hear me.

Just halfway around the loop that afternoon, I was already dragging, my tank top saturated, glued to my skin, and sweat smearing my sun glasses.  And there were many more hills ahead and miles to go before I was done.

Discouragement whispered to me like naysayers along the sidelines, stop, stop, stop, matching the rhythmic pattern of my feet and labored breathing. But I know from previous runs that to stop running on an uphill is a sure defeat. To get started again takes more than physical strength. To keep on running, I knew to keep my head down, looking only at the next step. And then the next. And occasionally, like the pilgrims, lifting my eyes to the trees surrounding me like so many sentries standing at attention on a parade route. Keep on, keep on, keep on, they urged.

I knew this familiar slope. I had run it many times before.  There was indeed an end to this hill.   But it was still hard.  Rented jeeps, SUV's packed with kids, and Dodge Rams with beer drinkers in the back rumbled past me up the hill, over and out of sight, racing past to see the sights.  Most never even noticed as they squeezed me over to the crumbling edges of the asphalt. No shoulders here, no margins.  At times, I stepped into the shallow rocky ditch to accommodate the vehicles.

As I approached the top of that particular hill, running on empty, I noticed a large black SUV pulled over on the side of the narrow road.  I was curious about what the driver saw, perhaps a bear lazily rambling across the road or climbing a tree, or maybe he was awestruck by the tabernacle of the forest,  taking in the glory instead of rushing past the wonder of this sacred place. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

But this driver saw something entirely different.  

I slowly reached the ridge, ready to pass him by, when I stopped short.  His window slid down. A hand reached out holding an icy dripping bottle of water right out of a cooler.  He didn't say anything.  He just smiled.  I did not know him.  He was a stranger, as I was to him.  And he had been waiting for me.

I almost cried. 

He saw me struggling.  And he did what he could do.  Kind people live hilariously like that.

Kind hearts always look differently at the scenery around them.  They see others with new eyes and a fresh heart, recognizing and responding to outward needs or inward struggles that others don’t even see. 

In his devotional My Utmost for His Highest, Oswald Chambers points out:  Readiness for God means that we are ready to do the tiniest little thing or the great big thing, it makes no difference. 

Not out of any kind of obligation, but compelled by a hidden joy.

The kindhearted don’t contemplate if they should help, but think about how they can help.  Even the smallest acts of kindness shift the tectonic plates of the universe.  They may offer something to fill a momentary physical gap, come alongside to walk or run or listen, sometimes to encourage in word or deed, but always giving what is more tangible and eternal than we can ever comprehend.

And whoever gives one of these little ones even a cup of cold water because he is a disciple, truly, I say to you, he will by no means lose his reward.  Matthew 10. 42

It was only a disposable bottle of water.  But not in God’s sight – nor in my own present need. Instead, it manifested the profound ministry of the cup of cold water, revealed by Jesus in scripture and played out through the ages, transforming ordinary moments into extraordinary ones, full of the recognizable grace of God.

Doing something kind every day for a long time makes it really hard not to do it. 

I don’t know if this man was able to observe the black bear he had driven to see in the national park. But he changed the course of my day by his selfless vision of what he did see.  My cup runneth over with the compassion I was given, an act of mercy and grace, a profound and rare moment never soon forgotten. 

I doubt it was the first time he stopped to help a stranger or a friend. Nor his last. 

Just because he could. 

Just because we can.

The One That Didn't Get Away

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

It was a long slow morning. No fish in sight, although we knew they were there.  No bites. No hits.

But in the most unexpected places and ordinary days, God surprises us in unsuspecting ways. Perhaps a fish in an unlikely stream. Sometimes a lot more astonishing than that.

God may not give us that big trophy fish we want, but He is generous in what we need ....or what someone else desperately needs.  Even if we may not realize it in that moment.

We go into a situation -- or even this day ahead of us -- with a lot of expectations, or none at all -- of what we will find, what we will do, or even what we think God should do.  But we have only to be faithful in following Him.

God does not call us to abandon our ordinary work or occupations, where He has strategically positioned us, but to see it differently.  God enlarges our vision.  He has rooted us in these places and postures not just for doing something to fill up our time, but by being responsive to the people around us -- ministering, blessing, encouraging, lifting up, bring the name of Jesus to this hard and barren patch of ground, and giving grace the space to grow there.  It is an exercise in "Trust Me in this."

Just an ordinary, mundane day at work, school, or wherever we find ourselves today?  Never.  See it differently:   the care of souls.  

And He said to them, "Follow Me, and I will make you fishers of men."  Matthew 4. 19

We may not catch anything we can take a picture of.  But stay at it.  And carry a big net.  God is giving us a bigger story. God is blessing people through us -- and for the most part, we are unaware of it.

The fish are there.  We just don't often recognize those opportunities scurrying through the deep.

I can never seem to see fish swimming in the streams.  But one time when my husband was fishing, I meandered over an old bridge, enjoying the view. I looked down below the surface of the water.  "Boy, that is weird how those rocks are all lined up like that," I thought.  And then I realized, those were not rocks, but huge trout lined up like planes on the runway at O'Hare airport. Oh, wow, was all I could say.

At the end of the day, fishing is not just about how many fish we catch, because if it was, there would never be enough. But surrounding us is what God brings into this day.  And that is always more than we can imagine.  Look up.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Enlarge our vision in this day, O LORD.

Keep us faithful even in the ordinary, even in the drought.

May we embrace deeper things in this day.

And be responsive to You.

Weight Lifting for Dummies

Two of my objectives this year are to try something hard and do something different.  To put those initiatives into action, my husband and I signed up for a strength development class in January at our local YMCA.  Over the course of twelve weeks, three times a week, we met in a class of six to ten led by a personal trainer, a rag tag group of varying ages and states of fitness.

For 45 minutes every Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday, we lifted weights and worked our way through sets of exercises of increasing intensity.  Our trainer did not stay in front of the room barking out instructions.  To my initial horror, I could not just hide in the back row. She traveled around the room correcting our form and providing support.  In those first few weeks, she did not laugh once at my feeble efforts and pathetic selection of weights. But she encouraged my every attempt.

There was no competition there, a refreshing surprise. We all lifted different weights. We all had a different story, coming at it from another place.

And along the way, each training session, I felt myself getting a little bit stronger.  

About the ninth or tenth week, the trainer suddenly upped the ante, introducing a whole new circuit of strength-building measures. I tried to follow along. You have to be kidding.  This is way too hard. But I did what I could.  It was the hardest workout yet.  I glanced at the clock, the minute hand moved at a snail's pace.  Done.  

But when we returned two days later, the same workout faced us.  I dreaded it.  But this second time through, surprisingly, wasn't so bad.  It was not that the weights suddenly became lighter, but each time, I was getting stronger.  Same situation.  Different reaction.  Strength comes in layers.  Endurance develops in the process of just working through it, and at times, choosing to add a little more weight to my bar.

In our lives, we tend at all costs to avoid discomfort, inconvenience, and anything we can possibly label as suffering or affliction.  Yet sometimes that heavy weight in our days or on our path is not an obstacle at all, but meant to make us stronger.  How do we respond to it?

Seek the LORD and His strength.  Seek His Presence continually.  1 Chronicles 16. 11

Initially, I didn't notice much difference in my abilities.  But one day last week, I hauled out a carton of yogurt containers from the refrigerated section at Costco with one hand. "There is no way you could have done that before," my husband remarked.

Sometimes what we are faced with or going through is absolutely hard, hefty and massive.  But He is here already....and always. Because God does the heavy lifting. Not just in this moment to lend us a hand, but leading us through, every moment along the way.  Not throwing at it a cheery and cheesy phrase, "Come on, you can do it." But true strength comes in turning to Him. 

And I realized it is not just an exercise in lifting weights, but in strength development.  

For You equipped me with strength for the battle ....2 Samuel 22. 40  

What is God forming in me through this struggle? Strength for today and bright hope for tomorrow with each repetition and new exercise. Not meant to defeat us, but to build us up for what is and what is to come.

 

Through and Through

One of the delights of hiking is not just wandering in the wilderness, nor checking off another trail on the map, nor a sense of accomplishment, nor survival, but discovering what is all around, the wonders of going through.

We may sense where we are going, but sometimes even that surprises us.  We may be alert to the scenic overlooks or the majesty of an old growth forest, but there is always something new emerging on the trail or even coming together in our thoughts, working our way from point to point and back again.

We shall not cease from exploration, and the end of all our exploring will be to arrive where we started and know the place for the first time. -- poet T. S. Eliot (1943)

Sometimes the degree of difficulty is beyond us. And where is the strength to go forth and not just sit down defeated?

Many friends right now are on unfathomable terrain, enduring cancer treatments, the vestiges of divorce, difficult decisions, the suffocation of loneliness, too loud to think, too quiet to handle, looking for exit doors or an emergency helicopter to rescue them from circumstances. Pray for me, they ask. Pray for this. Pray that God would do that.

We are surrounded by desperation. And most people are really good at disguising it.

While watching the recent Paris-Roubaix women's cycling race, amidst crashes and traveling over cobblestones, the commentator remarked, "Everyone has a story getting through."

The key word here is through.

Sometimes our path is hard.  But always God is here, not just in a difficult moment, but leading us through. Through is one of the most promising words in the Bible, seamlessly woven in the stories there.  Everyone has a story getting through. Even us.

Through means moving from one side out to the other, continuing in time toward completion, a movement to a particular destination.

But in moving through, God calls us to walk differently.  Not in fear, or our own agenda, but in His Presence. Even in this. We find His faithfulness on the most unexpected paths and in the most unlikely places.

When you pass through the waters, I will be with you, and through the rivers, they shall not overwhelm you, when you walk through fire you shall not be burned, and the flame shall not consumer you.  For I am the LORD your God, the Holy One of Israel, your Savior...Because you are precious in My eyes, and honored, and I love you.  Isaiah 43. 2-4

But the people of Israel walked on dry ground through the sea, the waters being a wall to them on their right hand and on their left. Exodus 14. 29

Your way was through the sea, Your path through the great waters, yet Your footprints were unseen. Psalm 77.19 

We may not know where we are going or how, but God is leading us through.  He calls us not to rush through and miss the wonders. He calls us to trust in His slow work, even when in what appears as the long way around. 

And then, our prayers take another path -- praying not for something or someone, or for God to do this or that, but to pray through.  Every moment along the way draws us closer to Him, even the hard stuff, even the unexpected, nothing random or insignificant, nothing God does not redeem.

I may not know what to pray for someone, not knowing what is really on their path either visible or invisible, nor their destination or outcome, or how God is strengthening them, but I can pray them through. 

God takes care of the details on the journey.  He carries us through and even into the though, when we can't quite see our journey. "Trust Me in this. Let Me see you through. Allow yourself to be led."

Through and through.