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.