Expectation`s Pardox

Cocks crow in the courtyard; cat pads soft on window ledge, returning from last night’s prowl. Sun opens her eyes, soon to fling her scarlet and purple morning robe over her shoulders. He squints in the fading darkness. Even in full day, his light is dim. He lies still a moment, preparing his mind for the difficult task ahead.

Heaving knobby knees and calloused feet off the bed, he sits upright, letting everything settle again. Once, he could stretch and pop and wrestle stubborn joints into lubricated submission. Not now. But he must move, however slowly. He must keep going. There’s a promise to be fulfilled.

He splashes water on leathery face, rubbing it into countless wrinkles. He works shaking arms into his robe, worn and thin, like him.

Stepping into the street, sun dances off his balding head, laughing in her morning play. He takes in everything his senses will proffer. Muted bellows from the neighbour woman: that’s nice. Diminished smells from passing donkey and horse: he won’t miss that. Children run and crouch and play in the street. Their voices muffle. He smiles, sad. He remembers ordering his own children to hush. Now, if he could only hear the cheery banter. But he must bend over painful and look directly into their eyes, watching their mouth, their expression, to understand their words. The little ones see him, and rum towards him. This ritual he loves! He puts gnarled hands on their soft black heads, and blesses them. Off they run again, and he watches them go, seeing beyond his limited vision, into the ebb of time itself, sweeping the children away.

Sigh . . . life sighs these days, remembering sweetly what was past, lingering long in the beauty of now, wondering what will become of tomorrow. His days fade into silence. But still he waits.

“Go . . . the temple.” He knows this voice. The voice from Beyond itself, beckoning him deep within, sustaining him when all other voices weaken.

Ancient heartbeat quickens. He glances as he passes people in the streets. Do they see? Have they heard? What news and developments has he missed the past weeks? But everyone looks normal. No one is looking. So, then, what is he looking for? What will the promise look like?

Mounting stone steps, pausing shorter than usual to catch his light breath, he enters the temple, scanning, searching . . . for what? No celebration, no military display, not even a debate or political discussion. Nothing out of the ordinary.

He waits near entrance, looking out and in; maybe It left already, maybe It is not here yet. His mind spins while his eyes skim. Calm down, man, or you’ll kill yourself waiting. Intentionally slowing his breathing, trying to relax the tell-tale thumping of his heart.

How long has he waited? What does it matter? He has waited his entire life . . . what are a few more minutes, or days, or slowing, fleeting weeks?

Soft cooing—he can hear it! Clear and sweet, like when he was young! He follows the sound: the man with the cage of doves. The girl with him . . . holding . . . It. This is It: the Consolation of Israel. Realization rushes over, through his entire being, a wave of such life! He rushes over, ignoring the resisting heart palpitations, screaming joints.

He reaches them. He takes the Consolation up in his arms. Nothing out of the ordinary; this is all custom. But everything out of the ordinary . . . no one was looking for Consolation to come this way.

He gazes long into the face: the eyes, the mouth, the tiny ears . . . everything yet to enter into its prime, everything yet to come. The Consolation is an infant. Isn’t it right that the God Who promised blessing through children should come to redeem His people through a child? This baby, an infant needing consoling, He IS the Consolation.

And he speaks, trembling, strong, barely audible, a voice coming from somewhere deep within, where Hope has kept faith all these years.

“Lord, now You are letting Your servant depart in peace, according to Your word; for my eyes have seen Your salvation which you have prepared before the face of all peoples, a light to bring revelation to the Gentiles, and the glory of Your people Israel.”

And expectation’s paradox teaches us that a promise received in the heart will change and alter its host; so that when promise is realized in a way no one expects, the trusting heart will recognize it, and glory.

—Musings on Simeon from Luke 2 . . . based on a sermon by Josh Harris: Simeon`s bucket list—

Final Dance

She lets go her yellow sash, he throws red ascot to the heavens, she steps out of golden ballgown, leaving it in heaps on the ground. Underneath, stark, bleaching, boring brown emerges.

Why do they de-robe, when everyone else clamours for layers? How can they stand there, exposed and chilly, tossed about by fierce icy-breathed winds? Pine and Spruce snuggle into their green jackets, and standing near them, the Pilgrim feels safe, protected, and warm. Pine breaks the winds bellows; Spruce bids the whistler hush, and all breathe relief in their shadow.

But the others: what of Lombard and Ash and Manitoba Maple and Poplar? What of the bushes and ornamental trees? They look so lonely, so abandoned, the first raid of Winter leaving them poor and helpless. How will they survive the coming struggle?

The hermit forest, even now they gather into themselves, away from us, away from each other, into lone silence. I hear her groan as she recedes into her core, bidding me and all the beautiful days of summer farewell. Mute, except for moaning and scratching when the wind blows, they stand braced for fury.

Spruce and Pine cheer us all year round, consistent, quiet, calming. They seem comfortable, and comforted, and make us feel at ease.

But these deciduous ones, their fate upbraids our sense of dignity. Shockingly bare, helpless in the face of forces beyond their strength, the only way they can live is to nearly die.

Spruce and Pine grow constant; always there, we soon forget to look and appreciate their progress.

But these hermits, we cheer for them. We dance in their shed dresses, and glory in their diverse wardrobes. We breathe deep and happy when light green buds appear, because warmth comes to stay then. We picnic and walk under clapping emeralds in summer’s days. And we crunch and race through golds and ambers in autumn’s rhythmic celebration. We mourn their death, and revel in their resurrection.

We wouldn’t love life of Spring so much if we did not have the near-death of Winter. For whatever reason, we watch and glory and marvel more after pain and silence and isolation. So the autumn flurries do not dizzy us, the winter gales cannot dishearten us, the brooding muted months cannot hamper us, only deepen our delight.

We must dig deep for life now too. And we would forget to . . . if not for the trees.

A punch in the nose

Thumbing through music as I approach the last stop in the city—gas and groceries—I put my head down too soon and my foot down too slow. Traffic halts completely as the advanced green approaches. I stop too, only when my bumper thuds stupidly into the vehicle ahead of me. He must think I’m an idiot. I sure do. My mind goes numb, the shock of being at fault over something so silly. . . . He gets out, I put Monte into park, and await my fate.

He looks at my nose and his tail, then comes to my window. “I’m okay. Are you physically okay?” Why not ask me if I’m mentally okay? I’m feeling like the world’s biggest dufus right about now!

“I’ve got no damage. You’ve just got the imprint of my trailer hitch in your bumper.” I’m glad he’s got metal bumpers on his old pickup truck, those rock-like beasts of burden. Why did car companies switch to plastic anyway? Makes me look even dumber, but at least he’s damage-free.

I apologize, and he graciously accepts, gets back into his blue beast, and catches the advanced green light. I follow him, but when I see him turn into the gas station by the grocery store, I decide to get fuel after I shop. I’m too embarrassed to face him again.

Two minutes . . . they change the course of life. They shatter the momentary equilibrium and reveal how tipsy I really am. They rattle me loose from my moorings, and show up how poorly attached I am. They unearth folly, showing how shallow it is buried.

And the hardest part of the whole affair: he didn’t rail me out or tell me how dumb I was or ask what in thunder I was doing or what my problem is. He just forgave me, smiled, and got back on with his life. There’s no major damage, just a punched-out imprint of the square hitch in my bumper, eventually it will become a hole, and will look stupid . . . not wrecked, just stupid.

I hate looking stupid. I hate it even more when it’s because I really was stupid, not just pretending to be. I poke fun and joke and make people laugh, but really being stupid isn’t funny; it’s mortifying. I want to be smart, sophisticated, smooth; not this klutzy nerd who can’t even get out of the city without knocking the front tooth out of her car.

I stew in my stupidity. I expect Dad will be disappointed in me. I’m disappointed in me. I suppose God is too . . . I must embarrass Him so much. The pity party stinks.

When I settle into quiet tears, He starts talking. He tells me He’s not disappointed in me, that it’s okay, that He loves me. Is He laughing at me? Get over yourself, just let it go, let your demand to mentally punish yourself and control your own mortification go; just let go, and let Him love you.

I’m driving east. Out my left window the sky begins changing. Soothing green strokes rise gentle to the heights of heaven. Quiet, subtle, brushed against the starry sky, they rise and expand and deepen, till I am engulfed in the sweeping tide of peace. It’s like arms of love reaching around and hugging me, it’s the aurora borealis. I’m the child who tripped over her own feet, scraped her knee, and just hurt inside. And He’s the Father Who picks me up, takes me on His knee, and loves my hurt away. Not so I feel better about myself as a klutzy kid, but so that I know Him better as my loving Father. I think He expects me to be perfect, to shape up and get it together so I won’t embarrass Him for calling me by His name. But He chose me in my foolishness, and folly, and stupidity, and loved me then. I can’t win His love, and I can’t lose it, because He gives it freely to me.

And I am His. And I weep great alligator tears of happiness because He loves me, the silly, bumbling, scatter-brained me. And He turns my heart to Him, so I forget about me and all my issues, and rest in His embrace.

“Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life, and I will dwell in the house of the LORD forever . . . . His banner over me is love.”

Soul Scurry

Quiet. Change comes, but for now, the moment of pregnant preparation lingers. Soon it will break, the silence shatter, the winds sweep us into transformation. But for now, we wait.

The waiting annoys us. This frustrating space: the breath before birthing effort, the still before the bluster, the pause before the next notes sung. Linger here, my soul, and learn the song of suspension.

How can it be that “stepping out in faith” requires me to stand still? It’s so opposite, so different than how I think progress works. We are inculcated to believe advancement equals action, stillness equals stagnation, pausing equals cowardice and ignorance. We know how to rush, how to work, how to drown out the noise and push through. We acclimatize ourselves to action. We stir it up, even when things are still.

Yet, we crave rest, peace, quiet. Isn’t every Westerner’s goal to enjoy sweet and early retirement? Don’t we scrimp and save and cut corners and burn bridges and squander lives so we can preserve our own?

Who has educated us in life mechanics? Who do we resemble in the “how” of our existence? What do we demand, expect, dream for ourselves?

The pause reveals it. Soul scurry: questing for substance through action, we go haywire in the maddening, quiet wait.

Whatever happened to the Anno Domini people?

We get caught up in Anno: the year. We flutter and muster for efficiency, always beating our previous goal, always pushing . . . even when we can’t remember why.

We forget the Domini : the dominion of our Lord. For those twice-owned by the universe Maker, life’s about Him, not me, not even us.

The pause tells us so. In it, the Creator says, “I am bigger than this. I transcend this dizzying chaos.” His priorities and proposals feel preposterous . . . till we remember that He is Adonai: Lord and Master.

We squirm and rebel at orders to “Be still,” till we remember Who is giving the orders, and why He can tell us what to do, and why we should do it.

The Creator is all about His glory, and our happiness. And it just so happens that our happiness depends on His glory, because He’s the most satisfying relationship in the universe.

And sometimes, He has to pause the movie a few extra minutes, till we are ready to hear, ready to acknowledge His priority, ready to be made happy by Him alone—not the thrill of the video or the crunch of the snacks or the comfort of the couches. This movie’s not about us; but about HIM.

Song of the Leaves

Dear Pilgrim,

Leaves scuttle and turn handsprings, racing rubber tires to the stop line, rushing to get out of the way. They laugh their way along, one great final fling in the season’s dimming lights. Their purpose served, their role played, their moment passed, and they fall like a curtain to close autumn’s act.

Why do they flutter so, when their day is done? Script concluded, all their lines performed, no more cues from phloem and xylem; no more prompting from mother tree, no more food. But they won’t die without a last dance. And the very winds that drive them from their trees become the music to their farewell jig.

Yes, they will settle into some lee or nook or grassy bed, out of the wind’s grasp, out of the elements, and there they will decompose, to give life to others. They don’t have life to fly in the face of their demise; but they still fly. Their green and golden dresses fade from the lights of summer’s scene, but they twirl anyway. They are going off stage for good, but they skip and tap dance out.

Why? Why not just fall like lead and lay where you land, and let yourselves be forgotten? Or why not mound and pile at the base of your trees, and make an edifice—however shortly lived—to your glory? Or why not moan and clog and haunt us with your death, menacing our lives with memory of yours?

Why? Because they groan with hope, longing for consummation. Their scene closes; the final act is yet to be performed. In life, they sing the Creator’s song, clapping their hands to His breathes of wind, lifting limb and hand in exultation. Now stiffening, they echo crisp and clear the song of ever-deeper life. They touched the sky in life, saw rain and hail and snow and mist, held bird and secrets from the air. And now they fall to earth, and touch it with heaven’s promise: little taps of leaf-Morse-code along the pavement, gentle caresses on grass that’s seen abuse and beating all year. They even travel to pond and ditch, where stagnant waters ripple with ticklish glee at their arrival.

Leaf’s demise brings the promise of winter rest, and the hope of spring. Trees always seem happy. I think it’s because they have learned the secret of being miserable without despairing, the way to endure pain without suffering, the way to die in order to live. And they teach it to their children, whose pods and seeds fly like the leaves and nestle in fertile crevices, spreading the happiness of hopeful labouring through a groaning creation.

In all your fallings today, may you reach for the hope of life, resurrection life, that brings beauty from demise, joy from misery, glory from barrenness. Listen to the song of the leaves, and take heart, because Life's play belongs to the Creator.