Longings In Present

Rhythms of past, longings in present. In the heat of summer; when the space between mountain ranges turns pressure cooker. Or early Fall, when the Santa Ana winds blow hot and dry, cracking lips and emptying souls. Throwing backpack with book and sweatshirt onto the seat I’d head north in my white AMC Hornet.

Fernweh is the German word for hungering; for distant lands, new horizons, and experiences. Could it be that the longing is for place; a stake where heart is whole, mind is still and God is present?  I drove to a place I already knew. A place moisture crept in from the ocean, where mist welcomed morning. There was a smell; unique enough so that anyone who’s ever been to the central California coast; if it were bottled and opened you’d know the place.

Strangers and exiles of the Earth we’re called in Hebrews. Those who seek a country. A far country as Peterson puts it and that U2 is still searching for. I’d set out knowing it was a place that imperfectly satisfied. Where wrestling and upheavals were brought to God in a spot that touched on my longing.

Along the way there was a restaurant. God met me there too. Always the Chili Omelet. Over the years the menu went through a series of name changes but; always, at heart, it was a chili omelet.  Accompanied by fresh ground coffee and a glass of cold, squeezed, orange juice. God meets His people not only in place, but in wine and water, bread and manna.

In my mornings now and in this new season of hunger I’m trying to capture that sense of place. To find a locale, a routine, a spot that I can venture too or model at home. Nowadays the heart seems full of anxious jitters. To find a spot to settle it; quiet it and calm it down is my desire. To sense God or reawaken my awareness of His presence. A spot where I feel less a stranger even if it’s in fifteen-minute increments with my raisin toast and coffee. I suspect it’s more about finding routine and being present with my hungering heart. In Hebrews it’s written, “If they had been thinking about that country from which they’d went out-they could have returned.”

I always returned home from the central coast. I could have moved there but it wasn’t home. It was a slice of Heaven, a shadow of things to come. That’s the deal with being a pilgrim; you’re always searching for that place to land. Living with present longings; looking to future hope.

Heavens' Honing; Heroes and Outliers

                                                           Photo by Clem Onojeghuo on Unsplash

"He is no fool who gives what he cannot keep to gain what he cannot lose."

"And through everything we've learned, We've finally come to terms,

We are the outsiders."

All my heroes are outliers. The Cambridge definition of outlier is “a person, thing, or fact that is very different from other people…” That could mean a whole hell of a lot of things. To help clarify here’s a shallow skim-of-a surface list of mine. They are: A poet to the Yukon, a photographer of the Sierra, a martyred missionary to the Waorani, a writer of a nonfiction narrative about the fields near Roanoke, and a Parkinsons afflicted writer grappling the problem of pain. Prophets pointing us to a ‘better country,’ while showing us present beauty. Writers whom, in the words of Annie Dillard, wrestle with this question,  “Why would an omnipotent, omniscient and merciful God allow natural evil to happen?”

Perhaps I am mistaken in my choice of heroes. My failures are not a result. Nor my triumphs. My decisions may have cost me what the Jones’ have and I don’t. In a world of tangibles it’s hard to see the value of intangibles. To quote Madeleine L’Engle, “What would have happened to Mary (and all the rest of us) if she had said no to the angel?”

To anyone choosing a hero I would give this advice; wait. Wait until you are in your forties or fifties so as not to choose the wrong one. What if you were to choose as your hero one who enjoys freedom? Then one day sitting at breakfast in Dallas with a specialized accountant for the rich, and an executive for BHP among others you realize your choices, fate and living quarters don’t compare well to others. Those insecurities rush in. Perhaps you should have chosen that money-making, fitting-in archetype instead.

Having heroes is like the back surgery I just had done. The world pushes hard against our spine. We are unaligned. Realignment is sometimes as easy as a crack from a chiro. Picking up an essay from a role-model keeps us on track. Other times gotta hideaway with that Spofity playlist, some journals and tattered tomes.

Choosing a hero is easier than becoming one. Maybe we choose them according to our souls wiring. Do the chords resonate because you’re attuned to them? It’s not always comfortable being an outlier. If that’s who I am then that’s who I should be shaped to be. Heaven and heroes honing me to be my best.

Beauty Saves Me

 I am going to tell you a dark secret. One that’s touched my sister, my daughter and myself. Through us it’s probably touched you too though you may not be aware of it. We have a bent toward depression. By grace we don’t meet the full clinical definition. Often it hovers. Some days it lands. “With a shiver in my bones just thinking about the weather, a quiver in my lips as if i might cry, by the force of will my lungs are filled and so I breathe.” I dislike mornings. Daytime motivation comes hard sometimes.

My dad was 5150’d. Late in his life, angry seventy-plus years of it. When he was released, I asked him if he’d thought about God. “No,” he said. “I thought about nothing for the whole time. Nothing.” That darkness, that ‘nothing’ wasn’t ever talked about. Seems he would just disappear. I think it would be easy to spiral, spiral, down. Beauty saves me.

It's why Spotify is a constant stream I drink from. I suspect it’s why I’m an extrovert. I seek your companionship. Call it selfish. It’s your beauty I choose to bask in. Your laughter that brightens the dark. Your shared Instagram memes crack me up. Your insights, crafted-ness and God-given perspective that cause me to gasp in wonder and awe. Silly and authentic. My sober guard comes down and darkness flies afar.  

“I not only have my secrets, I am my secrets. And you are your secrets,” wrote Buechner. Authors asking questions of the human condition. The Buechners, the Dillards, the Yanceys and Mannings whose anchor chains and mud hooks keep me moored to hope. “Our secrets are human secrets, and our trusting each other enough to share them with each other has much to do with the secret of what it is to be human.”