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.

Pheremones and Home Invasions

                           Photo by Michael Milverton on Unsplash

I vacuumed up two more ladybugs this morning. One with dotted bright red-orange that one expects to find on a ladybug. One with a color bordering porcelain and parchment. A scattered few seeking refuge but finding their demise. No colonies setting up camp; thank goodness! An internet search states they’re seeking winter warmth. Funny how nature is wonderful and stunning when outside your house but frustrating, annoying and frightening when she invades it.

Tar-like brown oozed from the air vent and dripped into the bathroom in my old southern California house. A mystery this! Perhaps there were issues caused by the new roofing? Only years later when bees were becoming an issue outside the house that the apiarists addressed the problem. A large beehive had been built in the attic! So they were removed with a catch. Bees, like ladybugs and myriad other pests leave a trail of pheromones. And so they returned. To be removed again.

We’ve all seen the industrious ant in some nature documentary. Fascinating and fearsome in their subterranean tunnels; fierce in flood and forest trees. We had a flood of our own in the form of a burst pipe in our neighbor’s apartment. The water itself would have been trouble enough. Then came the ants. A square outline as they marched around inside our closet. Streaming from the baseboard in bathroom and hallway. Trails of pheromones, ants on conquest. Perhaps, as I write this, the pest control has succeeded in shoring up the walls. I expect a breach at any moment.

There is a wonder in it all. The myriad types of ants; crazy ants, fire ants, carpenter ants. Fortunately, these tiny ones in this invasion aren’t fond of sugar. The kitchen holds out thus far. There is the beauty of the ladybug. The mysterious way in which she finds entry into our place. The ants are militaristic, sending out scouts, scouring wood, enlarging territory. Ladybugs are gentle as though they would ask permission to alight and winter with you if they could. My answer would be no. I am grateful for the diet of the ladybug which protects my rose bush. Happy to have the ants aerate my garden. Ladybugs stain, bees sting and ants bite. There’s a reason for the words ‘inside’ and ‘outside’. Inside home, a haven. Outside, the garden, in all its’ fear and perplexity.

Belonging And The American Dream

"We ought to give thanks for all fortune: if it is good, because it is good, if bad, because it works in us patience, humility, and the contempt of this world and the hope of our eternal country.” C.S. Lewis

Like locusts that eat golden years, termites chomp on wooden dreams. In times past I had a house. As great a house as it was, it was more a symbol of a dream. A dream of stability. A dream of connecting with neighbors and creating memories of my daughter growing up. Wife, daughter, dog, lawn, backyard, gas grill—the American dream. It took five years for it all to blow up. It was never about the house anyway. It was about belonging.

Since Hillary Tower was stolen away I’ve known it. She was an older woman—maybe twelve years old to my six. She lived in the house behind ours. I’d go there and play games, in the house and yard, Ring-Around-The-Rosie, Hide-and-Seek, Tag. I had a thing for Hillary. One day she disappeared. Like Puff the Dragon; gone. My parents mentioned her moving briefly, “Oh yeah, her parents had to move.” I thought as a grown up I could have stability. No more Hillary Tower episodes. It was about connecting.

I’ve moved ten times since Hillary. I’ve been fortunate as each move brought me into contact with rich, abiding friendships. At every structure I’ve lived in God has brought a friend into the picture. The friends remain. I keep moving. 

I am partially known. Partially settled. Still searching. This is the ever-present tension: to be fully known, fully accepted and home. The angst is brought to light in the life of Abraham, “he lived as an alien in the land of promise, in a foreign land, dwelling in tents, a stranger and exile on earth, for it is clear he seeks a county of his own.” 

I expect to move into a house, with my beloved and settle in for the next little stretch of life. A little house, in a nice tract, with ideal walkability, close to wilderness, near restaurants and night life. It’ll be good but just good. I’ll never quite belong, never have the perfect connections, never feel quite settled. I’m made for that eternal country where I will be fully known, fully accepted. God will redeem the years the locust has eaten.

Photo by Tom Thain on Unsplash

This Ache For Home (This Is A Far Country)

You might say it was just a house. I saw it as hope for life-long connection; for community. We bought it with the hope of first marriage; the efflorescence of daughter. I put in sprinklers and planted a little lawn. Walked to school with the five-year old. Got a dog; black and white Australian Shepherd, Collie mutt. The neighbors from around the corner brought over cookies.  The neighbor next door complained about the dog. The grass grew; daughter too.

We had birthday parties in the backyard; Spongebob Squarepants and reptile themed. Invited the cookie-givers children; all three. The daughter played with two boys from down the street that brought their parents. Summer days we’d pull up the cheap plastic chairs and chat in each other’s backyards.  In my heart I thought I’d found it---constancy, Americana, neighborhood, a place of permanence.  I was wrong.

It all frayed at once.  The threadbare marriage showed jagged tears.  The two boys houses down moved North with their parents. A kindred had formed with the cookie clan but job loss here meant a new job elsewhere. With the marriage barely intact Providence thrust us out of the house, out of the area and into a place we did not know.

So it goes. This hunger for permanence and place remains. A perceptible ache that is always there below the surface.  This ache for home; for that far country. For we wander “in deserts and mountains and caves and holes in the ground,” til we finally, God willing, come home.

Coming Home To My Wife And My Mistress

Here’s a partial list of things that sucked today: my lack of sleep, my crummy mood, the rude customer, and the SUV with the driver who used it as an urban assault vehicle to force himself into my lane, the drivers that think riding on my tail will get them home faster, and the tomato soup I nearly burned while typing. Days like this infuse the words ‘coming home’ with meaning.

I have the joy of coming home to a loving wife that I laugh with. Some days I come home to a daughter that makes me proud, makes me smile and punches me in the shoulders. Days like today I walk in and crank the stereo—loud. If I’m not listening to Pandora then I’ve got my Third Day, Jars of Clay and Pink Martinis. Once I’ve turned the music up loud and changed into jeans and tee-shirt I set myself down in my beat up blue office chair.

Once I sit down in the big-blue-beat-up-chair it can only mean one thing. I am turning on the computer. In my house she’s nicknamed ‘The Mistress.’ I don’t know why she’s called that. I gave my wife a kiss when I walked in the door, right? I have to know what’s happening in the world. Hey these blog posts don’t magically appear from thin air, okay?

On these days I am thankful for the home I have. It’ll take me a couple hours but the crummy mood will disappear, the rude guy will be forgotten, desired vengeance on my fellow drivers will (almost) abate and sleep will come. It is good to be home.

Planning the Conquest-The First Fun Part

One of the glories of taking a vacation is planning the vacation. One begins to understand how Bilbo must have felt when that first blue-bearded dwarf stood on his doorstep. There is a great sense of expectation as you chart course.

That's all it is though; charting course. Because once you actually leave your doorstep; a million wondrous adventures can occur. Encounters with strangers can change one's life forever.

Some years ago, on a trek through the East Coast, a stranger in a tavern (Is that King Aragorn in the corner, or an enemy henchman set out to destroy your quest?) recommended I spend some time in the town of Ghettysburg, even though it would take me a day out of my way. Little did I know that following the strangers' advice would spark interest in the Civil War, opening up doors to novels, knowledge, and the 97th Regimental String Band.

And so I spent a short time today visiting MapQuest, playing with routes. Playing with options. Is it worth a two hour detour to see Lake Tahoe? Is a 7:00 a.m. departure realistic? Will I save the damsel from the dragon?

"Roads go ever ever on,
Under cloud and under star,
Yet feet that wandering have gone
Turn at last to home afar.
Eyes that fire and sword have seen
And horror in the halls of stone,
Look at last on meadows green,
And trees and hills they long have known."