The View from Mt. Pisgah

Aug 18, 2011 | , | 2 Comments

(photo by yours truly)

We recently returned from our week in the mountains.  The luggage is still unopened, the mail stacked perilously high, and the backyard pool is green with neglect.  At breakfast, the middle child sighed and said, “I miss the waterfalls.”  We answered him with our own sighs. 

A great vacation is a rare and wonderful thing, but it exacts a high price: the unhappy return to everyday life.

Still, we remember the mountaintop views and know that it was worthwhile.  We have seen something precious.

There is a mountain in North Carolina called Pisgah.  It is named for the mountaintop on which Moses first saw the Promised Land, a fact which surprises me not at all.  Hazy blue vistas and cool breezes are my idea of milk and honey, too.

While I watched my family slide down a waterfall in Pisgah Forest (a feat I was more than content to simply observe), I thought about that land Moses saw.  I’ve been living on promises for a while now, and I considered the view from my own mountaintop.

And then I thought about promises themselves.

Why are promises the currency of our relationship with Him?  From rainbows to revelations, it seems we can’t know God apart from his promises.  Why is that?

In my own life, I’m usually confused about the value of a promise.  So much so that I can never make up my mind whether I should promise some good thing to my kids or let them be surprised.  When the grandparents told us they’d be setting up old bunk beds in the guest room for our Christmas visit, I knew it would be a better gift than anything Santa might bring. 

But should I tell the kids?  Should I wait to see their faces when they realize that their bunk-bed dreams have finally come true?

I decided to wait and let them be surprised and then promptly forgot my decision and, in a desperate attempt to distract them from their argument, their summer boredom, told them what they had to look forward to.  Bunk beds!  For you!  At Grammy’s house!

Oh, wait, didn’t I mean that to be a surprise?

I promised them bunk beds.  Why?

I did it in a moment of forgetfulness.  I was tired of their grumbling.  Why does God do it?

The truth is, I don’t know.  I started writing this post and imagined I’d have it figured out a few paragraphs in.  But, I don’t.

I do think that God’s promises reveal Him to be very humble in His love for us.  My own love for my children is tinged with a lot more self interest.  Give them something to look forward to so they stop bothering me?  Let them be surprised so I have the fun of witnessing?  Me, me, me.

But here is our God writing these incredible stories for us and, as if this weren’t enough, He is reassuring us again and again: you have nothing to fear, good things are in store for you, it all turns out well.

He is a writer who generously gives away the ending.  In humility, He wants us to know that He’s not about to give us a surprise that rewrites the whole story. 

He’s writing, creating, and taking us along for the ride.  Showing us, through his many promises, what it will all add up to some day.

 “Then Jesus said, ‘Did I not tell you that if you believed, you would see the glory of God?’” (John 11: 40)

God’s promises are mountain views.  They are a vision of what will be and what truly is.  Most importantly, they are ours whether we’re standing on the mountain or walking through the valley.

“Be Thou my Vision, O Lord of my heart;

Naught be all else to me, save that Thou art.

Thou my best Thought, by day or by night,

Waking or sleeping, Thy presence my light.”

– from “Be Thou My Vision,”

8th century Irish hymn, translated by Mary Byrne (1905)

For One Who Mourns

Aug 15, 2011 | , | 3 Comments

We’ve been putting it off, but at dinner yesterday we finally told the kids that their dog is dead.  We were able to put it off because Casey lived, not with us, but with faraway grandparents.  Still, they had always considered him their dog.

Because the miles are long, and we cross them so seldom, I imagined frowns.  Concerned questions.  I didn’t imagine tears, let alone heartbroken sobs.

There are some phrases that seem to show up only in books.  They are clichéd, like “sat bolt upright” and “burst into tears.”  And yet, considering it now, “burst into tears” really does seem to get it right.    

Her face crumpled, like a bubble burst, and there was a fierce and terrible sadness pouring out of her.

I was amazed.  Who taught her to feel so deeply?  It wasn’t me.  I have never poured sadness over anyone.  I keep it balled up tight like a painful tumor in my throat.

I am grateful that my daughter knows how to hurt.  Grateful that she will not or cannot keep it all inside (though I wish she had no need for tears; I wish she never would).

Today, I think of someone else.  I wasn’t with her, but I wonder if she looked like my daughter when she understood the news.  When she knew what had been lost.

Once, so many years ago, I sat in a church pew directly behind her.  I can still see her two long braids, perfectly combed and parted.  She shook with sobs. 

We were at the funeral for one who loved us both, for one we’ve missed every single day since.  Back then, I wished I could cry like that.

Remembering that day is difficult, but it also gives me hope.  I hope that she will, once again, have the strength, the child’s wisdom, to grieve.

Our culture rarely talks about grief.  We talk about recovery.  We focus on getting over, moving on.  Surely, those of us who believe in the restoration of all things have no reason to smooth out the emotional peaks and valleys of our lives?  Jesus wept.  Shouldn’t we?

“Now, O women, hear the word of the Lord; open your ears to the words of his mouth.  Teach your daughters how to wail; teach one another a lament.”

(Jeremiah 9:20)

(photo by yours truly)

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