A Playdate in Which I Don't Ski

Snow falls quietly outside my window at the ski resort where I sit with laptop, books, water bottle, paper, and pen. I’m not a skier so it makes no sense for me to take up space in a ski resort, except I need a place to stay while the beloved Swede has gone off to play.

He’s spending the day at a men’s only sporting clays shoot. The event is a fundraiser in support of campus ministry, but nobody’s fooling anybody. It’s an excuse for guys to spend the day outside with other guys, away from the office and blowing stuff up. It is playtime, and a chance for my man to spend time with the man who stood next to him on the day we said, “I do” to one another.

I’m playing, too, in my own way. Jim Brickman plays quietly in the background, through the magic of the internet and Pandora. I’ve got time to sleep and pray; to read and write. I just scribbled pages and pages of nonsense about coffee and Jell-O. Maybe I’ll turn my scribblings into something someday. Maybe I won’t. But I had fun remembering.

I’ve packed St. Andre cheese and some crackers.  I’ll nibble on those later while waiting for my daughter to come join me for dinner this evening. Tonight will be our first night alone together since the day she walked down the aisle and said, “I do.”

Today is a quiet playdate, the restful kind. I am reminded of days when, as I child, I stayed home from school because of a sore throat or the flu. I played quietly in my bed or on the sofa. I rested and slept and allowed myself to heal.

I sit watching the snow fall, tipping the edges of evergreens with frosty white. And I wonder why anybody would rather be out there skiing.

Linking with Laura @ The Wellspring, embracing the God-joy:

And with L.L. Barkat @ Seedlings in Stone for On, In, and Around Monday:

Broad Brook Anthology: A Vermont Playdate

Lately, it seems as though checking my email feels an awful lot like walking down the driveway to my mailbox. The real mail, the stuff worth making the walk or logging into my account, lies buried beneath ads for Black Friday and Cyber Monday. I glance through my mail, both virtual and real, toss most of it into the recycle bin, and return to my writing or to household chores. Last week, however, in the course of scanning and dismissing most of my messages I nearly missed an important invitation from an old friend.

The message contained an announcement about an upcoming performance on which my friend had collaborated. Just over the border in southern Vermont, the town of Guilford was celebrating its 250^th anniversary. A local resident, a poet named Verandah Porche, had spent several years interviewing elderly town residents, mining their recollections of a lifetime shaped within the farmlands of the Connecticut River Valley. And until I typed that last sentence, I didn’t recognize the whimsy in the name of the woman who authored this project.

My initial response to the invitation was to dismiss the play as a small-time production, most likely performed with poor acting and amateur props. Then I stopped to think about my friend, a gifted photographer, and the quality of work I’ve seen him produce. I begin to consider the possibility that this little local production might actually be very good, perhaps even better than every Christmas pageant I’d ever attended throughout my life. Besides, I hold a special place in my heartfor old-timey family history, even if I don’t have a personal connection to those involved in the stories. The beloved Swede and I found we had some free time on our schedules, so we decided to make the drive to Vermont.

I am so glad we did. The production, titled Broad Brook Anthology, combined the recollections of local townspeople into a play for voices. The work was named for the stream which flows through the community connecting many of the family farms which provide context for the stories. Performed in the town’s historic meeting house, a company of six actors local to Vermont and New York gave voice to the reflections of the town’s elders. My friend had photographed the residents in their homes as they had told their stories; and he projected their portraits, interspersed with historical photos, throughout the course of the performance. Another resident composed original music for the play which a trio of local musicians performed.

We heard stories, stories about working hard on the family farm and of getting up early to deliver bottles of milk. The words: We were poor but we were satisfied, echoed throughout a number of the narratives. We laughed as we heard tales of mischief wrought in the days of one room schoolhouses, of children who fled to the hills at the sound of the recess bell never to return for afternoon studies. We saw photos of a devastating flood, one which shaped the earliest memory of a resident who watched as the current swept away his young cousin. We eavesdropped on courtship stories, many of which began at square dances at the local Grange hall. We viewed wedding photos of brides dressed in vintage gowns standing next to handsome men in uniform, some of whom had just returned from the war.

The final line of the performance came from a man who is now widowed but remains in the small community where he lived, loved, and raised a family. He said he finds peace in his solitude, surrounded by familiar landscape. He wanders the woods and hills of a place which shaped his life and considers the awe of existence itself.

This effort by local townspeople in celebration of their shared history accomplished so many good things. The play, and the years of work which went into creating it, honored the stories of ordinary men and women who had lived, loved, played, and worked in community with one another. Many of their stories have now been preserved in both image and word. A local poet, photographer, and composer; several actors, musicians, and audio and video technicians exercised their crafts, combining their efforts to produce something which was beautiful and good.

After the performance we returned to the home of our friends, nibbled on slices of fresh apple and chunks of Vermont cheddar, and told stories of our own. We caught up on one another’s histories, and shared our narratives of living, loving, playing, and work. At the end of the evening we said goodbye and turned down their dirt road, heading away from their place and toward our own.

And this morning I can’t stop thinking about the awe of existence itself.

Photography for Broad Brook Anthology provided by Jeff Woodward.

Linking with L.L. Barkat for On, In, and Around Monday:

And with Laura Boggess at the Wellspring:

Appointment With God

Come on in. Have a seat, he says. You’re late.

“I know,” I mumble, eyes bowed.

This isn’t the first time. And I notice you’ve missed several appointments lately. You do realize the importance of these meetings? I held high hopes for you; now I’m not so sure. I may have to withhold some of the benefits I intended to offer you.

“I’m sorry. I overslept. I’ll try harder. I promise.”

He says nothing. He’s heard my empty promises before.

Well let’s get to it then. Did you finish that reading I left for you?

“I meant to. Life got kind of hectic.”

Hmm. I assume you brought your list of action items?

“They’re here; though I’m sure I left out a few things.”

I lay my list before him, jabbering on about the merit of each item. I offer my take on each, suggesting possible next steps he might consider. I wait for a response.

Not bad, he says. Here’s what I can offer you. I can agree to numbers 2, 5, 7, and 8. I’ll give you healing from the head cold, allow you to find the pay stub you lost, grant you the job interview you wanted, and smooth things over with the woman from your church. But 3, 4, 6, and 8 don’t quite line up with my priorities. They don’t fit within my overarching vision. I’m not saying they’re completely off the table, but you need to rethink those requests and see if you can get them to line up more closely with my will. But don’t expect me to make this easy for you. Don’t expect me to outline my will in crayon for you, making it obvious. You’re going to have to do some digging and see if you can figure it out for yourself.

“I’ll see what I can do,” I say, tucking my list back inside my notebook; casting a glance at my watch.

You don’t really enjoy these meetings, do you?

“It’s not that. I just know I haven’t accomplished much lately. I’m sure you’re disappointed.  I’m afraid you’re going to be upset with me.”

Well that’s something you’ll have to work on then. I see our time’s up. Good meeting. See you tomorrow, same time. Don’t be late.

We shake hands.

For years I wrestled to commit to a consistent quiet time with God. I lived as though time with him followed an exchange similar to the one above. Lately I’ve been rethinking the whole idea of quiet time. I read through scripture and begin to question whether or not it’s actually a thing, one God requires of me.

This past year I read a book written by a woman who met God in the Yard. She wrote of delighting in his presence. She got me thinking that's what I want to do. I want to enjoy God. Maybe even glorify him.

Working on some material for a women's Sunday School class starting this week at my church. This is a piece of it.

Linking with L.L. Barkat who got me thinking:

Laura Boggess in her playdates series:

And with Michelle in her Hear It, Use It community:

The Heart and Voice of a Friend

It was the first time I’d heard her voice.

We’d met, through words and pictures on each other’s’ blogs. I first started blogging by posting a weekly gratitude list and linking it with Ann Voskamp’s community. I knew absolutely nothing about the rules of etiquette governing blog world. On Ann’s site I saw thumbnails, small pictures linking to the gratitude posts of others, lists each had made of weekly thank offerings. I wasn’t sure if I was supposed to read and comment on others’ lists; if it was nosy or creepy or stalkerish to do so. But I did. I looked through the thumbnails and at the other blog titles and found one called Curious Acorn. I figured whoever chose that title must have been some kind of marketing genius. The curious word choice drew me in. Is the writer curious about acorns? I wondered. Or, is the blog about acorns that are curious? That doesn’t make any sense.

So of course I clicked. And I made my very first internet friend.

I met Jodi, an artist. And, as a left-brained, linear-thinking, spreadsheet-loving gal, I can tell you that very little of the way artists process life makes any sense to me.  And I think I’m only beginning to realize how desperately I need them in my life. I just don’t let them do the math when we’re eating out somewhere and it’s time to calculate the tip.

Despite our differences, I found a kindred spirit in this artist girl I’d never met. We love the same movies, we laugh at the same things. She is the Diana Barry to my Anne Shirley in the same way my friend Ethel from real life is the madcap counterpart to my zany Lucy.

How is it I’m always the redhead?

Anyway. Jodi and I have walked through similar pain in our lives. We’ve prayed for one another and for the other’s family. We love the same Jesus. So when I realized I would be in her neighborhood for The Relevant Conference, I dared to ask if I could come and meet her.

Come hungry, she said.

An early October snowstorm moved in during the course of the conference, disrupting and delaying travel plans for many. I called Jodi to update her on my plans and let her know when to expect me. And I heard her voice for the first time.

I found my way to the home of the Curious Acorn; I met Jodi and her family. She told me the stories behind the pictures on her refrigerator. She introduced me to her grandbabies. She spoke in a calm, quiet, deep, soothing voice; one like an NPR voice but without all the smugness.

I saw the famous chalkboard pantry door from pictures on Jodi’s blog. She wasn’t kidding when she’d told me to come hungry. She fed me well; she nourished my soul.

On a sideboard next to the table she’d written words she’d asked the Father to give her, words just for me:

If it’s possible for a house to breathe peace, Jodi’s does.

Most parents, I imagine, are as concerned as I am about the amount of time their children spend on the internet, and rightfully so. We warn our children about its dangers; we tell them not to reveal personal things to strangers. We encourage them to get outdoors, to embrace life in the beauty of God’s good creation. I believe God made us embodied spirits and placed us in particular places in space and time. We have been created for community and intended to reflect God to our neighbors. We are to inhabit the places we live.

I can’t quite make sense of what is happening in my life, in and through the strange reality of blog world, but something is. One of the speakers at Relevant asked, At what time in history can we go and make disciples around the world while in our pajamas and in our living rooms? I seldom know what is going on in the lives of people on the other side of this screen, those who are reading the words I’ve tapped out. I tell my stories, I get to know people; God is doing something. That’s all I know.

As I was loading up my car to leave, Jodi packaged up some of her fancy homemade gingerbread for me for the drive home. Who does something like that?

A kindred spirit. A real friend. A sister.

(The state of Connecticut is, once again, experiencing widespread power and internet outages. Linking late with Laura and L.L.

And with Jen and the sisterhood:

Precipice Trail

There are reasons visitors flock to New England in the fall.

When my children were young, Acadia National Park in Maine was the annual fall leaf-peeping destination for our family each Columbus Day weekend. As the only national park in New England, Acadia is consistently ranked as one of the top ten most visited national parks in the country. Acadia offers gorgeous views of rocky Maine coastline set against a stunning mix of evergreen and deciduous trees. The foliage in Acadia is usually at its peak of autumn color near Columbus Day, and the vibrant reds, oranges, and yellows in the trees contrasting against the cool blues and grays of the shoreline entice visitors from all over the world.

My kids and me, circa 2000. Notice how our fleece jackets match the reds, greens, and yellows in the trees?

The park contains an extensive carriage road system which passes through stone-faced bridges, near waterfalls, streams, and hiking trails. My family and I are well-acquainted with many of the trails, having kicked over familiar granite surfaces multiple times throughout the years. The Beehive trail, a short climb up a granite cliff via ladders and iron rungs, became a family favorite. I remember the year my daughter pouted because I would only allow my husband to take her halfway up the trail, fearing it was too dangerous for her. By the time my kids were in high school, they scrambled up the Beehive as though they were mountain goats.

One year, the beloved Swede decided that the kids were ready to conquer Acadia’s Precipice Trail. Described as a strenuous hike climbing 1,000 feet up the face of Champlain Mountain, the trail requires the use of many iron rungs and ladders. Warning signs posted at the trailhead indicate that the route should be attempted only by hikers who are physically fit and have no fear of heights. The warnings state that, in order to reach some of the iron rungs, hikers should be at least five feet tall or else they will slip, fall and bounce their way down the granite cliff, becoming food for the endangered peregrine falcons which nest on Mount Champlain. Or something to that effect.

My son, who was nine years old at the time, may have measured all of four feet-ten the year the beloved Swede decided to conquer The Precipice Trail. He assured me our son would be fine; he was an experienced hiker. Besides, he told me, a friend of his had hiked the trail not long before and said it wasn’t that bad. The language on the warning signs, he told my husband, was just there on the advice of the park’s lawyers as protection against claims of liability.

Did I happen to mention my husband’s friend was a lawyer?

Not long into the hike, I began yelling at my husband, “I hate this trail! I hate your friend!” It had rained all night long before the morning of our hike, and do you know what is more slippery than wet granite? Not much. Each time I heard the slip of a foot or the crunch of gravel being kicked loose, I had visions of my children tumbling down the slick, granite rock face, plunging to certain death; all while under my supervision and with my consent.

We reached the summit of Mount Champlain where the wind, I was certain, was about to carry my four-foot, ten inch son off the mountain and away.

My husband wanted a picture of the kids and me enjoying the view from the top. Do I look like I’m enjoying the view?

Without a word, I turned and started making my way down the back side of Champlain. I wanted nothing more than to get off that summit. That blur of yellow behind the trail head sign is me heading for the car, trying to put as much distance as possible between me and the Precipice Trail.

During dinner that evening, my son asked, “Mom? Do you still love Daddy?”

I may have answered him something to the effect of, “I will always love your father. Now shut up and eat your buttered noodles.”

Despite the unpleasantness of the Precipice Trail hike and dinner that evening, we enjoyed a memorable weekend together. Thunder Hole--a rocky inlet which, when tide conditions are right, allows air and water to collide in an explosive crash--put on a spectacular show for us.

Just as the kids had decided they were done viewing Thunder Hole, my husband climbed up on some granite and asked us to pose for pictures. From his vantage point, he could see out what was out in the ocean and headed our way:

Believe me; the waters of the waters of the Atlantic along the coast of Maine can get pretty darned cold by Columbus Day weekend.

My kids are now grown, and my husband and I are together at home this Columbus Day. But I have photo albums filled with pictures and a heart full of memories of the fall weekends shared, through the years, with our children along the coast of Maine.

I will always love my children's daddy. And them.

(Click here for a video of Thunder Hole doing it's thing)

Sharing a Columbus Day playdate memory with Laura:

 

And with L.L. Barkat for On, In, and Around Monday:

How Art Hurts. And Heals.

Down the hill from the lodge at the retreat center sat an art studio, staffed for the weekend by the artist-in-residence. We were invited, during free time, to come and play in the studio, to learn techniques and dabble with papers and brushes and paint. The artist talked of creating a project for others who had been on retreat; businessmen for whom the world of art supplies and creation was a foreign land. She had invited them, as those who hadn’t seen themselves as artists, to venture into the world of creativity. She called us to come and play as they had.

“I’m a Type-A person,” I told the artist. “I like lists, and schedules, and structure.” I told her of trying to do art with my friend Ethel, she who created beauty with child-like abandon and joy while I carefully counted sequins and beads and double-checked instructions. The artist dared me to be brave, to come down to the studio and play.

I wandered down the hill, found a place at the table, and sat myself on a tall stool. The artist demonstrated dry brush, wet-on-wet, and crayon resist painting. She suggested that we, as writers, add words to our work, inviting us to write using our non-dominant hands. On the wall were posted samples to inspire creativity and the words, “Give yourself permission to play.” Surrounded by every kind of art supply I could imagine, I was free to play and explore, to wander way outside the boundaries of my comfort zone and create.

And I felt like I was in prison.

I watched as others circulated through the room, considering and collecting scraps of paper and supplies, arranging and re-arranging their designs. They tried things, saw possibility, made changes; adapted. Soft music played as laughter filled the studio. I looked at the others and then looked at the paints and papers before me. I tried something. I tried something else. I couldn’t make sense of what was in front of me. I l watched the others at play and tried to imitate. Nothing looked right. I saw no beauty. I had no way to judge my efforts, to tell if anything I was doing was any good.

My heart began pounding; my breathing shallowed. Feeling hot and dizzy and trapped, I began to imagine myself toppling over from my tall stool and doing a face-plant in a puddle of Gesso.  I walked away from the studio leaving my art project behind.

I walked away from this foreign land, this place where I couldn’t make sense of the language and the rhythms and the customs. In that studio, I tasted the life of an artist, a musician, a dreamer; one who had grown up trying to make sense of a world governed by lists, and schedules, and structures.

And it made me want to say, “I’m so sorry.”

Joining Laura @ The Wellspring:

And L.L. Barkat @ Seedlings in Stone:

 

It Was a Quiet Week Along the Shore of Lake Michigan--Playdate: Chicago

Last week I traveled with my son for orientation at North Park University in Chicago, where he will begin attending college in the fall. We flew to Chicago from Providence, Rhode Island, but the truth is I’m not entirely sure how we arrived at this school. A year ago, plans for my son’s future looked very different.

If ever you are interested in a case study of how completely capable God is of redirecting the choices one makes in life, come talk to me.

While on campus, I bought my North Park University mom hoodie sweatshirt. I splurged for the thick, athletic one with embroidered letters. I believe I earned it.

North Park is the denominational college of the Evangelical Covenant Church, founded by Swedish immigrants. My son and I ate breakfast at Tre Kronor Restaurant, just across the street from campus. Painted on its walls was a mural filled with Swedish trolls, and its menu offered an assortment of foods both pickled and covered in cream sauce. On a bulletin board near the restrooms was a flyer advertising a golf tournament--The Lutefisk Open. I kid you not.

Next to the restaurant was The Sweden Shop. There, I bought my husband a t-shirt which reads:

Kӧttbulle

(shut-bhuu-leh)

Which means Swedish meatballs.

Buildings on campus are named Magnusson, Anderson, Hanson, Wilson, and Carlson. The school’s football stadium is named after Super Bowl champion head coach Mike Holmgren. He’s one of their tribe. North Park’s teams are The Vikings.

Of course.

As I walked around campus, words like maraud and pillage kept running through my mind.

While in the campus center, I looked through an information display about study abroad options for North Park students. The school offers programs in: Sweden, Kenya, Sweden, Iceland, Denmark, Sweden, Greece, China, Norway, Finland, Sweden, and Sweden. Oh, and Nashville which, I guess if one is Swedish, seems a country unto itself.

During one of the orientation sessions, university staff spoke about services the school has to offer. Those speaking were Hispanic, African, African American, and Swedish. Seated next to me were a mother and daughter in full African dress. They had come from Kenya; the mother was originally from Uganda. I wondered about their stories and the journey they had taken to reach this school in Chicago.

I glanced back toward my son sitting in a row surrounded by other incoming freshman. Seated in Anderson Chapel near my son born in the Philippines and having a Scandinavian name were more Asian students, as well as those who were African American, bi-racial, and Hispanic.

And in that chapel located on the park-like grounds of a university within the city of Chicago, I caught a glimpse of the world which began in a garden and ends in the city which lies foursquare, where multitudes from every tribe, nation, language, and tongue will surround God's throne:

After this I looked, and behold, a great multitude that no one could number, from every nation, from all tribes and peoples and languages, standing before the throne and before the Lamb, clothed in white robes, with palm branches in their hands, and crying out with a loud voice, "Salvation belongs to our God who sits on the throne, and to the Lamb!" And all the angels were standing around the throne and around the elders and the four living creatures, and they fell on their faces before the throne and worshiped God, saying, "Amen! Blessing and glory and wisdom and thanksgiving and honor and power and might be to our God forever and ever! Amen.

Revelation 7:9-12, ESV

My son leaves for college in just a few weeks. There he will meet his roommate Johann, from Sweden.

Joining with Laura, sharing the God-joy I found in this playdate with my son:

And with L.L. Barkat:

Creation, Fall, Redemption, and Hungry, Hungry Hippos

It’s been some years since I’ve sat on the floor and played Hungry, Hungry, Hippos. One morning this week I arrived early at the home of friends in time to walk the older of their two daughters to her bus stop. As we waited, she told me she had a rock collection and pointed out some of her favorite stones nestled amidst the driveway gravel. We talked about how neat it was that God made rocks in all different shapes, colors, and sizes when He could have made them all the same. As we waited for the bus to arrive, my sweet friend pointed out anthills in the driveway, and we explored some moss growing on a log. The bus arrived and I received a hug and a wave from this dear little girl before she was carried off to her school.

Younger sister awoke and sat snugly on my lap, remnants of sleep dissolving into the promise of a new day. “Do you want to play with me?” she asked. And, yes, of course I did. She showed me her basket full of cars and told me about each one. Some of them, she said, were grumpy while others of the little vehicles were sweet. We played Hide-and-Seek, and I was told to hide in the guest room while my little friend hid in the toy closet. Every time. She knocked on the inside of the door and giggled wildly as I walked up and down the hallway, opening doors and calling out, “Where are you?” We played Hungry, Hungry, Hippos and I learned that the green hippo, like many of my friend’s cars, was also rather grumpy. It didn’t matter how we played the game or whose turn it was, or even that the little girl fed her marbles to the hippos by hand. We simply sat on the floor with nothing else to do but play, and I soaked up her giggles.

My friend asked if we could play outside. She ran on little toddler legs across the yard toward the swing set asking, almost singing, “Isn’t it a beautiful day?” I buckled her into a toddler swing, fumbling with safety latches that didn’t exist in the days when my children were young. I pushed; she swung, trailed by wisps of blond hair that were no longer baby-fine but completely unwilling to be captured by a barrette. When it was time to go back inside for lunch she ran again, and I caught just a glimpse of the shape of my own sweet baby girl at that age.

It was a beautiful day, a gift I received from two dear friends who needed help while they were closing on the purchase of a new home. Several friends from church took turns caring for their little ones throughout the day. My friend apologized for the imposition and offered to compensate us with pieces of her handmade pottery. I accepted the pottery because she makes beautiful pieces, but there was no imposition. It is always difficult to ask for help and humbling to admit one’s need to others. But in doing so, my friends gave me the gift of a beautiful life-giving morning filled with hugs, laughter, and play.

The father of these two sweet little girls preached Sunday morning about the ways in which relationships reflect the unfolding narrative of the gospel:  We were created for relationship, relationships were broken by the fall, the gospel heals and reconciles our relationships with God and one another, and in the consummation of the new heavens and new earth all relationships will be fully restored. He said:

As human beings created in God’s image, we were made for relationships and community.  We reflect God’s image when we are in community as the Trinity is in community.

In relationships, within the community of the body of Christ, we understand more fully the gift of the gospel. Living in the kingdom of God with its upside-down paradoxical principles we begin to witness and experience its many beauties.  In giving there is gain. In serving, we are blessed. In laying down our lives—our time, treasure, and possessions—we receive life.  In acknowledging need, we let go of the pretense of self-sufficiency and begin to understand our dependence on Christ and on others. In admitting our failures and asking for forgiveness, we receive reconciliation and healing. And on one beautiful summer morning while sitting on the floor playing Hungry, Hungry, Hippos with a sweet child, I sensed restoration of the years in my life that the locusts had eaten--ones that had passed by ever-so-quickly when my own dear ones were little.

Joining with Michelle @ Graceful in her Hear It, Use It community:

And, for the first time, my friend Laura @ Wellsprings who shares her Playdates with God:

With L.L. Barkat @ Seedlings in Stone for On, In, and Around Mondays:

 

And continuing to count with Ann the multitude of gifts:

906. A dinner party with friends that felt like a foretaste of heaven.

907. Sunshine after many days of rain.

908. Daughter’s friends filling the house with life and laughter (even if she wasn’t here to join them)

909. Music festivals.

910. Son doing his thing, bringing joy to others.

911. A car load of sweet, funny middle school boys.

912. Music and picnic at local vineyard on a perfect summer evening.

913. Smoked seafood dip.

914. Garlic hummus.

915. Jazz.

916. Kids making their own fun.

917. Getting to play with two sweet girls.

918. The wave of a school girl from a bus.

919. Swings.

920. Handmade pottery.

921. Graduation party on a beautiful afternoon—good food, good conversation, dear friends.

922. The gang of fine young men and women surrounding the graduate.

923. A place to stay.

924. Beloved pastor returning to church following successful surgery.

925. Barbecue pizza with rock star diva girlfriend and family on yet another perfect evening.

926. Brave men and women who serve this country.

927. Those who gave all.

Every Little Story

Linking with Michelle at Graceful, telling a tale from a visiting preacher:

Every little story is part of the great story of God’s deliverance, said the young preacher.

Preaching through a passage in Genesis 12, the young visiting pastor spoke of Abram’s wavering faith.  When forced by famine to flee to Egypt, Abram feared for his life.  He thought the pharaoh would take one look at his beautiful wife Sarai, and then kill Abram so he could take her as his own.  To protect his life, Abram devised a plan in which he asked his wife to pretend that she was his sister.  God delivered both Abram and Sarai by sending illness and plague on Pharaoh’s household until he was willing to release her, sending both she and Abram away in safety.

                               

This is the same Abram who, only a few verses earlier, had received God’s promise to bless not only him but, through his offspring, all nations of the earth.  The young preacher asked why a man who had received such a promise from God would feel the need to take matters into his own hands to protect his own life.

The young pastor then reminded us that we’d heard this story before in the pages of scripture:

·         God’s people, because of hardship and famine, found themselves living in exile in Egypt—a place that was not their home.

·         While living in exile, they began to succeed and prosper.

·         God sent plagues on the nation holding His people captive.

·         He delivered His people, just as He’d promised.

These elements, these themes, echo and repeat throughout the pages of scripture, said the preacher.  Even the promised Messiah was driven into Egypt as his family fled from the murderous threats of King Herod.  Then He was called out of Egypt to deliver His people.

God means for us to see everything in scripture as the story of God delivering His people, said the young preacher.

And if every story in scripture points us to the big story—the story of God of fulfilling his promise to deliver His people while living in exile in a world that is not their own--then maybe, just maybe, my story echoes this same theme.  Maybe, just maybe, I don’t have to take matters into my own hands like Abram did.  Maybe, instead, I should trust that God will fulfill His promise just as He has shown time and time again, story after story.

Also, waiting in exile but linking with L.L. Barkat in her series On, In, and Around Monday: