God Provides In The Dark And The Desert

In the desert all kinds of things are buried and unearthed; dead bodies, gold nuggets, aquifers full of water and whatever one can fit into the back of a pick-up truck. My marriage too, buried, my life unearthed. I was cast out of my house, like Jonah from the whale, escaping with two suitcases of clothes and a credit score that opened the door to an apartment.

Divorce has a way of divesting one of clutter. One is stripped bare. Unadorned like a desert view, snow peaked mountains unobstructed by trees, Milky Way galaxies unobscured by ambient light, air devoid of choking particulates. Except for the dust and sand stirred by the wind, un-tethering everything that isn’t nailed down.

Out prospecting one day (for gold!) my friend Dana saw this behemoth lying in a ravine. I do not know how he hoisted it onto his truck. Real furniture this, cut from some wood that wouldn’t give up its soul. Pulling into my driveway he asks, “Do you need a dresser?”

My friend found a different kind of gold! A practical altar to friendship, God’s faithfulness and a place for my underwear. Straight-forward oak, shiny dark brown shellack, cool and smooth to the touch. Early American, French provincial, I’ve no clue. Stamped with the name of the furniture maker, Angelus in each drawer. Sun and wind only taking their toll on exposed corners.

Little is permanent in the desert. In that first season, the dresser was a beautiful altar to God’s provision. The next season it stayed a strong and secure piece as I moved into my second marriage. One more time on a truck to an expansive home overlooking Joshua Tree.

Howling wind and sand bury most everything in the desert. The stories stay alive. Winter rains and summer monsoons pour water down dry, cracked channels of dirt and sand filling springs and giving life to tree and grass. Gold washes down these channels as well. A prospector hopes to make a find in these dry washes and old streambeds. He may discover other treasures there as well. Like a cast off dresser.  

My Friendship with Jazz

 “I don’t like any jazz,” my ex-wife once said. Both a statement of shallow misunderstanding and commentary on all my friendships. I’ve had many, from short sandbox relationships in kindergarten to life-long ones. Jazz is one of the life-long ones.

We met when I was young; brief encounters. Once, in a childhood cartoon I heard a character singing “Cement mixer; putty-putty.” It stuck. And Disney’s Jungle-Book soundtrack; 'I Wanna Be Like You'; boogie and scat! Jazz was winking at me.

Friendship is a funny thing. It can start with a laugh—or a fight. It can go underground for a season only to rise up again after summer. In sixth grade my closest friend and I brawled at recess all fists and fury. We didn’t talk for two months. I wanted companionship for family vacation though. There we were back again. That’s how male friendships seem to work.

That first French kiss wasn’t all that great. Jazz feels like my friendships with women. Mysterious and shallow at first.  A landscape I didn’t know how to navigate Then startling moments when something deeper was glimpsed.

My music collection in school was comprised of rock. On the fringes though there were albums with lots of brass; r&b, Earth, Wind and Fire, Chick Corea and an abundance of Boz Scaggs. Oh, jazz--beyond music, beyond emotion! Can I get lost inside of you?

Life kept drawing us closer. Intro to Jazz was arguably one of the best classes I took in college. There were phone calls and trysts. Still jazz remained on the periphery. But music has all kinds of friends. 

“If the Mississippi River has a musical signature, it’s the blues.” There’s also an app, an historical blues route and historical markers set in place in 2006. When my friend and I set out to do a quick Blues road trip there was no app. It was jazz that found us enjoying a traditional New Orleans band on an alleyway corner; and jazz that took us from Clarksdale to Chicago. There was a fight over jazz too! Both of us wanted to experience a different venue; I wanted a George Winston concert vs. an historic Blues concert. We separated, did our own thing; and came back together. We’re still the best of friends to this day. And the blues and I? We are still getting acquainted.

Photo by Konstantin Aal on Unsplash

Pursuing Passion

Central to Blue Bloods main character, Frank Reagan, is a poster of Teddy Roosevelt on his office wall. Frank’s key strength, affirmed by Blue Bloods 12 seasons, is conviction that, “The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood…” Its 6.11 million viewers give nod to the quote. To find your life you must lose it.

“Courage starts with showing up and letting ourselves be seen,” as Brene Brown shares. Scary stuff being seen; being known. I have caverns that conceal all kinds of dark. Fantasies I don’t share. Arrogance always. Ah, Pharisee. Funny thing: when I am vulnerable it deepens relationship. 99% of the time when sharing a struggle others admit their own.

The one percent? My previous marriage. Being seen was used for blackmail. All of us have wounds. Hence the call to courage. We desire depth. With God, with friend. All of us yearn for passion. We won’t get there without pain. “From silken self, O Captain; free thy soldier who would follow thee.”

“Who strives valiantly; who errs, who comes short again and again, because there is no effort without error and shortcoming…” I get in the way. There are days that my love and passion for my wife are blurred by selfish acts and stupid detours. My daughter tells me I didn’t hug her enough growing up. Don’t give up-press in! Do what it takes; get counselling, cry out to community, cry to Jesus, cry period.

The story is told of a man who hired a guide to get to the top of a beautiful mountain. The guide told him he could take little to the top; only himself and his courage. But the man said, “I am bringing with me blankets, I am bringing chocolate. I’m bringing fear and shame.” Along the way to the top were scattered all these things. The man never made it to the top. He stopped in the plain half-way up and pitched his tent. Many pitch their tent on the plain. And the plain is so very full of tents.

“if he fails, at least fails while daring greatly, so that his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who neither know victory nor defeat."

Spinning Together

                                                     Photo by Anna Anikina on Unsplash

For those in the inner circle---this one's for you!

Pick a side, it’s easy---not listening,

Yet we have a pact; unspoken,

It comes easy to us,

But really, it takes, consistence,

Two connecting.

Zeal, misplaced convictions; Oh youth!

Lust, loin and heart, puffed up

Self, arrogant, so many excuses,

It comes easy to us,

To keep talking.

Through lovers, long days; the weight of living,

Writing, calling, crying; we stay in-touch,

Sharing hearts, sharing hurts, comes easy,

What kind of Providence

Keeps us at it.

She wounds; a legion of cuts,

The ache made bearable,

With dark rich laughter,

Forged long, slow burn,

Tears mingle.

Not what you say---it’s listening,

Guffaws guaranteed,

Mystery; electricity and stars in orbit,

Deeper than Hubble can see,

We keep spinning together.

The Numbers Of Our Days

The numbers are constant. Twenty-some thousand white blood count. Eight o’clock phone call from the nurse’s station. Another delay. When it looked like coming home was an option. Pills at four-hour and twelve-hour intervals, Room 432, Stage 3 to stage 4. Phone call on top of phone call. Souls turn bitter that marinate in this. Being steeped in friendships leads to thanksgiving.

Three of us huddle together after church.  These two friends voice prayer for my wife and her mom to a God that is triune. One by one friends text. They drop by. Those inside the inner circle give permission to call them anytime; to scream, to ramble, to question, to complain, to be…Trying to count them, the sum of caring people surprises me.

“As for the days of our life, they contain seventy years, Or if due to strength, eighty years, Yet their pride is but labor and sorrow; For soon it is gone and we fly away.” The Psalmists’ cry is that we learn to be wise with our days. A lifetime of 24-hour days. Hospital stays and every trial seem an interruption. They are not. They’re part of the whole. It’s not a giving up or a giving in. It’s a working out, sorting out, hanging in; “And confirm for us the work of our hands; Yes, confirm the work of our hands.”

Photo by Jack Sharp on Unsplash

The Antidote Is Community

Curled up; sorry for self. He lay in his bed. He’d blown through a red light in the company car.  Hit another car; wounded passengers. Put a teenage boy in the hospital. His fault, his mistake. Giving up. Then the phone call came. Somebody needed to talk; somebody else was hurting.  So, he got out of bed. Community gives purpose. Community motivates. Community heals.

Despite the evidence our proclivity is to hide. Like Adam we run from God, we hide from Eve, we hole up. We have so many options to run to. Writing on America’s opiate epidemic, Sam Quinones makes this point; “the drug…makes being alone not just all right, but preferable. I believe more strongly than ever that the antidote to heroin is community.” Studies of mortality consistently show that individuals with the lowest level of involvement in social relationships are more likely to die than those with greater involvement.  One study cites ‘compelling evidence’ linking a low quantity of social ties to physical healing. We must learn to step out when we want to stay in.

We walk into a messy humanity. In church, the local art class, or wherever you go. Community isn’t just rubbing elbows with others it’s going arm-in-arm. But we’re broken. Others more than us, others less. That’s where the beautiful mystery is revealed. When we come alongside each other in that hard season. I’ve had friends walk with me through addiction, through divorce and through parent’s sickness. Friends are there to share my baby’s birth, newfound love and quiet seasons where nothing changes. This is where the healing begins.

It’s been said that we should have as many close friendships as we will need pall bearers at our funeral. And “I’m being placed in an urn,” isn’t a valid argument against community. So that the funeral will come later, so that the wounds will heal faster, so that life will be richer---step into community.

Twinkle In The Eyes And Terror In The Face

Thus the Lord used to speak to Moses face to face, just as a man speaks to his friend.

Do not hide Your face from me in the day of my distress; Incline Your ear to me.

My bride; You have made my heart beat faster with a single glance of your eyes…

There is terror in a face we cannot see. In a face that is distorted, misshapen through birth defect or accident-the man bagging your groceries with twisted lips and purple potato nose. The creature in Stranger Things; lacking face but feeding on life. The secret, stomach emptying fear going to the airport as a child to pick up a father---afraid we won’t remember what he looks like.

There is delight in the glance of a lover; the twinkle of a smile in the eyes and the invitation for more. Comfort is found in the face of a friend; the lines on the face mirror years of passionate sharing. The embrace at the airport glad to be in each other’s company again.

There is angst when ‘darkness hides God’s lovely face.’ In all our cries and words and pounding we cannot hear God. Cannot get hold of the hem of His robe. This friend has been the closest one. The one on our side when the divorce papers come; life abandons, friends wound.

There is sweetness when God’s eyes invite us in. Freeing us up and lightening our load to share with such a friend. Filled to fulness. Spring in our step. We fear being forsaken but instead are fully known; safely known. Face to that Face; joy and laughter bubble up. Thirst quenched, hunger sated. Fully heard and safely held. The face we’ll finally see.

Altars, Friends and Furniture

There are long stretches of life where we walk alone, with merely our own thoughts for company. Ultimately, we encounter forks in the road where we make the decision on which way to go; the village pub, or the lonelier road into the highlands. Sometimes, providence will cause the roads of others to intersect with our own. If we are fortunate, it is at these intersections that both travelers will choose to walk together for a while. Along the old roads when such encounters proved unique, life changing and affirming, many an old testament saint established an altar.

I have had the opportunity through much of life, through God’s grace and through decisions I’ve made to experience rich friendships along this road. The last two plus years have at times felt roller-coaster tough. The up-hills are steep; the down-hills are scary and leave me short of breath. Through it all, I remain convinced that I could not have done it without a rich community of friendships.

Many of these encounters are altars where I can look back and see the love of these friends and the faithfulness of a Loving Father. There’s the dresser that a friend brought over; “I found it along side of the road and I thought you might need one.” The new set of pots and pans, the dream Third Day tickets, the yearly trek to Portland which inspired this blog, the call from Portland telling me I was missing the Buy a book and get a kiss weekend at Powell’s. The calls and emails to persevere, hold out my heart, and be faithful. The Moorpark barbeques and Simi dinners. The camera. Though many of these are things, they represent the rich care of friends that have made what could have been a dark and lonely road into a rich, hopeful and blessed journey.

May God greatly bless, enrich and prosper all of those fellow travelers who continue to share their friendship and hearts with me along this road we travel.