Strands of Gold

I sit in my family’s living room, in a comfy armchair. I am surrounded by my family–my father, my mother, my brother, my two sisters.

Dad is reading the Lord of the Rings to us. The words weave in and out of my consciousness as I ponder my home.

My youngest sister’s hair is golden–when you hold the strands up to the light, they glimmer and shine as if they were, in fact, spun from gold. She often smiles and lives exuberantly. She is not always thoughtful or considerate, but she is never malicious. She scatters her gold like flower petals, like rain, letting it fall on all around her. She is like the sunshine, beautiful, light, and airy.

My other sister is different–quiet, deep. She is like a mine. You have to dig deep and make effort to find the gold, but it is there, precious and abundant, for those who take the trouble to look. And there are moments when the light hits her just right and she shines.

My brother is intentional. He gives away his treasure freely and thoughtfully, pondering each gift and each recipient. He delights in orderly beauty. He is like a river, abundant and ever-flowing, but only ever flowing in the river bed.

The tapestry of our family is many-colored and ever-growing, but if you look closely as it grows, you see the strands of gold weaving in and out of our lives. In some places, they shine and reveal themselves, but other times they give a shine to seemingly ordinary events.

My friend put it this way: “Y’all aren’t perfect, but you actively pursue holiness. Together.”

Those strands of gold are our pursuit of holiness. And no, we aren’t perfect, but God is making us better.

And we are learning together.

The Dangers of Allowing your Child to Read the Classics

It’s just one book.

She probably won’t even like it. Aren’t the classics boring?

It’s just a phase. He’ll outgrow it.

They aren’t addictive…

These justifications, and more, have often led unwary parents to let their children read a seemingly innocuous book, such as The Odyssey, Don Quixote, or The Pilgrim’s Progress.

DO NOT BE DECEIVED! Allowing your child to read just one classic may not seem like such a big deal, but it is the gateway to horrors unspeakable, such as: questioned assumptions, logophilia, thoughtfulness, and painful questions that may not have answers. It can cause your child to devour classics with ever-growing voracity until they eventually become an avid reader, an amateur poet, a budding novelist, or, worst of all, a lit major.

A literature major.

You’ve seen them. Talking about Dante in hushed circles, reading in public rather than socializing, infecting the minds of the children with stories… At all costs, keep your children away from them.

If you hope for your child to have any sort of normality, keep him or her far away from the classics.

This passing shadow

“Do you dislike your role in the story, your place in the shadow? What complaints do you have that the hobbits could not have heaved at Tolkien? You have been born into a narrative, you have been given freedom. Act, and act well until you reach your final scene.” –N.D. Wilson, Notes from the Tilt-A-Whirl

Eternity is beyond fathoming. We, frail creatures that we are, live in the now. In Time. In the ebb and flow of life where there is pain that seems insurmountable and endless.

I and my friends have been speaking about the classical difference between tragedy and comedy. Allow me to explain:

Classically, the main difference between a tragedy and comedy was where they started and where they ended up. A tragedy would begin with order, with contentment. It was good. But inevitably, the good would deteriorate–the king would die; the lover would betray; evil won. And the tragedy ended in chaos and confusion and pain and sorrow. A tragedy was like a sunset: beautiful, but ending in darkness.

A comedy, on the other hand, started in chaos–lovers parted; dying fathers; pain and confusion. And frequently, they just kept getting worse. Not only were the lovers parted, they would betray one another. The good king would be banished. A sentence of death would be pronounced on the plucky young hero. Darkness would win.

Or so it seemed.

But then, beyond all hope, would come forgiveness from the beloved; repentance from the usurper; pardon from the king. Against all expectations, light would burst across the horizon and the characters could see that it was a passing thing, that the truth was not in the pain, but in the love born out of it.

Often, life seems like a tragedy. Our hearts are broken; friends betray us; we fail to be the men and women we were created to be. Darkness wins. Light fails. Hope dies. We look up at the stars and hope for a resolution to our story, even as they fade from view. And we despair.

But in that dark, in that despair, we must not believe that this is the end. That darkness is all there is. Because it is the moment when the stars are gone–when hope is dead–when there is no way out–that the light will shine forth. Because this shadow? It’s just the dark before sunrise. This despair? It will not last. In the end, the Christian’s story is a comedy, not a tragedy.

And we must not forget that, even if our lives are forfeit, there is beauty and glory and joy eternal beyond this passing shadow.

“But in the end, it’s only a passing thing, this shadow. Even darkness must pass. A new day will come. And when the sun shines it will shine out the clearer. Those were the stories that stayed with you. That meant something, even if you were too small to understand why.” –Samwise Gamgee, The Two Towers

Time is fleeting…

The paper-writing season comes on apace for me, and I shall not be posting over-much in the midst of my furor. Snippets, perhaps, from my scholastic works shall appear here; but until May is half-gone, I shall be wrapped in the shroud of academia.

In the meantime, and completely unrelated:

Baby green turtles at Ras al-Jinz, Oman (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

A morning like this

This morning, at 6:10, I pulled my sleepy body out of bed. In the pre-dawn dark I somehow managed to get dressed without awakening my slumbering roommates. I shuffled out of my dorm and began to walk towards the gazebo. A faint orange tinged the sky, and the chilly air awoke me further.  I picked up the pace.

I didn’t want to miss the sunrise.

I needn’t have worried. I got to the gazebo in plenty of time, and nestled down into my winter coat–chosen because I would rather look wimpy and unable to handle cold, instead of dealing with questions about why I was carrying a down quilt around campus.

A foolish concern.

The campus was still–or rather, the people on campus were still. The campus–the grounds and birds and geese (not redundant) and fish and insects were not still. Everything seemed–almost frantic. Waiting. Anticipating. Antsy.

The fish would peep out of the water at least twice a minute–is it time yet? The geese honked frantically, until, unable to bear the wait, they took wing into the east. Flying towards the approaching sun. The myriad songbirds chattered and whistled and darted and trilled and wove in and out of the black trees as the sky grew pink. Everything seemed as if it was leaning towards the east with impatience. The very grass underfoot appeared to yearn towards it.

I, too, leaned forward. I had been intending to read my Bible–perhaps sing a few hymns–but the notes died on my lips and I could do nothing, only wait, wait, wait, for the coming dawn. I was unable to tear my eyes from the horizon, afraid that I would miss it.

It was not a sudden instant–I could not say, “This is the moment the sun rose; not before and certainly not after.” I was simply watching, and waiting, and all of a sudden I realized that the sun was up, and the light surrounded me. The light had been growing, and gathering, and lightening, if you can apply that word to light. The very air seemed to shine white.

Was it thus the morning my Lord rose? Unnoticed until it had happened? Anticipated in ignorance? Did the very dumb creatures try to warn the disciples?

And then all at once the sun had risen, and there was light, and joy, and hope.

I walked back to the dorm, just short of dancing, and adorned myself to go to church.

He is risen!

Enough

Rembrandt - Deposition from the Cross (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

It would have been enough, and more than enough, for Him to have created me his creature.

And He did, and it was good.

But it wasn’t enough.

It would have been enough, and more than enough, if He had given me free will.

And He did, and I sinned.

But it wasn’t enough.

It would have been enough, and more than enough, if He refrained from striking me down that very instant.

And He did.

But it wasn’t enough.

It would have been enough, and far more than enough, when He took my sin upon Himself and suffered every anguish.

He did. It was beyond bearing. Beyond hope. Beyond anything we could ask or think.

But He said, “That is not enough.”

It would have been enough, and more than enough, for Him to offer us Heaven and His presence through eternity.

He did. He does.

But it is not enough.

Over and above the extravagance he gave on the Cross and in his life, He gives us good gifts every day, and teaches us.

When faced with such overwhelming,  abundant, extravagant love, how can we tell Him, “Enough?”

Our lives are not enough. They weren’t ours to give. Our time is not enough. It’s borrowed, anyway. Our love is not enough. We could not love unless He first loved us.

Completely crushed under the unbearable weight of grace, all we can do is feebly thank Him.

And yet He takes joy in giving us more.

It would have been enough, and more than enough.

But He gave more.

Holy Ground

barefoot (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Cold concrete stairs, chill seeping through my feet. This company of joined voices is raised in worship in the chilly early spring night. Hearts and voices raise as one, and for a few moments, there is unity. I take off my shoes. This is holy ground.

Muddy grass so saturated in water that it wells up between my toes. My roommate, my friend, my sister in Christ, walks beside me in the warm air. Secrets and dreams and prayers are shared, and where we two walk together in His name, God walks with us. I leave my shoes behind. This is holy ground.

A dorm room, thin carpet barely covering the hard floor. Tears and fears and the holy love of God pour out over the girls weeping there. Kick off your shoes and cry with them. This is holy ground.

A carpeted floor, squashed together by chairs and people and the looming ceiling. Claustrophobia. Chapel in Town Hall, hundred of souls swelling in fervent chorus. An impassioned speaker calls us to repentance. We weep, we repent, we are moved as God moves among us. Reverently I remove my heels. This is holy ground.

Warm, dry, wood, gentle and unyielding, rough and comforting. Rain pours down, and I huddle in the gazebo with my computer and books. A thousand things to do, books to read, papers to write, lines to memorize. But the peace of the rain and the comfort of the cool spring air beckon, and I pray. For my brothers and sisters, for unity, for the love that ought to bind us. For the future. For the broken-hearted. For peace. I take off my shoes. This is holy ground.

Where God is, there the ground is holy; and God is in all places. And though I will care for my body, this temple of the Holy Spirit, and will cover my feet at the appropriate times, everywhere I stand is holy ground, and I want to live in that knowledge.

Take off your shoes.

You are standing on holy ground.