go back I think I’d only wish to change the times I did hurtful things to others or said unkind words. Everything else could stay the same.
The difficulty with that, of course, is the impossibility of it happening. Hard things done and hurtful words said are released into lives and can never truly be retrieved. Three things, though, provide some hope.
The first is that from time to time a person actually does get the opportunity to apologize and at least try to make things right. Seize those moments whenever you can.
The second is that time, the medium into which hard deeds and hurtful words is cast, is also a potential healer. Time gives people, even the hurting, a place to reflect, to understand, to grow, and to overcome. Time does heal, not always, but it can.
The third is heaven. For those wounds inflicted for which there is no possible apology or those which time cannot heal there is a place where, as we often say, “All sickness, sorrow, and sighing have fled away…” If life takes those I have hurt beyond my reach and time cannot heal I, at least, can pray fervently that those who I, in my own brokenness, have inflicted myself upon could at know and find heaven after the brevity of this life and perhaps there we both can find what eluded us along the journey here.
I’m weary of the noise, weary of the half baked conspiracies, weary of the anger, and thinking about how much of my life was wasted has wearied me even further. It’s time for some detox, time for pure water from the Scriptures and the Saints to wash over and through me. Time for rest. Time to do good things. Time to exchange meaninglessness for grace.
It is good to be here, dear friends, despite the world, the politics, and the general hysteria and anger.
Everything around has been reduced in the knowledge that almost everything can be taken away and all we have now is our faith, our prayers, and our belief to carry us on and through.
Therefore we have all we need.
Walking down the street tonight on a cool, late spring, evening, a Facebook post from an acquaintance sending me down memory lane.
The post was a church somewhere in northern MInnesota, a building plain inside and faux log cabin without. There were musicians with guitars and people singing and it called to mind a simpler time, a time of college and gatherings like this in a world that seemed somehow less byzantine than today.
I know, we weren’t sophisticates and a certain kind of naivety oozed from us and yet the world seemed full of potential, of faith, of a certain kind of possibility. We weren’t sure where we would go and how things would play out and yet there was a kind of joy because we understood that God was with us.
Frankly, that seems absent now. Too many agendas. Too many things on the task list. Too many competing influences and not enough time sitting around campfires singing songs of praise and thinking only of the moment and the stars above.
My heart is too often filled with noise. My soul is too often shaken the jackhammer of busyness for its own sake. Where are the evening stars? Where are the loon sounds? Where is the simple faith I remember having and the joy that followed it?
I want my memories back and I hear their call like the call of Jesus telling us to come with our labors and burdens and find, in Him, our rest.
It’s a long time time since I’ve been here, a world away from those days just back from Kenya and the missions.
A little thing called Covid 19 was between there are here. I got it. I survived, and then I went back to work with others who had caught it. Most survived.
The price was high. Not just the illness but the hours breathing through a hot mask, the sweaty PPE, the showers at the end of the day, watching the funeral home come. Crying when they did and crying when the survivors left the unit. Communing a sweet lady while wearing a haz mat helmet for vestments. Praying hard. Worrying for my wife and family. Sleeping alone to keep others safe.
People ask me what I want.
I want a month somewhere quiet. I want people to stop calling us “heroes” because we do this every day. I want people to understand I’m not myself yet because that jolly, caring person, has been pushed real hard and is very tired. I want people to know that I’m glad I experienced what I did and returned to do the service I could, but there was a cost.
Everything seems different now. I cry very easily. I roll down the windows in my car every time I can because fresh air has become like gold to me. I sleep when I can, sometimes too much and sometimes too little. The day determines the night. They say one needn’t fear in the valley of the shadow of death but that doesn’t mean it won’t take a piece out of you as you walk through.
Still, my faith is still there and so is my hope. I’ll catch up with the rest of the world in a little bit.
See you there.
I wish things were different. I wish the world I live in was different, less noisy, less angry, less obsessed. For now, though, this doesn’t seem to be its path.
Anger won’t help either. What would my anger do to help things become less angry?
There are times, as well, when I simply want to be left alone. And as much as a safe hiding place would be nice eventually I would be forced to come out of my bunker if, for no other reason, to get coffee. People aren’t my problem anyway.
I think the only thing to survive these days is to fill yourself with light. Go to church. Read the Scriptures. Bathe, frequently, in any holy waters you can find. Pray and absorb every small bit of God and goodness to fill the empty places and then live as much like heaven as possible.
Do that and the worst that can happen is joy and the best is that you join the Saints.
It has been a cold week here in Minnesota. Air temperatures dropping to the 30’s below farenheit and the wind chills falling even further.
We’re actually kind of used to it here. Not that it happens often but rather because enduring rough weather is part of the “soul” of Minnesota. No one moves here for the weather, too cold in winter, too hot and humid in summer, but we all figure out a way to make do. This last week was no different. Cars started, at least most did. People who needed to be at work found a way and those that could stay put at home, did. And everyone put on layers and continued on with life as people in more southern climes stared in wonder, or horror, or both.
Living here, though, has made me a lover of spring. If winter must be endured I find that, as I grow older, spring is to be embraced. The sensitive can feel it coming as nature fills the air with subtle hints of its arrival. Daylight increases. The warm breezes from the southwest begin to win their battle with the Alberta clippers. The sky seems different, and long sleeping animals begin to awake.
If a person can make it through January, then the worst is over. January will claim some, that time of the year always does. Still, if you make it through, the end, if not the snow, is in sight and spring’s inevitability begins to make itself known. Years of experience makes a person wise in this regard and those who are aware of the surety of spring, even in the howling winds of winter, can endure.