June 16, 2011 A Writing Exercise, Just For Fun

Gatlinburg, Tennessee. A hot July afternoon. A father and son sat in the therapist's office, neither very comfortable with the high-priced décor and only just tolerating the presence of the counselor taking notes. At his suggestion the son, a rough looking man in his thirties, began.

“When I was just a boy, just three years old, my father left home. He had never been much of a parent or a provider, so about all he left in the rear view mirror of his rattle-trap truck was a guitar that had seen much better days and some empty bottles of rotgut whiskey. My mother had a tough time raising me alone – I wasn't the easiest kid to handle – but I think she was relieved when he left, even if she did hold on to a faded photograph of the son-of-a...excuse me, doc. Like I was saying, she had it tough, but I had it even tougher, not because I was the product of a single parent home, but because of the truly awful name my old man insisted on giving me when I was born.”

The therapist looked up from his notes. “You signed in with an initial only, Mr. Smith. What does the S stand for?

The younger Mr. Smith squirmed a little. “S will do for now. It's a...girl's name.” For a moment, there was complete silence in the room, punctuated only by the ticking of a handsome mantel clock on an equally handsome walnut bookshelf. “Maybe he thought it was just a joke on everybody, me especially. Maybe he was drunk at the time.”

“Probably was,” the elder Mr. Smith interrupted. The therapist pursed his lips.

“Anyway, it seems like I was fighting all my life, just to be taken halfway seriously. A woman would stifle a giggle and I would turn red from embarassment. I busted a few heads open. I grew up too fast, and I was always very short-tempered, I'll tell you that. And I promised myself, every time I looked in the mirror or heard someone call my name, or sometimes just yelling up at the sky after a fight, that if I ever caught up with my father again, I would...”

The therapist waited a few seconds, then said, “You would what, Mr. Smith?”

The son looked at his father. “I would kill him.”

The father grunted. “Like to see you try.”

“Gentlemen, please! That's why we're here. You were referred by the court to prevent more bloodshed. I can tell you've been in quite a brawl recently already. We're here to see if we can resolve your differences without further arrests. Mr. Smith, Mr. Grady Smith. Why don't you share now?”

The older man rubbed a scar on his cheek as if it still hurt, and ran his hand under his grizzled chin. “I was just sitting at a table inside my favorite watering hole, playing cards with some of my buddies. Five card stud, to be exact. This guy waltzes in like he owns the place, takes one look at me, introduces himself as my son after all these years, and threatens me! He got the first punch in, let the record show. I was just minding my own business.”

“Yeah, I hit you first, old man, but you drew a knife on me and cut off some of my ear – dang near took the whole thing off.”

“I would have, too, if you hadn't broken that chair with my face.”

The therapist looked through a little stack of neatly typed pages. “Apparently the scuffle eventually migrated out into the street while someone, the proprietor I assume, called 911. By the time law enforcement arrived, both of you had drawn weapons, you were apprehended, and – I take it because you were causing such a disturbance in the jail – my services were requested.”

The older man's eyes narrowed. “I wasn't through talking.” It was now the therapist's turn to squirm a little. He had seen evil on plenty of faces, but this was a man who had almost shot his son, to say nothing of branding him with a girlie name. What was he thinking? He nodded for the man to continue.

“When I laughed at you that day, I wasn't laughing at your name or at you at all, son. I was laughing with relief.”

The son was incredulous. “Relief? I was about to kill you.”

“This world is a rough place. A boy should have a father around to teach him things, and I was just a used up drunk even then. I knew I'd leave eventually, no matter how good a woman your mother was and no doubt, still is. I loved her, but I loved the bottle more. Still do. And you may not believe it, but I loved you, too, and I gave you a sissy name I thought would help. Either make you thick-skinned enough not to care or get you killed young, one way or the other. That name probably saved your life. Hate me if you must, but you fought a good fight, son. I kicked and bit and gouged you with my fingernails, and you just kept coming back for more and dishing out worse. I was relieved that you'd turned out to be the kind of man I'm proud to call my son, someone who doesn't take anything off anybody.”

“You're...you're proud of me?” the son said softly. “And I always thought you'd named me that out of spite.” He wiped a tear with his sleeve.

The father and son rose from their chairs and clumsily embraced. The younger son started chuckling through his tears and pulled away. “You know what? If I ever have a son, I'm going to be there for him. I'll give him a regular name, and just stick it out, however hard it gets. Having a girl's name worked alright for me, but there's no way I'm going to pass it on, just the same.”

The therapist sighed as he watched the two men leave, arms around each other, headed to celebrate at the nearest bar. He hadn't done anything to help expedite this happy family reunion, but he'd collect a nice fee, just the same.

(If the sad tale sounds familiar, watch this:
http://youtu.be/-1BJfDvSITY



(c) Ellen Gillette, 2011

June 6, 2011 Poetry

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Dylan Thomas (1914-1953)

Dylan Thomas was a sickly child, a high school drop-out, an alcoholic, an adulterer. And yet, when we read his poetry, we find greatness. We may not understand his words, may not agree with them, but there is power there. He understood the power of words, and wielded that power with a beauty that transcended his frail and faulty humanity.

When I taught sixth grade at a small private school in Ft. Pierce, Florida, I assigned poems to the class for memorization. I don't know when memory work fell out of favor with the public school system, but it has, in my opinion, much merit. Memorizing a lengthy passage, whether the Bible or poetry or important speeches or a monologue to perform, adds auditory learning to visual learning. It trains brain cells made soggy from too much television and DVDs and video games.

One year, the class tackled Thomas' Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night. The school considered sixth graders upper elementary, and so at the end of the year they graduated along with the kindergarteners and seniors. It was fun, as the sole sixth grade teacher, to create a program that would show off the challenging curriculum used. I asked Ashley, a petite and very capable student, to recite Thomas' poem. Her flawless delivery (“Rage, RAGE, against the dying of the light.”) brought tears to the eyes of more than a few in the audience, I'm sure.

I've read much more fiction than non-fiction, and probably more non-fiction than poetry, but in the last few months, I have enjoyed poetry more than ever.. I read Garrison Keillor's Good Poems anthology cover to cover, dog-earring my favorites (and there were a lot of them). I have written poems, something I haven't done in years. I've corresponded with a friend who has written books and books of poetry, getting good feedback (i.e. both encouragement and suggestions for improvement). Last month, I attended a poetry reading at the local library and participated – the audience was invited to share some of their own work. What fun!

Poetry is important because of the emotion it conveys, emotion that remains fresh thousands of years after it was written (Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil.)* That makes us laugh (I felt attached/To my old mouth/But it fell out //I wore it out)** or feel the stirrings of passion:

The Love Cook, by Ron Padgett

Let me cook you some dinner.
Sit down and take off your shoes
and socks and in fact the rest
of your clothes, have a daquiri,
turn on some music and dance
around the house, inside and out,
it’s night and the neighbors
are sleeping, those dolts, and
the stars are shining bright,
and I’ve got the burners lit
for you, you hungry thing.

* Psalm 23:4, attributed to King David of Judah
** from “My Mouth Fell Out” by Philip Parker, (c) 2007

May 23, 2011 Remembering a Special Day

Twenty-seven years is a long time, any way you look at it. Well, I guess I should rephrase that. Twenty-seven years wouldn't seem especially lengthy for a civilization to rise to splendor and then fall in defeat. It wouldn't be enough time fly by rocket to the outer limits of the universe.

But a 27-year marriage is impressive. Baseball legend Pete Rose, 69, just ended a marriage that long (his second marriage) citing irreconcilable differences. On a happier note, Colin Firth recently received his first Oscar after 27 years of appearing on stage and film. Twenty-seven years of learning lines, getting into character, following direction, taking on less-than-ideal roles...and now, he has an Oscar on the mantle.

The year Pete Rose got married at 42 (for the second time) was the same year a 23-year-old Colin Firth landed his first film role. 1984 was also the year I gave birth to our fourth child.

Adam Rogers Gillette was born at home. If you want to see the house, it is there to see: 5203 Seagrape Drive in Indian River Estates, Fort Pierce, Florida. We had built a tiny home there, then doubled the size. In the new, spacious addition, Adam entered the world the evening of May 22, clean as a whistle. He was born with the sac of waters intact – something that doesn't usually happen in the hospital during physician-assisted deliveries – and looked as if he'd just had a bath. Which he had, in a way.

Surrounded by family and friends, he arrived after an intense (albeit brief) labor. That intensity stayed with him throughout his life, but we couldn't know that then. When I held him in my arms, I thought, “I am in love.” It is a feeling I never lost, not even when he grew to be an incredibly black-and-white, hot-and-cold thinker with a temper that could send me crying into my closet (it was a big closet). A smile and spontaneous hug made everything right with the world again, however. If he'd said something unkind, he would apologize. Whatever he had done to displease or disappoint, he was quick to resolve. And of course, I didn't lose that first love for him when he broke things, as all children do, because he never broke my heart.

Until he did.

We had 16 wonderful years with Adam, years of laughter and baseball, of wrestling with his big brother and rescuing whichever sister called on the talents of Super Adam first, of learning to play chess and getting in a fight at school (in his mother's class, no less), of being sweet on a girl for the first time and taking a road trip to see his sister, of flying his niece around the house like an airplane and embracing grandparents, of getting baptized, of graduating with his GED so that he could start college early, of finding the dream car that would cause his death.

But we can think about that later, can't we? A day after the 27th anniversary of his birth, I'd rather think about his magnificent red hair and freckles. The time, during a board game, that my mother picked up a card and asked ,”When do you feel the safest?” and Adam replied, as perhaps a 10-year-old, “When I'm with my dad.” The time he reduced the basketball ref to laughter by calling for a time-out just as his foot was about to land out-of-bounds, exactly as a big-league player might do. The way he'd dive for the ball, or jump for it, or roll for it, the way the baseball or the basketball or the soccer ball seemed to come alive under his power. I'd rather think about his little legs trying to keep up with the big boys playing in the street or yard outside, not the way his long legs stretched to the end of the hospital bed of the ICU.

In August this year –a short three months away – there will be time to think of his accident, the hospital, the funeral. These are memories that live just below the surface of every day, but dwelling on them would not only paralyze, but dishonor such a precious, excellent young man. It is his life that defines him, not his death. And such a grand life it was, from the very beginning.

I don't know if there are birthday celebrations in heaven. None are mentioned in the Bible, certainly, although there is celebrating when a lost child finds his way back. The marriage feast of the Lamb is planned for some time in the future (not, happily, this past weekend as had been predicted by some). But I would like to think that those who have gone on ahead still mark the start of their lives on earth. If that is the case, I can see Adam gathering everyone together on May 22 (as we count days): Grandma Polly, who he loved so much, and Papa George (for whom he was named), and his Uncle George he never met, and other assorted family members along with his Little League coach Johnny Steele and pitcher Chris Lewis, another special Adam from Fort Pierce – Adam Snyder – and fellow homeschooler, Ian Zook. And over there, Jesus and Mary are serving up riblet baskets even better than the ones Adam always ordered at Applebee's, and everyone agrees that it's been a wonderful day.

It really was a wonderful day.

May 11, 2011 The End is Near??

We just moved to south Florida after spending five and a half years in North Carolina, also after spending a considerable amount of money (a) moving everything we owned in truck and trailer, (b) purchasing a house, and (c) setting up new accounts for everything under the sun. 

We might have saved a bundle if only we had realized that everything under the sun is about to be destroyed in a worldwide earthquake on May 21.

What? You didn't know that either?

Seriously, I just heard about this. A Facebook friend posted a news clip out of the Greensboro area about Family Radio's proclamation via billboard there to the effect that May 21, 2011, Judgement Day will arrive. Family Radio is led by 80-something Harold Camping, author in 1992 of the book 1994?  The book opined that 1994 would see Judgment Day, but when it didn't, he said his research "wasn't complete," thus the CYA addition of a question mark. NOW his research is complete. No question marks for this guy, no siree!

The so-called Christian group's proof comes from a half century of Camping's study of the Bible as well as the following signs:

• the complete degradation of the Christian church
• the devastating moral breakdown of society
• the re-establishment of Israel in 1948
• the emergence of the Gay Pride Movement
• the complete disregard of the Bible in all of society today

Hmmm. I thought Jesus was going to present the Church, his Bride, to himself "in glorious splendor, without spot or wrinkle or any such things [that she might be holy and faultless]" (Ephesians 5:27 Amplified Bible).  Does Camping mean the supposed church? The so-called church, the name-only church? Does he mean in America, or worldwide? Cause the Church in other parts of the world reports incredible growth and revival, even modern-day miracles. That doesn't sound like "complete degradation" to me.

Nor do I see "devastating moral breakdown" across the board. Things are clearly not what they were in the United States of 1950, nor as they should be in a perfect world, but neither are they what occurred prior to the fall of Rome or during the Dark Ages. Standards are broken routinely, but there are standards in place to break, which means there is a fairly healthy societal appreciation of Right and Wrong.

And anyone who lives in, or has visited, the Bible Belt would call that item about the "complete disregard of the Bible" a bunch of hooey. People in those parts put scripture in their yards and on their cash registers. There is scripture everywhere you look. 

The emergence of the Gay Pride Movement is powerful enough to draw an earthquake of apocalyptic dimensions? Which one -- the one in 1871 Germany or the American movement in 1969? Camping seems to be a bit ethnocentric, making the events in his own country the center of the universe. I don't recall any mention of New York City or San Francisco in the Bible. Jerusalem is the apple of God's eye.

Speaking of which, one can't argue with the significance of the re-establishment of Israel -- that is a clear, undeniable fulfillment of Biblical prophecy. So okay, 1 out of 5 makes sense, not very good odds for quitting jobs and leaving wives (it's happened in Camping's camp).

Even more indicative of delusion is Camping's definitive year for Creation: 11,013 BC. I believe in a Creator and so, by definition, am a creationist, but I'm skeptical of anyone's ability to pinpoint a specific year. Seems a bit arrogant. I'd feel better if he added that old stand-by, the question mark. I suppose this would become problematic in print. 11,013 BC? Maybe so, maybe not. Best guess. As far as I can tell. A little wriggle room, Harold, please.

True believers, says Camping, are given "spiritual eyesight" so that they may know the day and the hour of Christ's return to earth, despite the fact that Jesus said he would return at an hour and moment "when you do not anticipate it" (Luke 12:40). Camping has reinvented scripture to mean that UNbelievers don't know when Jesus will return, but true believers (i.e. those who agree with him) will be given, have been given, a divine head's up.

Huh? Isn't this conveniently overlooking Matthew 24:36's reminder to stay ready and look for signs but "of that [exact] day and hour no one knows, not even the angels of heaven, nor the Son, but only the Father"?

In reading various news reports of Impending Doom, I had to chuckle at one fellow. Kevin Brown of New Jersey is a follower of Camping, yet owns a nutrition and wellness business. My mother, a heart patient who follows a strict diet, has always maintained that if she knew she were about to die, she'd eat cheesecake and sausage biscuits (not together, mind you). If you really believe the world is about to end, why suffer through a diet of vitamin supplements and tofu? 

More honest (but sadder, really) is the couple in Orlando who is, this very minute, busy spending the last of their savings so that on May 21, "there will be no money left." Monday, May 23, those two queue up at Orange County Social Services.

Camping quotes the verse about the watchmen on the wall (e.g. his group, in context) blowing a trumpet to warn others (see Ezekiel 33, among other places), but there's no trumpet in his hand. Instead, he uses RV teams and billboards and the Internet to spread the word. He picks and chooses which King James Version words to use literally and which to change to suit him.

I get that. Totally. There are passages of the Bible I find particularly pesky, some I would much rather God hadn't included. But trumpets? What is cooler than that? Frankly, a good jazz accompaniment would go a long way toward improving public perception of Camping's movement.

And come May 22, when everyone and everything is still here...when churches all around the globe are filled with the praises of God's people...he could always start a band. He's already got RVs to haul equipment and a fan base.

Well...maybe not. I'm guessing Harold's gonna be wishing he'd used another question mark.

Permission to reprint with acknowledgment of source. 

April 28, 2011 God's Okay & We're on the Way

In 1972, Thomas Harris published a book entitled I’m Okay, You’re Okay. I heard a speaker refer negatively to the basic precept presented in the book, actually pointing to the very life positions about which Harris wrote. “It’s not a matter of ‘I’m okay, you’re okay. It’s not a matter of ‘I’m okay, but you’re not’ or ‘you’re okay but I’m not’. In reality, it’s more like ‘I’m not okay…and you’re not okay’. But that’s okay!’”

We are all “in process,” all on life’s journey, all at different stages. We are moving, if not physically, along the timelines of our existence on Planet Earth. No one knows at what point he or she is on, how many years are left, how many lessons still required. Who am I to say you’re traveling too fast or too slow? Who are you to suggest I’m better off going east than west, or point out that my choice of luggage is out of date? We would be doing each other much better service as fellow human beings if we simply got out of each others’ way more often, or at least offered to carry some of the load.

None of us is “okay” in the sense that anyone has it all figured out. Perfection has only been lived out by Jesus – Buddha tried and failed, Mohammed tried and failed, saints and sinners from Adam to Zebulun have tried and failed. Some show better outward progress than others, but no on else hits the bulls-eye of God’s holiness every single second. It’s hard to argue with a book that’s sold a gazillion copies and been on the New York Times bestseller list, but people are not so easily put into such tidy boxes unless it’s the one colossal box that says “unfinished.”

I was thinking of some personal changes this week as we are packing up to move back to Florida. Packing is not a new concept, but this time it caught me off guard. As nearly as I can figure it, I have moved 25 times in the last 53 years, an average of moving every 2.12 years. That's a lot of packing.

Born in Anderson, South Carolina I moved at around age 3 to Cullowhee, North Carolina. From there my family headed south to Fort Pierce, Florida when I was 9. The bulk of packing and unpacking happened in St. Lucie County, from one home to another. I got married. We rented. We moved. We lived in the mountains, then in Albemarle, North Carolina while David worked on various projects. We built our first house. In between moves, we managed to have four children. Built a second house. Then came missionary training in Texas, the biggest move ever to India and back, temporary housing upon our return, another house built, another.

God has blessed recent moves in tremendous ways. We sold out in Florida when real estate was incredibly high in St. Lucie County. Next week we will buy when real estate is incredibly low there – tough for the local economy, but a smart time for anyone needing to buy (or wanting to get out of debt). In between we’ve had acreage, raised livestock, done the ranch thing. The last house we have been in (until next week) is big enough, we thought, that we could live comfortably here forever. Room for the live-in grandchildren to grow up in, plenty of breathing space, woods all around. Ten acres to do with whatever we chose over the years, over the rest of our lives.

Enter Plan B.

It began a year ago, when financial wisdom pointed to selling and downsizing. We put our house on the market, began looking for older homes in town. There were advantages – I could walk to work, we could get out from under a mortgage and credit card bills. We showed the house to several enthusiastic families, but no contracts were signed.

Then, what seemed to be twist in the road. In December, my husband David decided that we should return to Florida. This from a man who worked outside in the Florida heat trying not to get “bear caught,” who’d claimed he would never, ever live in Florida again! For him to make such an abrupt, radical change in his thinking…well, he interpreted this as divine leading. That decision made, we had a contract on our house within a matter of weeks.

Our move to North Carolina had meant (for me) giving up an excellent job, a great support system, but the hope of having time to write more and help raise grandchildren. Our move back to Florida means giving up an excellent job, a great support system, and the hope (again) of having time to write more and help raise grandchildren, but who can say what will happen in the next few years?

Obviously it’s not all about me. It may not be any about me. But one thing I do know – the Ellen returning to Florida is not the same one who moved to North Carolina. I’ve changed, grown up a little – a good thing to do when you’re approaching 50, then passing it.

What have I learned in the last five and a half years? That God uses surprising, sometimes baffling methods. That he uses whatever and whomever in our lives to guide us in his direction if we are open to his plans and purposes. For example, he has used some challenging circumstances to reveal a problem with co-dependency….something I would have denied and argued against vehemently in years past. Not I!

I’ve learned that being self-aware and taking care of me isn’t necessarily selfish. And I am delighted to find that after more than a decade, God is giving joy back into my life for more than just moments at a time. It’s been a long time coming, but I’m not complaining. I don’t know why he waited so long to send it. I don’t begin to understand his methodology, but I am loving it. A lot of things in life are overrated – joy is not one of them.

Could God have sent joy to me in Florida all these years, taught me the same lessons there, saving time, money, energy? Apparently not. Because God is faithful to lead us where he needs and wants us to be, to bring certain people into our lives, to use us in certain peoples’ lives along the way. That assumes, of course, that we have followed perfectly, and I am quite sure we have not. But I am confident that even if we had dug in our heels, stubbornly staying put when he was pointing northward, he would have used that too.

God uses our mistakes, our sins, our disastrous decisions. He uses the people who hurt us as well as the people who cheer us on. He is God. He never misses an opportunity to further his kingdom within us and all around us, never wastes an incident, is never surprised by a sudden turn of events.

Some people accuse Christians of making God in their own image, but there is nothing more foolish. God isn’t anything like I would make him! Isaiah 55:9 tells us that “as the heavens are higher than the earth, so are (God’s) ways higher than (our) ways and (his) thoughts than (our) thoughts” (NIV). I could fret or argue or turn away from God because he doesn’t act like the Santa Claus in the sky I really hoped for, someone who always answered my prayers the way I wanted and in the time frame I demanded, but to me, it is a tremendous comfort that God doesn’t do my bidding. This sometimes annoying, sometimes infuriating characteristic of God only cements my belief in his existence and sovereignty.

When David began talking about Florida, it was a little scary for me, I must admit. I have friends now in North Carolina to whom it will be painful to say good-bye. I have family here, as well as there; I fret about leaving them. I’ve had a great time here doing many things I enjoy. I’ve branched out, done more, been affirmed in many ways, learned important lessons about myself. And now, God is sending me somewhere to (perhaps) have those very lessons challenged, possibly misunderstood or rejected. The people who “knew me when” may or may not like the changes they observe.

To some, I may no longer be “okay.” I may not find some of their attitudes and behavior as “okay” as I once did. And that’s okay! I can trust God to work in this move as he has in all those other moves, to continue teaching and leading and guiding and directing and changing and growing me up into the woman he wants me to be. And that’s more than okay with me, because he alone is “able to do far more abundantly beyond all that we ask or think, according to the power that works within us” (Ephesians 3:20, NIV).

Now…if I could just remember where I packed my toothbrush.

P.S. For the last several years, Crossroads Church in Lillington, North Carolina has considered this blog to be part of their outreach. I want to thank Dr. Ken Dalton and the rest of church leadership for the opportunity to write "for them." Now, as we leave Crossroads and Lillington, the blog will continue (hopefully) but will probably go through some changes. But that's okay!

Permission to reprint with acknowledgement of source.

April 18, 2011 Acts of God

In the day of prosperity be happy, but in the day of adversity consider— God has made the one as well as the other.

Ecclesiastes 7:14a (NASV)

April 16, 2011 will go down in North Carolina’s history as the day that tornados whipped across the state, chewing up buildings and trees in its path. Besides the tragic death of three boys in the care of a relative who did all the right things in Raleigh to insure their safety, the destruction of Lowe’s Home Improvement in Sanford around 3:00 p.m. that day is perhaps the most recognizable result. When news reports flash, the store’s wreckage is displayed prominently, the poster child, of sorts, for the storm’s destruction.

My husband David works…worked…at the store. It was unusual for him to be working April 16, the second weekend in a row. It had actually never happened before, that I can recall.

I was in the Emergency Room of Chatham County Hospital in Siler City with my mother engaged in our own particular drama when my cell phone rang at 3:22. Mama was out of the room having an x-ray taken. I didn’t recognize the number.

“Lowe’s is gone,” David’s voice said. He had borrowed a phone from a co-worker just long enough to tell me he was unhurt. About an hour later, he called from home to say his truck, though badly damaged, had been drivable. He was sopping wet but home safe. He kept replaying it all in his mind, he said, but there were no ill-effects.

In the meantime, I had texted our children and pastor about David’s escape from harm…actually everyone’s escape. From photos you would expect numerous deaths and injuries, but workers and customers walked out almost as easily as they had walked in. I’d been on my mother’s laptop, posting news on Facebook, looking for news. Power was out in Lillington, an hour away. Friends were chatting back and forth, announcing when power was restored, encouraging one another, praising God when storms passed with little damage.

It is common to hear tornadoes, hurricanes, tsunami, earthquakes and the like referred to as “acts of God,” giving at least tacit acknowledgement to the fact that God exists and is capable of incomprehensible power. The Creator of the universes can do as he wills with that Creation, just as any potter can decide to rework the clay, or smash even the most beautiful vase. And God can do whatever he wants to do with either his earth or his earthlings.

God, however, mostly stays out of the intervention business, at least from all outward appearance. He does not step in routinely to stop tyrants or prevent birth defects or heal disease. When he does…and he does… it is so unusual that we call it a miracle.

I asked David what had gone through his mind as he waited for the tornado to pass. People had run into the store, warning everyone that it was approaching, giving them time to move away from the front windows, to seek better shelter. David had only enough time to lie down before he heard the telltale freight train sound of the funnel cloud. He closed his eyes, listening to the roof pull away from the walls, and then it was all over.

He didn’t see his life flash before his eyes. He was not conscious of a particular thought. Not even a prayer.

“I felt it would be okay,” he said. “I was surprised that there was so much devastation…I really thought it was just going to pass us over.” But his sense that he was going to be okay held true. Not a scratch.

We are two weeks away from closing on the sale of our house and moving back to Florida. The tornado could just as easily have plowed through our property as anyone else’s. There were over 20 fatalities related to the weekend storms; my husband’s name could just as easily have been on that list.

God received much credit and praise on April 16, communicated via text, phone, Facebook, and e-mail not only because David and others were spared, but because Harnett County did not see the level of devastation as surrounding counties. Indeed, God is worthy to be praised.

But I fall back to the thought that he is just as worthy to be praised when everything a family owns is pulled up into a whirlwind and disappears. When a marriage ends. When a job is lost. When madmen commit genocide. When terrorists do the unthinkable. When we watch as the monitor by a loved one’s bedside slows, then stops.

Our praise when all goes well is appropriate, but our praise when it all seems to be going to hell in a hand basket is even more so. Praise in the midst of trials and tribulation makes a statement to heaven’s throne room, to the enemy of our souls, and indeed, to the universe. God does not always act as we would act, does not always prevent that which we fear, does not always follow the shopping list of what passes for prayer much of the time.

But he is still God, and we will never be. We do not have to understand the why’s, as long as we know the character of who we worship, because we can always trust that he has the wisdom we lack, that he sees the end from the beginning, and that he “ works for the good of those who love him, who have been called according to his purpose” (Romans 8:28, NIV).

Permission to reprint with acknowledgement of source.

April 2, 2011 Meeting God Beyond

Out beyond ideas of wrongdoing and rightdoing,there is a field.

I will meet you there.

When I bought someone a vibrantly colored print with the quotation shown above, I didn’t know who the poet was. According to Wikiquote: “Jalal al-Din Muhammad Rumi or مولانا جلال الدين محمد بلخى Jalal ad-Din Muhammad Balkhi (30 September 1207 – 17 December 1273) was a Persian philosopher, theologian, poet, teacher, and founder of the Mevlevi (or Mawlawi) order of Sufism; also known as Mevlana (Our Guide), Jalaluddin Rumi, or simply Rumi.”

Something about the words grabbed me, or I wouldn’t have been so drawn to it, even with the beautiful artwork. What does it mean, though, and should I be quoting a Muslim poet in the first place…now that I know who “Rumi” is? Aren’t there enough Christian mystics down through history?

Yes, but they don’t have the monopoly on wisdom. That belongs to the Bible, and I would argue that Rumi, perhaps unknowingly, perhaps as a sincere seeker of truth, stumbled upon biblical truth.

In Genesis we read the story of the Fall of Man. God creates man and woman, gives them work to do in the Garden of Eden, shows them one tree from which they may not eat. Regardless of attempts in the past to assign the blame of original sin to All Things Sexual, the tree is clearly named in scripture: the tree of the knowledge of good and evil. Why would God not want Adam and Eve to partake of its fruit? Good and evil exist — wouldn’t God want them, and by extension us, to know the difference? Recognition of good and evil is essential to making correct and wise choices, isn’t it?

Apparently not. When God told his perfect couple living in his perfect garden to steer clear of the tree, he didn’t have restriction in mind, but freedom. Before they tasted the forbidden fruit, they had access to every other fruit in all of creation. Because they disobeyed the one little rule they were given, they lost it all. Instead of tending the trees in God’s garden, they had to toil under difficult circumstances and raise food for themselves.

Creation only makes sense when we begin not at Genesis 1:1, but at John 1:1:

“In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God” (NIV).

Jesus was. Before creation. Before time. The very name of God that was given to Moses to lead the Hebrews out of slavery is an enimga: I am that I am. I will be what I will be. I am. Jesus’s crucifixion and resurrection were planned before the first star was hung in space, because an omnipotent Godhead saw the need for a perfect sacrifice for sin before breath — before spirit — was breathed into the very first sinners.

Adam and Eve’s disobedience was no surprise to God. He walked and talked with them in perfection, yet they had free wills, independence, without which their love and devotion would mean nothing. God knew they would use their independence wrongly, succomb to temptation. The kind of tree or fruit didn’t matter — it was simply the one thing about which they were told “No.”

However, God gets mileage out of everything; the tree he forbade offers an important lesson to us still. God never intended for us to decide right and wrong, good and evil, in our own strength and wisdom. He never intended for us to make up lists of the Do’s and Don’ts so prevalent today, especially within all flavors of religion. This is the path! Do this, and you will be saved! If you do this, you’ll burn in hell!

Instead, God’s intention is that I meet with him in Rumi’s field — the one he described, anyway. Back in that perfect, pre-sin garden. Just God and I. God of all wisdom and love and power, source of everything that can meet each of my many needs, needs he placed within me. Beyond what I think of as rightdoing and wrongdoing, beyond what I think about anything, really. Just God and I. There, the Holy Spirit can blow the cobwebs of my thoughts and experiences and what others have projected on me from my mind, can breathe life into every nook and cranny. There, he can teach me Truth…not what I think is truth, but Truth that is the very person of Jesus Christ.

The old hymn had it spot-on:

In The Garden

I come to the garden alone While the dew is still on the roses And the voice I hear falling on my ear The Son of God discloses.

Refrain: And He walks with me, and He talks with me, And He tells me I am His own; And the joy we share as we tarry there, None other has ever known.

He speaks, and the sound of His voice, Is so sweet the birds hush their singing, And the melody that He gave to me Within my heart is ringing. Refrain

I’d stay in the garden with Him Though the night around me be falling, But He bids me go; through the voice of woe His voice to me is calling. Refrain

---Words: Charles Austin Miles (1912)

In that field, that garden spot, he talks to me about the times I have done the right thing for the wrong reason. He talks to me about the times I have done the wrong thing, but was motivated by love. He can talk to me about being merciful to the people in my life who have hurt me out of their own ignorance, their own wrong motives, their own wrong attempts to be Right.

Proverbs 3:5 makes it clear that we are to “trust in the Lord with all (our) heart and lean not on (our) own understanding. Yet, so often we do the opposite, thinking ourselves mature and rational and wise, even spiritual. God beckons us to come play in a field, and we are too busy cataloguing all the reasons why we can’t.