Not Looking Down

Thine eyes shall see the King in his beauty: they shall behold the land that is very far off. -Isaiah 33:17


There is something comforting about a gravestone. Solid and substantial, engraving cut deep into the granite.

An assurance, if you will, that no matter how long the Lord tarries, these remains will patiently await his return, guarded by this stone, and the day when body and soul will be reunited in one glorious whole.

Some comfort themselves in imagining that their loved one, like Rossetti's blessed damozel, leans out "from the gold bar of heaven" to look down upon and watch over them.

I would not imagine, as Rossetti did, her weeping, but instead rest assured that no tears exist in that place, having been all wiped away by the beautiful presence of our Savior.

And so I know that my beloved is not looking down at all, burdened by the weight that we who remain must bear. That time is over for her and the countless number of saints who stand around the throne.

Now is a time of unimaginable joy for them and a looking forward to the day of restoration and reunion. The day when all things will be made new.

How could they look down when in the presence of Him who draws the gaze of all eyes to Himself?

They look up.

She looks up.

Two Things

...for those who are called according to his purpose. -Romans 8:28b

A motorcycle accident. Two young people are scratched and bruised, but otherwise unharmed.

The family offers praises, "We have been kissed by God."

A Facebook post. An attempt is made to answer the rantings of those who would question God's goodness, or even His existence, because of evil in the world.

God is merciful, it says, in explanation of why the wicked are not immediately consumed. 

But does God have no control over these things other than to sometimes mercifully intervene?

Does evil simply exist, out from under His sovereign rule?

If that is true, how is He able at all to work for the good?

And so, the doctrine of the "Gentleman God" has been proposed.

God is such a nice God, to put it simply, that he is willing to relinquish control so that sinners may agree to be saved and the wicked proceed on their merry way to hell (or something to that effect).

Does this sound contradictory? Does this make sense? Or does this fly in the face of what we read in scripture (God's revealing of Himself to us)?

"I form light and create darkness, I make well-being and create disaster, I am the LORD who does all these things (Isaiah 45:7).

"...he does according to his will among the host of heaven and among the inhabitants of the earth; and none can stay his hand or say to him, 'What have you done?' (Daniel 4:35)."

It comes down to this: how big is your God?

Is He big enough that we may trust Him even in the worst of circumstances?

Big enough that we will bow in faith, even in the midst of sorrow?

Big enough that we acknowledge His sovereignty without understanding His sovereign purpose in the things He decrees and ordains?

This must be so, this all-ruling (omnipotent) God.

How else could we believe the promise, "I will never leave you nor forsake you?"

Or grasp the statement, "...you meant evil against me, but God meant it for good?"

We must believe in a sovereign God who has all things in His hand and works all events to His eternal, glorious purpose.

Like Job, I may not always get it.

Like Job, I may sometimes complain (and then repent and beg forgiveness).

But there is this:

"What then shall we say to these things? If God is for us, who can be against us? (Romans 8:31)"

I Need a Hug

I can't feel my toes! -Donkey


This post is inspired by the picture of a couple of young friends sharing a hug.

Thanks for the reminder, guys, of how precious hugs are and how we should not only enjoy them, but appreciate the blessing of a hug.

We are a hugging church, I am glad to report. Nothing wrong with hugging a brother in Christ, accompanied by the obligatory back pat, letting each other know, "I love you man, in  a strictly brotherly manner, of course."

I think a more gingerly hug is in order for the ladies, if at all. An arm around the shoulder rather than around the neck, perhaps. And their prerogative, always, to initiate the hug.

My favorite, of course, is for wives and girlfriends (or husbands and boyfriends, as the case may be).

I guess that's really more an embrace than a hug, don't you suppose.

I read somewhere that infants grow ill and die if deprived of human contact and affection. So we should hug our children often.

Adults also need hugs, I believe.

A short confession here: I have kissed two men in my life; My dad and my brother-in-law Paul; both on the cheek, whenever I would see them, which was not that often. I expect that I will both hug and kiss them (on the cheek naturally) when I see them again.

So we are agreed, then, that hugs are good and one of God's great blessings in our lives.

Have you hugged a loved one today?

A Question

Be anxious for nothing, but in everything by prayer and supplication, with thanksgiving, let your requests be made known to God. -Philippians 4:6

How's your prayer life?

Have you noticed that one of the shortest commands in Scripture, "Pray without ceasing," is preceded by an even shorter one: "Rejoice evermore?"

Does the state of one's prayer life have anything to do, do you suppose, with one's view of God? In other words, who is this God, really, and what is He like?

I am blessed to live where there are many great places to walk. And on these walks, in the cool of the morning, I (like Tiny Tim in church) think of the strangest things.

This morning, for example, as my mind meditated on a particular prayer request made by a friend and I felt the need to pray, I was stopped at once by a very strange thought.

Being outside is a wonderful way to meditate on the greatness of God. Man-made sounds seem faint and far away and the beauty and variety of what has been made; the sights, the sounds, the smells, the very touch of the breeze and the sun's rays upon the skin; all these things bring us to a contemplation of the One who made them.

You've been there, right? But my thoughts began to take me to a place where I (to my shame) seldom ever go and I began to contemplate the vastness of God.

I mean, He's huge and His presence fills all His creation.

And here I was, about to presume to speak to Him, to actually make requests of Him and to actually expect to receive a reply; whether "yes," "no," or "we'll see."

It would be the most ridiculous and outlandish thing imaginable.

Except that God, in his Word, has commanded us to do this very thing: this unlikely, unimaginable thing. What's more, He has opened a way for us. Given us a Spirit to aid us and a Mediator to plead for us.

Wow.

So how can I ever feel as though I don't want to pray or desire to put off prayer til later?

And in the End

...the love you take is equal to the love you make. -John Lennon, Paul McCartney

Lennon and McCartney notwithstanding, wouldn't you hate to find that the love you receive in this life is exactly in proportion to that which you give?


How would that work in your marriage, do you think?

Ever spoken hastily to a friend? Ever received loving forgiveness in reply?

Quid pro quo is, I suppose, useful for conducting negotiations, producing legislation, or other areas where a consensus is desired.

But to be involved in a truly loving relationship, mustn't we willing to give without promise of return? To put ourselves out there for the other is, I believe, the essence of love.

And in the end, actually, it's not at all about the love we take, but that love we give, freely, desiring the good of the beloved.

It is, in one sense, the essence of our salvation:

But God commendeth his love toward us, in that, while we were yet sinners, Christ died for us. -Romans 5:8

Having been forgiven much, should we not wish to love much?

The idea, don't you believe, behind our thoughts and attitudes.

The ideal toward which we strive.

The Grave

The importance of stories. This was drawn from an afternoon shared with my father toward the end of his life and my sharing in turn with my youngest daughter.

As for man, his days are like grass, he flourishes like a flower of the field; the wind blows over it and it is gone, and its place remembers it no more. Psalms 103:15-16

“It’s supposed to be right here somewhere.”

The two men inspected the tombstones, working their way across an older part of the cemetery. The markers in this section were small, lichen-encrusted slabs of marble, a foot wide and half again as tall.

“Daddy, are you sure we’re looking in the right place?”

“This is where she said it was; third row from the back, but she couldn’t tell which plot. There was a water-stain on the page of the register.”

The old man moved slowly, eyes straining at each weather-worn inscription.

“Here it is.”

The son moved to stand beside his father and looked down.

DEBORAH TAYLOR

DIED NOV 3 1926

The old man knelt, pain knifing through arthritic hip joints, and with the wire brush he carried, began to clean the small stone.

The car crept along the asphalt path. The little girl looked to the right where her father pointed. Rows of weather-stained gravestones stretched before her.

“Look on your side. Which one looks different?”

“They all look alike, Daddy.”

“Keep looking.”

She spotted it at the same moment he stopped the car; not quite white, but standing out plainly from the gray slabs around it.

“There it is.”

He opened the trunk of the car and reaching in, came out with a wire brush. She carried the white silk rose, and together they approached the grave.

DEBORAH TAYLOR

DIED NOV 3 1926

“Which grandma is this, Daddy?”

“Your Papaw Ray’s mama. She died just two weeks after he was born.”

“She has the same name as Aunt Deb.”

“Yes,” her father replied, “he named her after his mother. He never knew his mom or even where she was buried until ten or twelve years ago. He and I came out here one Saturday afternoon in the fall and he found her grave.”

“He kept it cleaned off?”

“Whenever I came home, we would come out here.”

She hugged her father, tears filling her eyes.

“Daddy, did he miss her like we miss him?”

“Sure he did. I believe it hurt him not having any memory of her. We don't understand how blessed we are, sometimes.”

As she pushed the stem of the rose into the ground in front of the stone, he knelt to brush away the lichen that had grown on it since last time. He halted, as though suddenly remembering something and turned to his daughter.

“We mustn't ever forget, Babe, these folks who loved us and poured their lives into ours. We need to love them while we have them and remember their stories.” The eight year-old going-on-nine brushed away tears from her cheeks.

“You can count on me, Daddy. I won't ever forget.”

He nodded, then began to apply the brush, slowly cleaning the small marker.

In the Navy

My oldest daughter posted on FaceBook today about the importance of recording memories as shared by our loved ones of their lives, usually long before we were born.

I was moved to share this short piece inspired by my dad's sharing of his experience of his first day on shipboard in the World War II navy.

Of course I have taken creative license in my description of the fight, but all else is pretty much as my father related it.

 

 

“Awright, you men, fall out, grab a wire brush and a scraper and bear a hand here.”

Ray stood looking as the other men obeyed the chief petty officer’s orders. Small, dark and wiry, with dark brooding eyes, Ray was not used to obeying orders, and chipping paint didn’t look like a lot of fun to him. His eyes flickered as he cast his glance about for a likely escape route.

“Taylor! I said bear a hand here. Whatsamatter, boy, you deef?”

“I don’t think I really want to chip paint, chief.”

Chin jutting and chest puffed out like a bantam rooster, the short, stocky man stepped over to Ray. There wasn’t ten pounds difference between them, though the scars on the chief’s weatherworn face attested to the fact that he had been in this situation before.

Without warning, he launched a roundhouse right at Ray’s head. Ray’s head was not there to receive the punch as he had ducked and delivered a short vicious jab to the other man’s ribcage.

Caught off balance by his wild swing, the chief managed to partially catch Ray’s blow on his elbow. Ray stepped back, shaking his right hand. The knuckles were already starting to swell.

The chief’s ribs ached and he drew air sharply to replace the wind that had been expelled from his lungs by the force of the blow. The paint-chipping detail stopped work and gathered round to watch as the two circled. The chief hoped to maneuver Ray toward a pile of loose pipe which lay on the deck. Ray stepped back and pretended to stumble. The chief charged in low and Ray caught him with a short chopping left to the cheekbone. Rocked to the soles of his shoes, the chief continued his charge unabated and before Ray could land another punch, buried his head in Ray’s chest, locking his arms in a tackle. This kid could punch like a kicking mule. Time to take this fight to the deck.

As they fell onto the pipe, Ray managed to twist so that most of their combined weight fell on the chief as they landed. Pain shot through his knees and elbows. The steel pipe was unyielding. Jolts of lightning flashed through his vision as his forehead slammed the steel deck of the ship.

The chief landed on his back with Ray on top of him and his lungs were again deflated. He clawed at Ray’s eyes and brought his knee up with as much strength as he could muster into Ray’s groin. Ray grunted in surprise and pain and rolled off him. He shook his head to clear the cobwebs and fought the churning nausea in the pit of his gut. There was a swelling goose-egg on his forehead and blood trickled from a slight cut above his left eye.

The chief’s backed ached as though someone had taken a lead pipe to it, which was, in effect, what had happened. Blood flowed from the wicked gash on his right cheek where Ray had twisted his fist as it landed, grinding it into the chief’s face and tearing the skin. He struggled to stand and struggled even harder to breathe. He was pretty sure at least one of his ribs was broken. A sharp pain lanced through his side when he moved. Ray stood at the same time. Both men were badly battered and looked even worse from sweat, paint chips and rust from the pipes.

“What’s going on here, Chief?”

He and Ray turned blearily to face the starched, pressed uniform of a lieutenant, j.g. The combatants and the chipping crew stood to attention.

“Uh, Taylor here stepped on these here pipes and fell, sir. When I went to help him up, the things rolled out from under me and I fell too. I was about to take him to infirmary to get him checked out.”

“That right, Taylor?”

“Yessir.”

“I see.” The young officer eyed both men. “Looks like you might need to get yourself checked out, too, Chief.”

“Sir.”

The men held their salutes as the officer turned and strode toward the bridge. None of them grinned until he was out of sight.

“At ease, you bums. Back to work, all of you. Come on, Taylor, let’s get you over to infirmary.”