Turn Around

Today is December 21.  It's the first day of winter.  But it's also the day the sun “turns around.”  The winter solstice (for those of us in the Northern Hemisphere) is that day when our perspective of the sun sees it at the lowest arc in the sky.  The sun peeked over the horizon this morning (at exactly 7:10 Poole Ranch time) at it's most southern point for rising. 

For me, today is good news.  Every day now until late June, the sunrise will occur north of every previous day.  It's a promise of gradually warming weather.  It's the promise of spring, and, of course, summer. 

Today symbolizes a kind of redemption we all secretly hope for.  Up till now nature has been hunkering down for winter.  Winds are always cold now and almost always from the north.  The pasture has turned brown.  The trees and shrubs have gone dormant.  That really won't change much for another three months.  But today is the promise.  Grass will eventually turn green.  Winds will start coming from the south in April.  Daffodils will push up through the snow.  Wild lilies will bloom.  

Brook with the Original Barn in July 2010

It's been a long haul for us since the sun “turned around” back in June and headed south.  We added onto our barn three times this summer and fall and expanded our covered square footage from 144 to 1,296 to make room for more horses.  But our plans took a painful turn when we lost our beloved Brook, Johanna's horse that we've had since the day of the summer solstice in 2010.  Her aching joints, bad teeth and an increasingly chronic esophageal weakness left her often irritable, unable to keep on weight and in daily danger of choking.  We laid her to rest on October 28. 

When we planned to build the barn, we set aside a special stall that we would use for Brook (the stall area of the original barn space built in July 2010).  We planned to “retire” her, reserving her only for entertaining the smallest of children, and letting her live out a few more years in peace and comfort.  But now her planned stall is empty of her presence.  It's filled with soul-less boxes, lumber, barrels and tack.  We weren't able to let her retire.  And now our barn needs redemption.  It stands unable to fulfill one of the primary purposes for which we hoped to have it built.

Final addition to the barn, November 2011

Each morning when I feed the other horses, our sweet Belle and our friends' dear mare, Jubilee, I still grieve.  I look at that empty stall and struggle.  When the chores are done,  I kneel in the sunlight streaming in through the stall doors in the first light of every morning and ask God for redemption.  I ask Him to bring that stall back into some treasured use.  I ask Him to bless us, our children and our friends the way He did with Brook.

But I pray for more than that because I know my barn is also a symbol the story of life all of us live in.  Since we were young we carefully planned and built little shelters for our dreams.  We carefully organized our hopes and tried to make the decisions we really thought were right.  But since I've hit the mid-life thing when I turned 40 a few years back, I've had the increasing sensation that the “sun was going south” on those dreams.  I've looked at the unavoidable reality of those stalls of my heart and realized that some of the structures I've built cannot function to protect those empty places in my heart.
With my knees in the dirt of the barn floor, I've started to pray for those places in my heart as well.  In the context of 43 ½ years of choices and decisions (many of which I seriously question the integrity of) I realize how much my heart-space needs redemption.  

Finished barn with Belle (foreground) and Jubilee

And today, more than I have in a long time, I hope for the return of warm places to my soul.  I feel a little revival of a hope for dreams.  I have a feeling for hope that the rhythms of nature's seasons really do predict the rhythms of an honest soul; that redemption from my poor decisions and restoration for what I've lost or let die or euthanized will actually happen.  I'm letting hope rise just a little that maybe the 2nd half of my life (if I'm blessed to live it out) will hold more redemption than the 1st half has.  That there will come a time in the near future when I will feel the summer south winds blow again and see new and genuine life in the stalls of my heart that have been empty for a long time.

Today I remember the words of a Father's promise: “While the earth remains, seedtime and harvest, Cold and heat, Winter and summer, And day and night Shall not cease.” - Genesis 8.22

I hope you will enjoy the winter solstice with me today.

Johanna with Brook on the day of her last ride

Empty Gas Stations and Priceless Glory

It is night.  Not late, but dark.  And it's cold, about 20 degrees.

Ok, if you're from Alaska, your mocking me at my “20 degrees”.  But you need to understand that we've seen temps in the mid '60's in the last week. 

The gas station is empty when I pull in.  It's so empty I look around and wonder if it's open.  It takes me a couple minutes sitting in the car to get my debit card out and gloves and hat on in preparation for a full 6 minutes outside.  One other car pulls in a couple islands down.  There are people out and about.  I see cars going by on the road.  But the cold is driving them home without any stops.  I run my card in the scanner and start to pump the fuel.

The light snow and wind are coming around the gas islands and overhead porch from the south.  I turn my back to it and pull my coat hoodie over my head.  It keeps my neck warmer.   I look out over the empty Safeway parking lot.  So cold.  I pull my shoulders up closer to my ears and stare at my boots on the ground.  I notice a white Ford pickup with a For Sale sign in the window sitting in the parking lot.  Nobody is looking at it except me – I'm not buying...  I watch the snow blow past my head and find its way to empty ground.  It's so cold.

This is the coldness of grief; the coldness of watching others lose things that have been so important to them (and to me).

And it's the cold side of war - an internal war of the heart that struggles to find resistance against a nagging voice insisting that "coldness is the truest thing about life."   It's hard to brush off.  I cannot argue that I'm looking at the dark, ice and snow of winter, not the sun, rain and rainbows of summer.

But I have more to learn from nature.  She is a fantastic teacher, a carefully balanced instructor in the things that are really true.  Yes, she can speak of grief, because grief is true.  Those who deny it and all the pain that accompanies it are fools in denial.  But we must be careful not to accuse her of giving us the full pictures of truth in a momentary snapshot of a cold, dark moment at the gas station.

Table and chairs on our front porch

I awoke this morning to a different world.  Like a table set for a spontaneous and joyful welcome bursting out of her soul to Ol' Man Winter's arrival, nature spoke of things entirely different from what she had said last night.  They were things just as true, but with such a better savor. 

I had mistaken the weather when I got up at 5:30 AM.  It was an hour and a half before sunrise.  And because I could not see the lights of the valley to the east, I assumed it was still snowing lightly.  But I was mistaken.  The temperature had dipped to the low teens and had converged with the dew point.  The fog had rolled in from the south:  thick, cold and heavy, and it had settled in silent crystals on everything exposed.  

Stray wire from the electric fence

Went I went out at 6:30 to feed our horses, I was astounded.  I was bundled up in a hundred layers to protect myself against the cold, but the glory awaiting me penetrated it all. 

Jubilee with a frosting coating

Priceless wealth was everywhere.  Ordinary and even annoying items were covered in crystals like quartz or diamonds.  Fences and stray wires from the fence, chairs, trees, horse halters and lead ropes, even the horses themselves has been transformed into another more glorious statement of truth.  Cold is not the end.  Grief is not the final message for our existence.  Loss is only the promise of restoration. 

Some people chose to live in darkness.  They chose to embrace empty gas stations and parking lots with cold blowing snow as the definitive description of life.  

But while I do not disagree with the present reality of those things, I chose to live in hope of something better.  The cold of this world will not always reign.  I chose today to believe that the millions of sparkles from the snow scattered across my small plot of land, is a firm and absolute promise that an eternal season of glory will one day come upon us.  All that we have lost will be somehow restored and all that we might consider ordinary or even mundane will be clothed with a glorious and priceless reality. 

So, heres to Ol' Man winter and the One who asked him to bring me this message of hope this morning.  

A Joyful Hope of Righteousness

Galatians 5:5 

"For we through the Spirit, by faith, are waiting for the hope of righteousness."

We really do tend to look at the mystery of the spiritual journey with such unnecessary depression and sadness.  This is the bondage of the law.  We hope for righteousness, yes.  But we tend to fall to that place where we think righteousness is our responsibility.  We get depressed at our own daily failures.  We repeat messages to ourselves like, "You will never get this right."  We have completely failed to endure in the experience promised in this verse. 

   The liberty of Christ tells me that I am significant, I am a son of God, a child of promise.  Christ, in His undying love and unending intercession, tells me that I have a purpose, a mission, a calling, an assignment - even if I don't see and understand it now.  I can live in the joyful and eager hope of righteousness by faith.  And that, without embarrassment!  The liberty of the Trinity tells me that it is through the Spirit that I wait for the hope of righteousness.  As long as I look for righteousness through myself I will be sad and discouraged.  This tells me to look for it through Someone else; Someone I can trust to really accomplish what I will never be able to.

   This hope is a "groaning" hope (see Rom.8.23).  It is a looking forward to more than can ever be revealed to us now.  It is important for us to realize that we do not get all that we desire here and now.  The finishing of righteousness, the satisfaction of justice, are things we indeed groan for.  We long for, we hope for and wish for.  We do not get to see the very face of God with our own eyes; but we are privilaged to hear His heart speaking in whispers to our own heart.  We do not get to walk streets of gold, but by the Spirit we can walk the Narrow Way.  We do not experience instant transformation of character, but we can see our Sage counseling us and healing us point by point.  It is so crucial that we understand this.

    "All the crises of the human soul flow from there. All our addictions and depressions, the rage that simmers just beneath the surface of our Christian facade, and the deadness that characterizes so much of our lives has a common root: We think this is as good as it gets. Take away the hope of arrival and our journey becomes the Battan death march. The best human life is unspeakably sad. Even if we manage to escape some of the bigger tragedies (and few of us do), life rarely matches our expectations. When we do get a taste of what we really long for, it never lasts. Every vacation eventually comes to an end. Friends move away. Our careers don't quite pan out. Sadly, we feel guilty about our disappointment, as though we ought to be more grateful.

     "Of course we're disappointed -- we're made for so much more. "He has also set eternity in the hearts" (Eccl. 3:11). Our longing for heaven whispers to us in our disappointments and screams through our agony. "If I find in myself desires which nothing in this world can satisfy," C. S. Lewis wrote, "the only logical explanation is that I was made for another world."  -- Sacred Romance, 179-80. 

We must hope for so much more beyond this world!

The Release and Anticipation of Spring

March is half over. I think differently in relation to the passage of time now. I think now in terms of hay and feed consumption. We have made it over half a month on one bag of feed for each horse. It's a beautiful, simple thing really. It's like measuring the month by the phases of the moon. It's the measuring of the seasons by the arrival or departure of birds (the bluebirds and red-wing blackbirds have arrived already this spring; I'm still waiting for the meadowlarks). It's knowing spring is coming on because the horses are starting to shed their winter coats copiously. 

I'm a bit bummed because I have to miss the spring equinox sunrise this year. We have to make a trip and I won't be home to see it next week. It's become a sort of internal and emotional ritual for me over the last few years. My family and I have now lived in this house longer than we have lived in any other place in the nearly 20 years of married life. In the six years we have lived here, I've tracked the sun back and forth almost daily. The day when the sunrise comes up directly over one particular tree in my neighbors yard (when I'm standing in the middle of my front porch) spring has officially arrived.

It's a moment of release for my soul. Coldness and ol' man winter cannot win now. His days are numbered, even here in the Colorado high desert. My grip lessons on my heavy winter overalls. I keep them in the closet now, not hanging up on the coat rack or lying on the floor. I don't even have to use them this morning – it's already 40 degrees before 7 AM. Full head pullovers and hats that look like something from Siberia are already boxed up, having been replaced by light knit ones.

It's a moment of anticipation for my soul. I can imagine the dead and dry pasture being transformed by the springs rains that will come. Green. It's a cherished commodity here; not like in Florida. We treasure it like precious metals. I can imagine wild flowers now; all the different colors, all so small and dainty that you really don't notice them in the sea of green tall grass until you get down on your elbows and crawl through the pasture!

These are just way-marks of life that feed my soul. The release and anticipation over just a thing like spring spills over into other parts of my life. “Spring is coming; how can I be discouraged today?” There is still hope for my family, my friends, my neighbors and my church. It doesn't matter if the world continues to fall apart: worsening economy, natural disasters, angry drivers. Some things, like the coming of Spring, remain. They remain beautiful and encouraging.

I'm going to live in that place today.

Ah, there it is, sunrise at 7:07 AM. And just a little south of that tree. Only a few more days!

Gratitude

Another glorious day dawns in Colorado this morning.  And that's just the thing of it.  It's a glorious day. 

Last week my wife and I made a list of all thing things that were weighing in heavy on us.  It was a list of a lot of little things, but it was a long list.  We both admitted that it was a bit like being under a cloud. 

With a list like that, I could spend a lot of time sinking deeper into discouragement.  That would lead me to remember past hurt and pain, which in turn would awaken a sense of bitterness. 

But why would I choose to do that?  Why would I choose to put the resources of my mind onto things that will not benefit my emotional status today?  I see too many people do this.  I've done it too often in my own life.  I'm letting it go this morning. 

I'm listening to by precious kids rustling around upstairs.  I'm standing quietly, listening to my horses thank me for their morning grain by gobbling it down with the most determined and clamorous slurping.  I "hear" the silence of my darling wife quietly reading and mediating her way into a new day.  I can see the neighbor's new baby goat darting around the pen.  Oh, another neighbor's dog is out of the fence (as usual) and cruising the cul de sac. 

And I'm grateful for it all.  The sounds and scenes fill my mind and push out what is not helpful.  I'm so grateful that there is no room in my heart for bitterness or sad memories. 

It's a glorious day.

A Cross Over Denver

It was the first time I'd ever been to Denver, CO and it was the first time I had ever seen it. During the evening hours in early January, 1983 I saw lights on a distant mountain in the shape of a cross. Something touched me by it, deep in my heart.

That was almost 30 years ago, but the cross hasn't changed. I've seen it may times since then. I remember seeing in the mid-80's going and coming from Winter Park on Sunday ski days.  And, just a month ago I was taking my brother-in-law to Denver International Airport. Traveling west on I-70, east of the city, in the wee hours of the morning, I could see the cross from well over 50 miles away.

Denver has been a special place for me. That first visit on a skiing vacation back in 1983 was the awakening of a new wonder for me – the wonder of the Rocky Mountains – a wonder that has never faded. Denver was the mountain gateway, forever associated with amazing canyons, ski resorts and passes that have become legendary in my own mind. With nostalgia clear as crystal, I can see the highways, hotels, and restaurants (yes, we visited Casa Bonita) we patronized on those early trips. I can still remember walking through the old Stapleton airport with the huge ski bags headed for the car rental counter with my family, eager to get out of Denver and “up the hill.” I remember leaving Denver via automobile at the end of our vacation, turned around in the back seat watching with discouragement as the mountains faded into the haze as we rushed northeast on I-76, already plotting for when I could return again.

The significance of Denver changed for me about three years ago. An organization with headquarters in Denver – south Downing street to be exact – hired me to be the Senior pastor of one of its constituent congregations in Colorado Springs in 2005. After three years of ministry there, in early 2008, the corporate leaders of that organization suddenly pulled the plug on my assignment and started sending me to different “Siberian” churches of the state each week to preach.

Through that experience, Denver rapidly became a whole different story. I came to remember restaurants, not with anticipation of joy and fun, but as places where pages of false accusations were shoved across a table to me in a blindsided move by individuals who had promised to support me. I came to remember committee rooms as places where people who I thought were friends and mentors, scowled at me with indecipherable malice in a communist-style punishment that didn't fit the “crime”. I came to remember offices where those corporate leaders demanded apologies from myself and my wife for petty mistakes, only to sit there silently when I asked for help to deal with troubling situations.

I left that organization to its own issues in the spring of 2008. But since then I've noticed that the drive through Denver is mixed with the recollection of the faces and events that brought significant grief to my experience. Each time I pass beneath the Downing street bridge on I-25 I remember for a moment those hallways, offices and conference rooms where so much pain and shock was experienced.

But last Thursday night I saw the cross again. We were passing through on I-25 headed to a celebration of my daughter's 14th birthday. It was the first time my family had noticed the cross. First lit for Easter in 1964, the 393 feet high and 254 feet across cross at the Mount Lindo Cemetery has been a beacon for many in Denver for almost 47 years. When my wife and daughter both made comments about it, a profound truth suddenly struck me.

There is a Cross that overlooks my Denver experience. There is a God who has given everything to heal the brokenhearted, proclaim liberty to the captives, release prisoners and to comfort all who mourn. There is a God behind that Cross who can restore and redeem the serendipitous joy Denver once meant to me.

Denver won't be the same for me any more. The memories of pain will be helpless against the reality of transformation God is doing in my life. Denver will forever be a place where God's grace has triumphed over human agendas.

I look forward to my next trip to Denver. Whether it's day or night, I plan to think about the Cross. I plan to think about the efforts my Father has made to rescue, restore and redeem me. I plan to make that drive through Denver a forever monument to His grace and a reminder to take courage in what He can do.

Flat-tire Redemption

A friend had a flat tire last evening while out shopping– and that after a very tough week that included a dog dying and a biopsy for her son. Her husband is in the Navy. He's in the country but because of medical issues, must remain in California for treatment. They've been apart for 15 months. In addition, someone banged up the back of her van and she was told that getting the spare tire out with the back hatch inoperable would be impossible.

What a need for redemption.

My wife Lisa called her to check on dropping off a Christmas card in person and discovered her state. Talk about a timely phone call! So Lisa, of course, called me and asked me to help out. What honest, red-blooded male wouldn't respond to a distress call 1) from my dear wife and 2) in behalf of another damsel in distress? Sermon prep can wait – hands down. I immediately began making preparations to help her out. I grabbed the jack and the lug spinner, filled the portable air tank from the compressor, threw a couple flashlights in the jeep and headed out. And I also told Lisa to pass on a message, “I'm on my way; be there in about 30 minutes”

How does Father respond to our need of redemption? When He gets “the call”, what does He do? How does His heart respond? Ok, let's be more practical: where did I get a heart that can't help but respond to a call for redemption? Did I just develop that on my own? Or is it a reflection of Father's heart?

Lisa arrived on-scene before I did. She and and the friend embraced and she broke down in sobs. Not sniffles, sobs. She just let all the pressure and stress of single-parenting through a really tough week out. She could do it because she was anticipating redemption. She could already rest in the knowledge that this whole flat tire issue was going to be alright. She could realize that there was no chance in heaven or earth that she was going to spend the night in that parking lot.

By the time I arrived, her very capable son had retrieved the tire from the back of the van and already had it installed. I only grabbed my spinner and tightened up the lugs, making sure everything was safe. We stood around for a few minutes and talked about friendship and Father and the gracious moments of life. Our friend gave hugs and thanks all around and we headed back home.

The blood and body of Christ's sacrifice assure us that we have redemption (see Hebrews 10). Isaiah 61 reminds us that His mission is to heal the brokenhearted, free captives, release prisoners, comfort those who mourn and take away our shame.

But do we anticipate it? Do we stand calmly around our flat tires of life fully knowing that help is on the way? Do we relax in Father's arms spilling out our pain but doing so safely because we know we're in the arms of our greatest Friend? Do we live as if everything is soon to be put back together and made alright?

This is a story of micro-spirituality. It's an illustration of a much larger picture of macro-spirituality. It's a “type” of what really happens in the “anti-type” of the Universe.

First of all, we need redemption. We have failure and untimely disappointment in life. We need redemption from lust, fear and doubt. We're ashamed of where our lives are at. The battle has been long and it has been brutal; we feel like our number is about up.

But secondly, Father is responding to our need of redemption.  In His own way and time, He is already bringing redemption to us. We can anticipate it. It took me over 30 minutes to get to the parking lot where our friend was.  And sometimes I think it's taking Father 30 years to bring me to places of genuine redemption. But that doesn't change the fact that He's bringing it. That's just the difference between micro and macro-spirituality. The truth is, I can anticipate His redemption in my life as relieved and carefree as our friend could last night. Help is coming. It will be here soon.

This Advent season reminds me that anticipating redemption is something I can be privileged to do a whole lot more of in the coming months. Look around my life less and look ahead more. Look ahead at what is certain to come. I hope you'll join me.