Yearly Archives: 2011

Hidden Away

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The other day when Mary and I were walking onto the beach near my home, we noticed a bulge in the snow-covered dune about twelve feet long and four feet wide. What could be hiding there?

This beach is completely empty during three out of four seasons, used only during July and August. Summertime families store small sailboats and kayaks on the beach, tethered to posts driven into the sand. Netted bags of toys, low beach chairs and sand buckets are left, too, a testimony to the honest character of those using the beach.

Summer swimmers have no formal supervision, no life guard on duty, and we’re all fine with that. But what would happen in an emergency? Could people on the beach quickly reach a drowning swimmer if necessary? Would they be willing to dive in and try?

Thankfully that scenario hasn’t come up, but if it did, we have an ace in the hole: the lump under the snow. It’s an aluminum row boat lying bottom-up on the sand, currently out of sight like a hibernating bear. But come summer, the snow will melt and the boat will show itself, reminding us we have a way to rescue someone in crisis.

God sometimes operates in a similar way. Although he has a variety of solutions for our various rescue needs, he often keeps them covered until we’re desperate. (At least that’s what it seems like from our perspective.) When we’re desperate, we call to him for help, and that’s the key. If we don’t call, he may not rescue.

A recurring theme in Scripture is people recognizing their need for help, then acknowledging that God is their Source for it. If we search for help everywhere but in him, he’ll let us try to get it done on our own. When we acknowledge we can’t make it apart from him, he comes out of hiding.

Last fall when Jack and I walked the beach, I noticed a blue kayak still lying on the sand near its post well after all the other boats and items had been removed. I thought someone would eventually come for the kayak, a pricey-looking boat.

As September and October came and went, the autumn winds picked up, and gradually the kayak filled with sand. By Thanksgiving it was all but covered over, and before the first snow fell, it was completely hidden.

Now, it’s not even a lump. I believe I’m the only one who knows it’s buried there. If the owner arrived to retrieve his boat today, he’d sweep his eyes across the beach and say, “Someone must have taken it.” To his understanding, it would be gone.

Is this what happens to God’s rescue if I don’t appeal to him? Does he keep his plans a secret? I believe he often does. Knowing this, I’m motivated to dialog with him, cry out to him, recognize his role as my rescuer on a daily basis. He’s invited me to do this, specifically mentioning me by name, and I’d be a fool not to accept this invitation.

And in July, if someone posts a notice looking for a blue kayak, I’ll know what to do.

 

“I will give you hidden treasures, riches stored in secret places, so that you may know that I am the Lord, the God of Israel, who summons you by name.” (Isaiah 45:3)

The Happy Dance

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Because we don’t have a regular couch in our Michigan cottage, Jack has chosen the next best thing as his favorite place to get comfy, an old wing chair. Although I won’t let him climb on the beds (and used mouse traps to convince him), I do let him snuggle in the well-worn easy chair.

Despite loving a soft place to rest, however, Jack’s absolute favorite place to be is outdoors, and his most loved outdoor spot is the beach.

Whenever we arrive there, whether it’s 90 degrees or ten below zero, he initiates his visit with what we call his “happy dance.” He throws himself down on his back with vigor and rolls from side to side, all four legs punching the air. It’s an upside-down hula as he wiggles his hips from side to side like he’s hearing music the rest of us can’t.

He’s taught his cousin-dog Sydney to do the happy dance, and together they thrash around on their backs like a couple of canines-possessed. Mary and I laugh at their abandon, wondering what on earth could possibly be appealing about getting sand and snow up your nose and in your eyes.

But that’s dogs for you. When Jack is doing his happy dance and I’m thinking he looks like an idiot, that doesn’t stop him, nor does he mind my having that opinion. He’s so pleased to be at the beach that his glee just bursts out of him in that way. I wish I could let joy burst out of me like that, not necessarily by rolling around on my back but maybe by singing loudly or twirling in a clumsy dance… even in front of others.

Five of our seven kids have spent time in Youth With A Mission, and each has described the unique worship services they’ve been a part of, all far different than their conservative church background. Part of the lively nature of YWAM worship is due to the happy conglomeration of students from a variety of countries and cultures. But most of it is just a wholehearted response to a deep love of God that bursts out in animated joy.

There’s dancing in the aisles, clapping, tears, waving of arms and hands, running around, spontaneous praying and more. If I was there, my most enthusiastic participation might be a turning up of palms, but that would only happen after I stopped staring at everyone else doing what I wished I could.

I can’t help it if I’m a conservative Swede with a straight-laced upbringing. But my heart for the Lord makes me eager for heaven where I have a hunch inhibitions will fall away and we’ll all be able to happy-dance with abandon, just like the YWAMers…

…and just like Jack.

 “Young women will dance and be glad, young men and old as well. I will turn their mourning into gladness; I will give them comfort and joy instead of sorrow.” (Jeremiah 31:13)

A Fresh Look

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This afternoon the slanted sunshine of winter spilled through our windows. While the rest of the country gathered chips and dips in preparation for the Bears-Packers game, I decided to do something different: paint a couple of stools in the bright sunlight. They’d been primed for six months awaiting their finishing coat, and today was as good a day as any.

Though I don’t have TV, I could have listened to the game on the radio but chose worship music instead. Following football might have been a better idea, however, because when Nate’s favorite hymn, “Blessed Assurance,” came on, I got weepy. Even bright sunlight doesn’t help watery eyes see brush strokes very well.

Bagging the brush and picking up a hymnal, I decided to follow the words as the familiar song played. “Visions of rapture now burst on my sight. I in my Savior am happy and blest. Jesus is mine! O what a foretaste of glory divine!”

Although these words had run through Nate’s mind hundreds of times, their meaning for him now is completely different, more authentic, tangible. Something about that struck me. He was far away experiencing a life radically different than mine. We had much in common until 15 months ago, but now we share very little. Today I’m painting stools. What is he doing?

Sitting in front of me on the coffee table was the book my kids gave me in September, the story of Nate’s life in pictures and words. As precious old hymns played, I read through the book again, feeling intense sadness that Nate was gone. It’s been quite a while since I cried hard, but as I carefully studied his face, especially in the most recent pictures, holding back sobs was impossible.  

Oh to go back! I really miss him. Did I love him enough? Had I put him first? Could I have done more?

I… I… I.

It was self-pity for sure, which doesn’t do much for healing. If anything, it produces inertia. My crying was a good reason to ask God, “What would you like me to think right now?”

He answered with something he’d already told me. “Rejoice always. Pray continually. Give thanks in all circumstances.” (1 Thessalonians 5) I was thankful he brought that up again and gave me something positive to do immediately. Focusing back on the book, I continued weeping but this time found myself rejoicing in the picture-memories and being thankful for all Nate did as a husband and father.

When I came to the photo of Nate sitting in a wheelchair with severe pain on his face, I cried hard remembering his suffering but was enormously thankful for how courageously he bore his pain, a great accomplishment.

As the Bears and the Packers battled it out on the other side of Lake Michigan, the Lord and I sat together for two hours, listening to hymns, rejoicing, talking in prayer and remembering Nate with thankfulness.

Tomorrow, as the Bears nurse their wounds, I’ll finish painting the stools.

“My heart rejoices in the Lord! The Lord has made me strong. There is no Rock like our God.” (1 Samuel 2:1a,2b)