Connected

It was a gorgeous fall day on Mackinac Island – blue and fortifying.  My husband and I walked a path up a little hill, admiring the marigolds and harassing the seagulls.  We marveled at the perfection of so much of the island, which was clearly under the careful eye of many skilled and passionate gardeners.

A tree near the path caught my attention.  Unlike so much around us, it wasn’t perfect.  One large branch hung down at an unnatural angle, bare bark showing near the top where it used to be firmly attached to the tree.  The leaves were still green, so I surmised that a recent wind or storm had broken the branch from its trunk.  I was saddened to think that it would soon die and be dragged away, leaving the tree incomplete.

Later that day we passed the tree again, this time from the opposite direction.  On impulse, we stopped our walk and tucked ourselves in against the inviting trunk.  I sighed with the pleasure of bark at my back, then took a look around me.  I had parked myself directly below the broken branch.  Its tips nearly brushed the ground.  My eyes traveled up the branch, appreciating its graceful sweep, its odd angle, like a disobedient child leaning down away from its parent’s arms, struggling to be set free.  As I continued to look further up the branch, my admiration turned to puzzlement.  Where the branch met the tree trunk, there was . . . nothing.  No split.  No break.  The branch merged perfectly into the tree, firmly attached, as though it had grown that way.

I got up, brushed the dirt off my rear, and went to investigate.  Around on the other side of the branch, there was brokenness.  But underneath, where nobody could see it, there was a connection.  The branch leaned away from its parent, reached toward the ground, struggling to be set free, but the tree held it fast.  There was no way of telling how long the branch had been going on that way, leaning away, rebelling, seeking to get away . . . but held.  Tightly.  Underneath, where nobody could see.

****

We lean away.  Some of us bend just a little bit, then spring back into obedient compliance.  Some of us wave and bounce in a storm, but settle back to stillness and give the tree pleasing shape.  But some of us . . . break.  Hurts too big to be borne weigh us down, push us, pull us, and wrench us away from our tree of life.  We break.

It’s painful to see a broken branch dangling off the tree of God’s family.  We walk past, shaking our heads, sad to see it go, sad to see it unbeautiful.  We are sad to see it die.  But there is no hope for a broken branch.  It cannot be reconnected to the tree.

Sometimes, though, the trunk does not let go.

A loved one has leaned too far.  A son.  A daughter.  A friend.  A storm of hurt has ripped them away from the trunk that gives them life.  From the outside, they are fallen in rebellion, separated beyond repair.  A mother falls to her knees, pleading for the soul of her child.  A daughter hesitates, speaks, holds her tongue, sheds tears at night, praying without words for the softening of her father’s heart.  Hope where there is no hope; the branch is broken.

But underneath, where nobody can see it, the trunk is holding on.

The prayer goes on.  The pleas go up.  And the trunk holds on, giving life in the midst of rebellion.  The tree, which once held a Savior, holds on to the broken.  And it holds on to me.  And it will not, will not, will not let go.

Going In

We were getting ready to leave the library.  I gathered my older two and shooed them toward the door, intending to collect Jonah from the children’s section on the way out.  A hip-high wall defines a corner of the library designated for the smaller set.  Picture books, stuffed animals, and a cheerful rug invite the young ones to stay and read.  The entryway into this welcoming area is made magical by the presence of a white latticework arch, brightened by ivy and plastic flowers.

Jonah had spent the past fifteen minutes by himself, quietly enjoying this little corner area while I looked for a book in another part of the library.  Now, as the time came for us to go home, I motioned to him to come out and join us.  Instead of scooting out immediately, however, he stood still and looked at me with concern in his eyes.  Impatiently I scrunched my face at him and whispered, “Jonah!  Time to go!”  Still looking at me, lips tight and a little quivery, he lifted one uncertain finger and pointed.  In the archway entrance to the children’s area were two women, standing and talking to one another casually.  I looked back at Jonah.  His shoulders gave a tiny helpless shrug, and his eyes glistened with the hint of tears.  My poor little bug – he didn’t know how to get out.  He knew he was supposed to pass though that archway but, confronted by grown-up strangers blocking his path, he was trapped.

My reassuring smile was of no help to my son.  He only lifted his hands a little, palms up, in a familiar gesture of puzzled resignation.  It was clear that, until those talking women moved out of his way, he was not going to go through that archway.  I couldn’t think of any alternative.  I was going to have to go in and get him.

The talking women,  still deeply engrossed in their exchange of trivialities, didn’t look up at my approach.  They were pleasant-looking, smiling, probably moms like me.  As I moved closer, though, it suddenly occurred to me that I didn’t want to walk past these women, either.  I don’t like being rude, and I don’t like confrontation, and I didn’t want to interrupt their conversation and ask to be let through the archway.

But my son was trapped inside, and I needed to get him out.  I breathed in, breathed out, and then marched up to the gatekeepers.  A simple “excuse me” gained my admittance, and soon I was holding Jonah’s hand and leading him out of the children’s area, stopping for a quick reassuring hug before heading to the car.

It’s funny what we’re afraid of, isn’t it? 

Moving to a new town has been scary.  Raised in the cornbelt, we’re complete strangers to northern life.  So much is new and intimidating, from learning how to recycle at Glen’s to struggling with the pronunciation of last names laced with rogue consonants.  It’s gorgeous here, breathtakingly gorgeous, but there are days I wish we hadn’t come, because being new is scary.  Going in is scary.  Getting to know a new place, a new people, a new church, a new life . . . scary.  Becoming a part of this new place is going to require me to open my heart to new things, new relationships.  It requires me to make myself vulnerable to being hurt.  It means knowing that I’m going to feel like I don’t fit for a while, because I don’t, yet.  It means feeling like I’m intruding into something which is already established and already good just as it is, without me.  Going through that doorway is scary.  No, not scary – terrifying.

Sometimes, when you’re scared, you have to take a breath and go in anyway.

And sometimes, when you’re really scared, someone comes through the door and gets you.

A bag of fresh-picked vegetables is left on the doorstep.  The neighbor helps you fix your well pump late at night.  A new friend takes you to get a Knaebe’s caramel apple, just because.  A hand is extended – you take it – and the newness becomes a lot less scary.

*

The world can be an intimidating place.  There is much that is strange, much that is wrong.  There is evil in the world, man hurting man, sadness and despair and pain.  Standing in the middle of life, trying to figure how to escape the walls around us, perhaps seeing glimmers of hope but unable to get to them alone, we raise our palms in mute despair.  It’s a scary world, and we are alone.

But sometimes, when you’re really scared, someone comes in to get you.

The Word became flesh and dwelt among us.  God came in.  Instead of standing on the other side of the wall, beckoning me to come to Him, to pass through the gate on my own, He came right in with me.   On the cross Jesus took my hand, called me His own, and led me to the safety of my Father’s warm embrace.

It’s funny what we’re afraid of.  Because we’re never really alone.  No matter what, no matter where, there’s a hand reaching out for me.  And I can’t wait to grab hold of it.

Wait

Let us acknowledge the LORD; let us press on to acknowledge Him. As surely as the sun rises, He will appear; He will come to us like the winter rains, like the spring rains that water the earth.
Hosea 6:3

I woke up early yesterday. After a quick, stumbling-in-the-dark trip to the restroom, I longed to nestle under the covers and ease back to sleep. Outside the window, though, there was a wash of light beginning to warm up the trees in the back yard. Since we moved up north I’ve been wishing to see a real Sunrise-Side sunrise over Lake Huron. This, I thought, was my chance. I tiptoed past my sleeping husband, eased the van keys off of the dresser, and slunk out the kitchen door. The trip to Seagull Point is wonderfully short, but I was worried that I wouldn’t make it before the sun began to peek over the watery horizon. I pulled into the lot, relieved to see that I hadn’t missed anything exciting.

I pulled in to a parking spot. I rolled down the window and turned off the engine. I waited.

(Allow me to say here that no, I did not get out of the van to watch the sunrise, despite there being a perfectly-situated picnic table where I could have had a splendid view. The sad fact is, I stayed in the van because it was still dark out, and darkness makes me nervous. I know it’s ridiculous, especially in a town as safe and serene as Rogers City, but there it is. I’m scared of the dark. And I am not ashamed.)

(Much.)

I waited for the sun to rise. My eyes scanned the dark horizon, anxious to catch the day’s first glimpse of the glowing ball. I was tense, alert. I didn’t want to miss a thing. I waited.

And waited.

The water moved restlessly, jostling the occasional seagull resting on its surface. It rolled across the length of the shore like a man sealing an envelope. In the distance, several lights blinked mysteriously – early-morning fishermen? As the sky gradually lightened, the blues of the water changed from dusky navy to a sparkling steely turquoise. A faint fishy smell mingled with the quiet, monotonous song of the water.

The day was beginning, and it was lovely. But still, the sun refused to rise. The event for which I’d come, the arrival of the king of the sky in all its majesty, an event which, when it happened, would happen so quickly as to take my breath away, simply would not begin. I drummed my fingers on the steering wheel. I rolled my neck and stretched my shoulders. I cleaned my fingernails. I wished, fervently, that the sun would get a move on.

The more the clock progressed, the more I could see my surroundings. A toad caught my eye, galumphing uncertainly across the parking lot. A sailboat appeared, then a speedboat, making their way out to where the big fish are. I thought of my family back at the house, probably still dreaming happy dreams and tucked in up to their chins. What time would they wake up? Time to wake . . . up . . . oh, dear.  I realized, when it was too late to do anything about it, that I had not turned off my alarm clock before I crept out of the bedroom. It was going to go off, and I would not be there to smack at it with one sleepy hand to activate the snooze alarm. My family was going to be roused from their peaceful slumber by the unstoppable waah, waah, waah waah of my unchecked buzzer. Eventually Derek would roll over and turn it off himself, but not before becoming completely annoyed with me for not being there, starting his day off on a grumpy note. I didn’t want that.

The horizon had grown pinker now, but there was still no sun peeking out to steal a look at the new day. I had rushed out here to see a sunrise, but the sun was not rising. I had things to do, people to see, alarms to turn off. I decided to leave.

As I glided out of the parking area, I glanced once more toward the pinking sky. The color had reached out to the water now, and the ripples of the lake reflected back a glorious, undulating rosy glow. Stay, the waves called to me. Stay, and wait a bit longer. The sun will come. I thought of my sleeping children and the alarm clock, and the to-do list on the counter. Waiting would have to wait. I pulled onto the road and headed home.


Let us acknowledge the LORD; let us press on to acknowledge Him. As surely as the sun rises, He will appear; He will come to us like the winter rains, like the spring rains that water the earth.
Hosea 6:3


It’s hard to be patient sometimes. But what a shame it is not to stick around long enough to wait for the sun to rise.  Because it will, it certainly will.  As long as there is life on the earth, you can bet your bottom dollar that tomorrow, and the next day, there’ll be sun.

As surely as the sun rises, He will appear.

How impatient I become as I wait for God to make His appearance in my life. Lord, help me find my keys. Now. I don’t know how I’m going to pay this bill, Lord. Send me money – quickly. I’m lonely; I’m restless; I’m unfulfilled. Heavenly Father, make it all better. Mend my heart. And please, dear God, do it today. I’m waiting.

Our wait for God to do the good we hope He will do is often filled with fidgets and sighs.  We wish, fervently, that God would get a move on.


Meanwhile, the sky is brightening and the waves are turning pink. Around us, life continues, beautiful and inspiring, a gift unseen. In my haste to get where I want to go and be who I want to be, I fail to see the blessings with which my maker has showered me along the way. The missing toy car, tucked away where my keys should have been. The compassion of a new friend. The opportunity for introspection and the soothing familiarity of a sink full of soap bubbles. Waiting can be wonderful, if only we look around us.

We wait for the sun to come. We wait for a glimpse of our creator, anticipate the grand and wonderful things He will do to make our lives happier, safer, better. He does make Himself known, and He does let us see glimpses of His unfathomable workings. But the sky is not always clear; breathtaking, glorious sunrises don’t happen every day. Maybe I won’t find my keys; maybe I won’t be able to pay that bill. Maybe my mom’s cancer won’t go away. Maybe the sunrise that is coming is not the one for which I’m hoping.

On an overcast day, when clouds obscure the magnificence of the morning sun, is the sun any less there? Even when we can’t see it, we know that there’s a giant light in the sky, still radiant, still powerful, still giving life to the earth. When our heart is overcast, when it’s hard to see God’s blessings, still, He’s there. Even when I can’t see His working in my life, even when all I can see is darkness, I cling to the firm conviction that even then, though clouds obscure Him from my vision, He is there.

Let us acknowledge the LORD; let us press on to acknowledge Him. As surely as the sun rises, He will appear; He will come to us like the winter rains, like the spring rains that water the earth.
Hosea 6:3

How foolish it is to turn your back on a sunrise. Each morning is a new masterpiece, a new beginning, a new promise of a new day.  The sun WILL come out, and it will be well worth the wait.


The Son has risen, He has risen indeed, and will rise again. On the cross Jesus faced the darkness of sin in our place. On Easter morning He leapt from His tomb, defeating death, liberating light, and claiming us as His own. And with that knowledge, that certainty, as certain as the morning sun or the five-foot winter drifts of Rogers City snow, we know, we KNOW, that we are God’s beloved people. As surely as the sun rises, He will appear. How, how could I turn away, sighing with impatience? The Lord of all, who loves me, is getting ready to do great things in my life. I can’t wait to see what He’s got planned for me today.

We turn our eyes to the east and wait. For what? For the blazing forth of God’s light, touching each new day with majesty and splendor. The light that He gives is the warmth of His love, the comfort of His peace, the strength of His forgiveness. It is for that light that I wait in joyful expectation.

Addendum, a couple of days later:
This morning I went back to Seagull Point to watch the sun rise.  It was magnificent.  I'm so glad I waited.

First Post in Michigan

It’s the old story. I’ve been desperate to write. There isn’t time, there isn’t time. Suddenly, there’s time. Thursday afternoon. A long to-do list, but nothing urgent. Daddy’s at work. Kids are restless. It’s summer, and summer doesn’t last. So we pack up a few armfuls of supplies – towels, water shoes, cups and bowls and a shovel – and head out the door. Just yesterday we figured out that we can take “the shortcut” – a gravel road through the woods – over to the bike path, and from there we can catch a small trail that ends at the beach. Lake Huron, so mysteriously compelling through our window at night, is actually within walking distance. Amazing. We march merrily toward the sound of the water, wishing we’d put our supplies in backpacks, and before long our shoes are being filled with sand. We drop our bags and buckets in a heap and head for the water. The lake is cold. It’s still early August and as warm as it’s going to get, but still we squeal and skip as the waves catch our ankles by surprise. There’s a stronger than usual breeze blowing in over the lake, and the water heaves itself against the shore. I caution the kids – no going in above your knees this time. My cautions are unnecessary; today they’d rather build sandcastles. Jonah grabs a cup and begins to tote water up the beach to a dry spot. Emmalyn, sand clinging to her wet calves, sits and scoops sand into a bowl, patting it firmly. Isaac begins to dig.


I’ve come with good intentions of getting some writing done, but first I must take a peek at the rocks. We’ve not been at this beach before, though I suspect we’ll be back. Often, I hope. It’s fascinating how each stretch of shore has its own character. I can see Seagull Point from here, with its long stretches of grape- and plum-sized stones. In between there and here is a stretch of more traditional beach, sandy and popular with the locals. This beach is a nice blend of sandy and rocky. Soft enough to sit on, but rocky enough to be fascinating in all directions. Scraggly beach shrubbery helps keep the sand in place. The water is clear between the wavelets and gives me tantalizing glimpses of the smooth shapes and muted jewel tones below.

Scolding myself for once again forgetting to change into shorts, I roll up my capris to a ridiculous height and tug them still higher, glad that no one is around to witness my tacky fashion sense. My toes and ankles have gotten used to the coldness, and my knees don’t mind it much as I wade in deeper. I tell myself to look forward and enjoy the rolling beauty of the lake, but I can’t keep my eyes off the rock below. It’s my newest obsession, rock hunting. I blame our new friend Nonnie, who taught me just enough to get me curious. Now everywhere I go I look for rocks. I’m getting snobbish already. Not just any rocks will do. I want the good ones. What I really want to find is a Petoskey stone, Michigan’s state rock and a type of fossilized coral. I’d also be glad to find a pudding stone, an elusive Michigan specialty that looks like a cherry-banana scone. Emmalyn found one yesterday, and I’m totally jealous. The rocks in this spot are lovely. Through the water I see gorgeous colors, stripes and spots and swirls. It’s slippery walking over the stones, coated as they are with something greenish which I can only assume is a form of plant life. The waves push at my shins as I move slowly down the beach. I gather a handful of smaller stones and poke at a small crablike creature that’s clinging stubbornly to a rock.

The kids are still happily building. I drag myself away from the rock hunt and find a comfy place in the sand. Glasses on, notebook open, pen in hand. Finally, I have time to do some writing. But – it happens so often – I don’t know what to write about. It’s the old story. Finally, free time, but nothing to say.

And then I start to write, and . . . there’s so, so much to say. Because life is so, so fascinating. Every moment is a story, every glance reveals a masterpiece. Oh, what fun it is, what great and thrilling joy, to put those stories and pictures into words. What marvelous fun it is to write.

I’ve gotten so attached to the idea of writing as a devotional exercise that I had to see what the Bible had to say about writing. My search was not exhaustive, certainly – just a quick Biblegateway search. But what a lovely passage I discovered. First John (he’s my favorite Biblical writer, tho I’m very fond of Paul) 1:3-4 goes a little something like this . . . “That which we have seen and heard we proclaim also to you, so that you too may have fellowship with us; and indeed our fellowship is with the Father and with his Son Jesus Christ. And we are writing these things so that our joy may be complete.” Isn’t that just perfect? Ok, so it’s not talking about mama-on-the-shore type writing. But it does speak of the joy of writing, the satisfaction of sharing that which is important and the bonds that can be forged through the magic of words. And truly, the joy of writing is not complete unless it acknowledges the fellowship that we have with the Father and with His Son Jesus Christ. There’s so much to write about, such a intriguing life and a beautiful world to share – but how much richer that sharing is when He who created life and He who redeems it are at the center of all our words.

A blog – a place to post little whatnots about daily life, an excuse to write. A fine idea. For me, now, perhaps, an opportunity to spend time with the words I love so dearly and to warm up my heart as I see what I don’t usually see until I begin to write . . . God’s always-there-even-though-I-don’t-always-see-Him presence in my life. I am writing these things so that my joy may be complete.