The River

We three friends walked single file forging a new slender path meandering through hip high yellow-green grass. We walked silently, each too busy admiring our environment to talk. The area was brightly lit, although the sun was not hot nor was the breeze chilling. As we moved along I began to faintly hear the water moving. The sound was calming. Birds were flying overhead from one giant tree limb to another. We wound our path between the trees toward our destination.

I had never swum in a river before. This pristine place seemed like we had opened a door into the Wind in the Willows world and I expected to see little Ratty and Mole and Badger playing on the far bank. The tall grasses grew right up to the water in places. In other places bare rocks could be seen. We in our bathing suits were now giddy from the change in environment. City pavement and rows of buildings, traffic noises, and hurrying people were our daily experience. Here we were enveloped in peace in a kind of dreamy soft other-worldly beauty. It was a kind of thin place where one can more easliy interface with God.

Arriving at the river, I stepped into the water onto a large nearly-black rough rock. The cold water on my feet and ankles made me hunch my shoulders and shiver a little. So I stood there observing the water. It was white with reflection of the sky where it rushed thinly over rocks near the surface. In other places it was so clear that I could see every plant and rock beneath three feet of water. The current moved quickly, but not at a dangerous rushing pace. Water and long underwater grasses swayed together in their graceful water dance.

Some of the huge egg-shaped rocks at the bottom were covered with deep-green mossy vegetation, too slippery to stand on. So after taking a few steps deeper into the current, the best thing to do was submerge and grab hold of the long grasses to prevent myself from being swept downstream. The constant sound of water moving was a lullaby washing away all the worries, cares and memories of the hectic city. I stayed there for a long time floating on my back, holding hands with the river grass, eyes closed, listening. As the water flowed over me I felt as though I was melting into it, relaxing, becoming grateful that such a place even existed on this planet.

Had we seen Ratty and Mole and Badger, they would have waved and smiled with knowing faces that we had discovered their secret place of wonder where life flows as intended by the Creator. Kenneth Grahame describes Mole’s discovery of the river:

He thought his happiness was complete when, as he meandered aimlessly along, suddenly he stood by the edge of a full-fed river. Never in his life had he seen a river before – this sleek, sinuous, full-bodied animal, chasing and chucking, gripping things with a gurgle and leaving then with a laugh, to fling itself on fresh playmates that shook themselves free, and were caught and held again. All was a-shake and a-shiver – glints and gleams and sparkles, rustle and swirl, chatter and bubble. The Mole was bewitched, entranced, fascinated. By the side of the river he trotted as one trots, when very small, by the side of a man who holds one spellbound by exciting stories; and when tired at last, he sat on the bank, while the river still chattered on to him, a babbling procession of the best stories in the world, sent form the heart of the earth to be told at last to the insatiable sea.” (Grahame, Kenneth. The Wind in the Willows. Puffin Books, Middlesex, England: 1983. Pages 8-9)

A spiritual place like this exists for our refuge. You can journey there in prayer. Time slows down there, but you must be willing to submerge and trust. It’s a river of love so deep and free flowing that it melts into you. It changes you. “Come and play,” beckons the water. It’s a place of harmony, understanding, peace, excitement, rejuvenation and joy.

In another place at another time I stood holding a soft white towel as women came one by one to dip their hands in a wooden bowl of water. Lights had been dimmed and soothing worship music enhanced the air. Palm sized river rocks lovingly placed in the bottom of the large bowls and covered with water simulated a soothing river. Single file, conference attendees meandered to the front of the line where they would be refreshed in the flowing river of God’s love.

Cathee and Fran, ministers of the day, prayed for each one who placed hands in the water. The Spirit eagerly waited upstream. As I watched the faces of the women in line waiting for prayer, I began to pray in my heart for them. Their gentle hands submerged: baptism of trust. Faith flowed.

Suddenly I felt as though I was in that faraway river again. It was more like a river of understanding this time, a knowing that God cared deeply about what was transpiring. The sensation so surprised me that tears began flowing down my cheeks. I was witnessing a supernatural event: God meeting, loving, listening and soothing his people. I gently dried each pair of hands as I prayed hoping I was sealing the scent of the event into the soul of each woman.

The Wall

While touring the arid American west in late summer, we could actually see thermal turbulence rising from the pavement; the heat caused an optical distortion of the objects far down the road. The air looked like it had become a thick liquid. In places it looked like water was covering the black road and was reflecting the sky, even where there was no water for miles. I suppose that’s a mirage. I learned that things are not always what they look like from a distance.

In the opposite hemisphere, the black of the night sky was challenged by bright floodlights on tall street poles as I got off the bus with five pieces of paper in my pocket. “Stay on the women’s side,” someone cautioned. “Don’t turn your back to the wall,” urged someone else in a whisper. I was surprised to see white molded plastic chairs strewn around. I approached the ancient wall slowly, taking in its ominous height. All around me were people who didn’t dare speak.

When I stepped within two feet of the wall, I felt I had entered a place where the natural and spiritual worlds were woven together in a way that allowed humans to tangibly sense the unseen world. It seemed like the air was more viscous there. I felt I had entered a thick nearly liquid region of air where a kind of unseen force-field changes life. I wondered if my blood might begin rushing through my veins in a new direction. I began to tremble as I stood before an enormous rectangular stone at the base of the wall.

I sensed the history of thousands of people who had touched this wall before. Like me, they had come to meet with God. Skeptics criticize people here for worshipping the wall, but as I stood there I wept knowing God loves being sought after, even at a cold stone wall. Those stones have been there for centuries and many people before me had brought their petitions to God in trust and with hope that he would have mercy. He is faithful.

Today’s Western Wall formed part of the retaining perimeter of Herod the Great’s platform for the exquisite Second Temple. Jewish tradition maintains that portions of this wall were built by King David. Today it is the closest the Jews can get to the foundation stone where the Holy of Holies stood. The temple was once a conduit where people met with God. Here, God’s teaching touched the world, people made atonement for sin and God’s forgiveness flowed. Awe and love of God surround the temple mount. It is sometimes called the Wailing Wall because here Jews mourned the destruction of their holy temple and access to their holy place was denied.

In the plaza, the exposed section of the wall is sixty-two feet high; rugged little tufts of plants have grown from its lofty cracks. Twenty-eight rows of stone are visible and each stone weighs between two and eight tons. In stark contrast to that mammoth construction project, I retrieved the little papers from my pocket. I feebly rolled up the five pieces, each bearing a heartfelt prayer in my tiniest writing. I wedged the bits between the goliath stones knowing that prayers have power, whether written on frail papers or uttered toward heaven, and that God is stronger than any earthly structure, even this one. Still, my hands were shaking as I mimicked those who had done the same thing before me. “Oh God, give me faith as unmovable as these rocks,” I thought as I stood feeling small beside them. Then I realized you have to get close to God or you might misunderstand what you see, like those distant heat-induced distortions on the highway.

I stood there for several minutes basking in the thick presence of God. Then I reverently backed slowly away from the wall as instructed, more out of respect for the Jewish people than out of a belief that one should not turn their back on the wall.

I took half a dozen or so photos there. Without a flash strong enough to reach the wall from where I stood, I had to use a slow shutter speed. At first I was disappointed with the blurry results, but when I looked closely I realized that people who were in motion when my shutter opened appeared as transparent blurs in the photos. It reminded me that our lives are transparent too, that God sees through our pretenses and masks. Not only that, but although life seems to go on and on, it can end very quickly and should be used wisely. It’s as though life itself is a mirage that fades as you speed toward your destination.

Then I boarded the bus, bearing a sweet memory of a meeting with God, and an inspiration to see through the things of this world. Truly things are not always as they seem.

Storage Boxes

The other day my friend told me she was methodically cleaning out every closet in her house. I felt a little jealous. I didn’t feel motivated to do that in my house, but I knew the good feeling of cleaning out the clutter.

I had a garage sale every November when my kids were growing up. Here in Florida that’s the best time of year for a sale. Garage sale lovers go from house to house using predetermined routes every Saturday. I would begin preparing a month in advance, removing items from closets, cleaning, folding, mending, fixing, and marking prices. I would always accumulate bags of things to throw away too.

Emptying the closets yielded amazing benefits. First, I could finally find things in the closets after a good de-junk. It was also easier to keep the house picked up because everything had its own spot in a closet somewhere. I enjoyed giving huge price breaks to the needy who showed up on garage sale Saturday. After each annual sale I had enough cash to buy nicer gifts for the kids at Christmas. The leftovers, usually a van load of things, would be donated to a church thrift store that benefits the migrant workers in our county. The whole thing was a feel good event for our family bringing awareness of the needs of others and a satisfaction that we could help in our small way. It even forced us to deep clean the garage annually.

Today is Saturday. Usually I get up and plow into my work, but today I didn’t receive my directions from the Lord until well after I woke up. “This is strange,” I thought. I’m the kind of person who fills my day with busyness even when I should be resting and listening. But today I felt no motivation at all. I felt a kind of deep sadness in my lack of enthusiasm for the gift of another day of life. I stayed in bed for a long time hoping to feel a surge of inspiration. Finally I realized the Lord wanted me to consider cleaning out my heart, much like having an annual garage sale.

“Hmmm, what could this mean?” I wondered. Then I thought of my best friend whose closets are all neatly organized through the use of storage boxes. Ahh, then I understood. I have internal boxes too and their disarray was hindering me from getting out of bed and functioning efficiently.

I have some treasures in my heart that are worthy of keeping in the best quality boxes. But they become unappreciated in the shadows of other unattractive boxes. The box holding unforgiven events has a sharply pointed lid. It prevents other wonderful boxes from being stacked on top of it. In this way it crowds other things out. This week my trusted doctor treated me arrogantly and acted as though my infirmities are entirely my fault. Perhaps he’s right, but it was painful to be blamed for things that already hurt. I carried frustration, discouragement and resentment about the visit until I realized unforgiveness caused my misery. I had heaped more dirt and dust in that awkward box in my heart. In this way the box had grown so large and heavy that it couldn’t be moved in order to gain access to the adjacent beauties deep inside.

There, in the shadow of unforgiveness, was a box that has shrunk over the years. After I reduced the size of unforgiveness I could see faint rays of light peeking out at me, like beams from flashlights with fading batteries. The intensity of the glow had dimmed because I had allowed dust to build up on this box, but light was still shining from within. It’s a round cut glass box with a pretty lid. When clean, its many facets create an exquisite light as their prisms illuminate their surroundings with all colors of the rainbow. The light grows brighter as I express God’s love in tangible ways. Had my routine with my husband grown dull? When was the last time I did something really special to show him he is a gift I treasure? Have I reached out to someone in need recently? What about offering hospitality with a true joyful attitude of giving? No wonder the light was fading in that pretty little glass box. I have been neglecting it, too busy on the hamster wheel of life.

I’ve decided to invest in a new internal box. It’ll be constructed of leather and lined with lamb’s wool. I’ll keep forgiveness there and I’ll store it in a place of honor where its sweet fragrance will permeate all the other storage boxes of my heart. It will bring strength and hope even in the darkest times. This box speaks of overcoming this world’s challenges with supernatural power, a gift from God — a reminder that I have been forgiven and I choose to forgive others.

Not all of my household junk has slipped away in garage sales. I have retained items that stir up happy memories stored in my heart. In fact, I’ve collected several special boxes over the years. I have a round antique wooden box containing five thin-walled cylindrical wooden boxes. My grandmother stored spices in them. Although they are empty now, the fragrances of old spices remain, just as the fragrance of her memory enhances my life today.

A shelf on my wall houses some of my favorite memory-evoking treasures. One is a small cardboard gift box ornately decorated in a heart motif. It once contained a plastic injection car designed and made by my daughter in her senior year of college. The gift represents Hannah’s years of dedicated work and her gratitude for her education. Seeing it soothes my heart; I know God continues to give her strength even in today’s challenges.

A small round pewter box on the shelf bears the inscription, “Mom’s hugs are the best hugs.” Opening the box reveals a tiny raised heart inside. I like to run my finger tip over it as I remember hugs from Sarah. That little thumb sucker used to come to me with her blanket and say, “Mom, I have a cuddle for you.” That empty box is paradoxically full.

One of my little boxes is oval, cut from stone and inlaid with mother-of-pearl. I bought it in Bethlehem to remember that one so wonderful came to fill the emptiness in this world.

Another little delight is a box my mom gave me when I was a little girl. It’s round and carved of wood. On its lid four small angels join hands in a circle. They stand on a green field of painted flowers. Their faithful little dance of joy continues every day without fail. It reminds me of people who are worth holding on to in this journey of life.

Just as valued is a hand made box presented to me and my husband at Christmas by our son-in-law. He recognized our family’s eccentric delight in decorating packages with ribbon. In his acceptance of our tradition, Michael made a box and lid entirely out of woven ribbon. Inside was enough cash to buy something he knew we had wanted for a long time. The box represents his loving thoughtfulness and our unity with the newest member of our family. Although the cash was spent a long time ago, this box is also far from empty.

A friend once told me, “You can’t hoard a blessing.”Living close to the coast, we try to be hurricane ready with plenty of canned food in storage. I used to store canned food in a small cabinet above my refrigerator. When I acquired a more accessible cabinet in the garage for that purpose I began storing canned goods there instead. However, I forgot to remove one large can of peaches from above the fridge. Years passed until one day I was standing on a chair removing the dust on top of the refrigerator with Lysol. I opened the cabinet door and found an amazing surprise. The can of peaches had rotted and burst open. The sugar syrup had become a black rock-hard substance up there.

The rusty can is now sealed in a pool of permanent glue stuck to the bottom of the cupboard. After my husband’s first fruitless attempt to remove the foreign object, we accepted its permanence and began to laugh. It’ll be there until we remodel the kitchen and we’ll laugh at it then too. We never smelled anything strange; I guess it all happened very slowly. But there it sits as a reminder that good things must be used before they turn bad. Those peaches would have been delicious had I shared their sweetness instead of letting them sit unused until they spoiled from the inside. Are there rotten attitudes slowly solidifying inside me? I wonder what good things are stowed in the out-of-reach cupboards of my heart.

Continuing with my internal clean out, I found several boxes of guilt and shame. The ugly box of shame smells hideous. Inside are layers upon layers of decaying matter. Jesus suffered to separate me from this shame, but for some reason I have held onto bits of them. I am ashamed I have not stepped away from habitual sin in my life. I have been lazy about rising to his calling in my life. Jesus has forgiven many sins, but I have not forgiven myself for all of them. Instead I keep the memories in my box of shame.

Right next to my weighty box of shame is my box of guilt. There are all the weights Jesus offered to carry, but I chose to carry them myself. The guilt of willful disobedience. The endless list of NOTs: not praying enough, not giving enough, not studying enough, not having enough faith, not loving enough. It’s a box of paralysis. It keeps me from the fullness of joy, from receiving complete forgiveness, from slipping my hand into my heavenly Father’s hand to walk in the fields of flowers with him, and from inheriting the kingdom of God right here and now.

These are the layers of decomposing life that emit a cloud of filth hiding my most beautiful internal box. If I could get past shame and guilt, this unimaginably beautiful treasure box lies beyond. It is inlaid with gold, covered with jewels and lined with the finest deep red velvet. It overflows with joy, peace, gratitude and confidence. Confidence that goodness will prevail, sorrow will turn to gladness and trials will yield strength. Jesus refills this box in my heart whenever I spend time with him. Oh, satisfy my longings, Lord.

I feel inspired to continue this process of sorting through the internal baggage I accumulate. It’s a healthy prayer exercise and it yields fruitful results. I’m going through the layers of shame and guilt and dusting off the boxes of beauty. It feels good to polish the memories and reflect on past blessings. Examine what is accumulating; sift through and find the keepers. Share the good, throw out what is rotting. Get inspired. How refreshing! Lead me on, Lord.

Cracker Jack

Oh bliss. Unfold the foil-lined paper wrapper, peel up the grey flaps of the cardboard Cracker Jack box and you were in for a treat. Candy coated popcorn, peanuts and a prize, that’s what you got in Cracker Jack. Buried somewhere in there was a small sealed white packet with a secret prize inside. I don’t remember being especially fond of candied popcorn, but it was worth getting through it to find the prize nestled deep in the box among crumbs of broken popcorn and bits of peanuts.

One summer I scored big. The holy grail of Cracker Jack prizes was mine. The space age had dawned and we were trying to send a man to the moon, of all places. Even little kids like me could sense the excitement of the race into space. I carefully tore open the prize packaging. It revealed a tiny Apollo style rocket with a spring loaded launcher. Place the rocket on the launcher, depress a tiny red plastic handle, release, and the rocket went soaring. Wow.

I took the little rocket in the palm of my hand everywhere, including the beach. I think I was still wearing tank swimsuits with ruffles on the backside. I rode in the back of the station wagon admiring my toy. When we arrived at the beach I sat far back away from the surf, near the grasses in the dunes, and I launched the rocket over and over. I finally got so hot that I went swimming. But first I took the treasure to a blanket and placed it safely among family beach fodder. The refreshing gentle waves and seaweeds moving in the tide stole my attention.

When we got home, the rocket was nowhere to be found. I was heartsick. The next day I insisted we go back to the same beach access and I looked for hours for the tiny rocket and launch pad. It was never found. Not only that, but no future Cracker Jack boxes yielded another rocket with launcher for me. Although the longing consumed me, my desperate search was fruitless. Today I even searched eBay looking for a picture of that sweet little toy and it was just like looking for it among those zillion grains of sand. Gone forever.

As an adult, other prizes have come into my life only to be lost for various reasons. Ultimately I have to come to a place in my heart where I accept the loss and see God’s merciful plan at work. Sometimes it takes me a long time to release my desires to the dunes. This is particularly true when one of my children is suffering. I want to make it better right away. I want to issue Mom’s four step solution and force circumstances to quickly resolve. But God is working, shaping, molding, wooing. My best for those kids pales in comparison to God’s perfect plan.

You know, I ended up with some far more fascinating toys than that cheap little rocket. Isn't that like Jesus? Just when we surrender our plan and our expectations....BAM, something more amazing than we could have imagined is in our laps. Bill Gothard calls this the death of a vision. Abraham expected all of his hopes and dreams to be fulfilled in Isaac. Then God asked him to sacrifice Isaac, to slay him on an altar. After Abraham surrendered his hopes and vision to God, God resurrected the vision and fulfilled the promise.

Learning to include surrender in our prayers is liberating. If we cling to our own agenda, we are limiting God’s power in our lives. We are heaping God’s heavy responsibilities on ourselves. We are settling for Cracker Jack prizes when the riches of God’s kingdom, peace that passes understanding and rivers of joy are waiting.

The Derelict House

Our layers of identities are like houses; we move in and out of them. I once shared a derelict house with a group of students. The old row home was so close to the railroad tracks that it shook as the trains rumbled past. Quaint, but bitter cold in the winter.

It was heated only by open coal fires in each room. Sooty coal dust permeated almost everything. I snuggled down to sleep by a warm blaze, but woke up to cold ashes in a room where breath was visible. I wore a coat all winter.

The toilet sat in an unheated room and it faced a feeble door to the outside; only a Styrofoam seat ring provided enough insulation to use the john in the biting air that snuck through the cracks in the door.

But the old place had charm. I painted my little room a cheery sunny yellow and hunkered down in it. It was mine and I loved it. But like the tattered identities I own, the house was not a suitable place to remain. The time came to move out of the old place and let it be torn down. Shortly after I lived there, it was condemned.

That’s the best thing to do with some of those negative self-images we inhabit. Move on. But we don’t have to hate those parts of ourselves. We can forgive ourselves for having participated in actions that Jesus condemned. We need to embrace those parts of our past and know how to own them without self-loathing. We close the doors of those houses behind us, lock them, and remember Jesus in the sunny yellow rooms of forgiveness.

Rubik's Cube

Today I feel like a square of color on the face of an enormous Rubik’s Cube. Be prepared. Suddenly giant hands make a twist and the whole environment changes. Everything is turning, twisting, moving alongside multicolored responsibilities and challenges, testing me in different situations. I feel a little woozy. "Don't worry," I tell myself. The cube is in The Genius’s hands. Each move has a purpose. The solution will bring harmony, unity, contentment. Soon after that I'll probably feel all scrambled up and a new series of solving will begin. Here goes...