The View from Here: A Winter's View

The girls and I have been 10 days in our new home now. This is the view from my big kitchen window. This window, this view, was one of the selling points for this house. I stood at the counter looking out over the Cane Creek valley and thought, "I could be happy here."

We hang so much on that idea, happiness. But take any long-range view of a life and you'll find a much more textured emotional palate than the bland monotony of any single state--even happiness. But we chase it, and we wait for it, sometimes with such desperation that we miss the simple, steady, constant opportunities for joy in the less-than-perfect present.

I find myself lately wanting more than anything to be present. To be NOW. Not then. Not later. But NOW.

Just two days before this radiant blue sky, everything was covered in snow. Even Winter is beautiful when it snows.

Today as I look at these mountains, I still think the view is beautiful. The way the shadows fall on the ripples of the mountain giving them a full three-dimensional effect. Is that what light and darkness do to our lives--flesh them out in fullness where otherwise they might be flat, monochromatic? Even the dark valleys reveal the high lighted areas, don't they?

But right now, in Winter, the leafless branches of the trees seem like bones to me. There is a reason we think to equate Winter with Death. And as I stand here looking, I remember how just two days before, it was so beautiful it took my breath away. Bones covered in still, even, gentle, unmarred whiteness.

Today, I am still thankful for the view, because it reminds me that this season as well will change. Winter isn't forever. As C.S. Lewis told us in The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe, "We shall have Spring again." The leaves will bud. They won't be held back. The bones of the trees will be covered again, covered with new life. As will you and I. As we already are, even if a Winter in our lives suggests to that emotional blanket we use as our counterfeit covering that we are threadbare. Those are feelings talking their persuasion to my divided mind. Speaking of cold doubt.

No, the trees know. They are rooted in facts that I can't experience--only trust in. Things unseen. They will once again drop seed and reproduce. They will bring forth new life without anxiety about the process. They will embrace other life again--neighbors in the form of animal life in their branches and in their shade. And I will see it from this window.

I will see the seasons change. I will see the new Spring burst forth. I will see it mature into a robust Summer, and I will see it gently age into that most golden and lovely and longingly beautiful of seasons, Autumn.

I am in the Summer of my life. There have been many times in my own Spring and Summer that have felt like Winters. But chronologically, this is Summer. The bold, flourishing years. A season of produce and powerful growth. That's the reality. Today is my Summer. Not on the calendar, of course, but I think you know what I mean.

There's a lot that's new in my life right now. More than just the house, but that too, definitely. There's much that sounds and looks like the things of Spring. I have been hanging for a long time it seems on the promise that years with far too much Winter in them will be restored--years that the locusts have eaten. When does the locust eat? They devour shoots and leaves--the life-filled greens of Summer. It is often the Summers of our lives that come under attack when we should be in full-production mode. If our enemy is real, then this only follows logic. A life in Summer may be too dangerous to be allowed to progress organically. Send on the pestilence, the fearfilled destroyer commands.

But God has promised restoration. I don't know what that looks like but I am living for it, and I am looking for it. I am waiting for it. I am hoping for it. I am expecting it.

Seasons will change. The view from my window will change. There's more to come. The story isn't over, and even though
          "youths (in the Spring of their lives) shall faint and be weary,
           and young men shall fall exhausted;
           but they who wait for the Lord shall renew their strength;
           they shall mount up with wings like eagles;
           they shall run and not be weary;
           they shall walk and not faint."

He promises renewal. Where does my help come from?

Oh, that view reminds me.
          "I lift up my eyes to the hills.
           My help comes from the Lord,
           Maker of heaven and earth."

And Maker of me, and of seasons, Summers and Winters. Seedtimes and Harvests.

That's the view from here.

Unbinding Happens Fully Only in Community

Almost four years ago exactly (in just a few weeks), I began a journey of healing. Part of that healing process for me involved some earth-shattering changes and the regular input of pastoral staff and a professional counselor. I was finally facing the need to deal with post-traumatic stress disorder.

After about a year and a half, my counselor shared with me some thoughts on my process. He told me that I was experiencing marvelous progress, and I knew that to be true. But it wasn’t finished. It was still very much underway, and he said something I have found to be absolutely true. He said, “Making changes for yourself, taking control of the aspects of your life that you do have an impact on, and participating in counseling are all effective means for your healing. But there is only so far that those can take you. You will reach a plateau in healing outside of relationship in community. The fullness of healing will only come in community with others.”

At the time, those words were only partially encouraging to me. I was terrified of having to depend on others to participate in my growth and healing. I wanted to be well, to live boldly again—but who was going to step in to fill that void I needed to get there? Didn’t I need to be “fixed” before I could be relationally close to anyone? Wasn’t it my job to fix me before putting myself as a burden on others?

Whose responsibility was I, anyway?

In my experience—which of course shaped my expectations—very few people were consistently willing and available to really enter into relationships outside their own immediate families—at least not deeply, meaningfully, regularly, practically, and with their own vulnerability exposed enough to become emotionally engaged beyond the superficial. Very few.

We’re a culture of emotional anorexics, aren’t we? Valuing privacy and personal protection over relational investment. Playing it cool, but keeping our lives cold as a result. (Hat tip to John Lennon for “Hey, Jude.”)

But my God knew what I needed, and over the last two and a half years, he has crafted it expertly. I am so thankful.

Remember the account in John 11 of Lazarus, the friend of Jesus, brother of Mary and Martha, who grew ill and died?

Most of the time, we think of that story as one about the power Jesus has to resurrect from the dead—and it is, indeed, about that. I feel as if I have been resurrected myself, and I know it wasn’t I or my counselor or any human who can claim responsibility for changing the course, bringing me out of despair and back into the light. It was Jesus, his Holy Spirit, the Father’s sovereignty—it was the Lord who said, “Rebecca, come out!” in his timing.

But there’s a detail there in that story that I think we often overlook, and when we see it—really see it—it makes it harder for us to keep our distance from others in need—at least not in good conscience. Maybe not if we believe we are called to be involved in God’s merciful will. He essentially calls us to draw closer than we are comfortable doing—and it certainly can apply to how we engage others near us in our communities.

Look at verses 43 and 44. Jesus has just prayed to the Father, clearly giving the Father credit for what is about to happen—the supernatural part. And then it goes like this:

⁴³ When he had said these things, he cried out with a loud voice, “Lazarus, come out.” ⁴⁴ The man who had died came out, his hands and feet bound with linen strips, and his face wrapped with a cloth. Jesus said to them, “Unbind him, and let him go.”

Do you see that? Jesus uses divine power to bring life back to the dead man, but then he hands off the remaining task to the friends gathered there, moments ago mourning his loss.

Unbind him, friends. Community—pick up the task of healing this man who was dead, of freeing him, of letting him go, returning him to life. Circle ’round, community. You’re a part of this too. Uncover his face so he may see and be seen. Look into his eyes again. Free him to walk the path God has for him. Loose his hands to do God’s work. Touch him to make him whole again.

Do you think they rushed to do it? Do you think they stood at a distance, hesitant? The sisters have just told us that he had begun to decay in the tomb. It’s likely they expected a gruesome discovery beneath the grave clothes. We don’t know exactly what they found. Was his resurrection so complete that no sign of death remained in his physical form? Or was there a time-lapse for the fulfilment of his earthly resurrection—which might be different from the glorious transformation all believers expect to undergo at the last day? We don’t know.

All we know is that by Christ’s own choice and determination, Lazarus’ full release would come through the involvement—close up and personal—of his friends, joining together to set him free finally, in the end.

I know what this means.

I am a new person today. Different than I was two years ago. Even very different than I was a year ago. Yes, my God is working in me. Yes, I am working on myself. But that is not all—and if I can claim a parallel to Lazarus’ story, I think there’s evidence to say that it was never God’s intention to heal me all on his own, but to provide for my healing through his people. Through you.

You are participating in resurrection power, friends! You who let me into your home when I was without my children at a time when I needed to be embraced into family. You who invite me to go with you to movies and live music and game nights and plays. You who come when I am the one doing the asking. You who work your tails off negotiating complicated deals for my family’s good that at the onset I never could have imagined would work to the end they did. You who surprised me with a birthday gathering—and all who came. You who lifted heavy things, gave up time to carry and organize and pack and spread mulch. You who come when I say, “Be with me.” You who just text to say “thinking of you,” or to ask into my day. You who have picked up my kids when I couldn’t be there right then. You who pray for me and my children—in health and in sickness and in times of anxiety. You who give boxes, who haul away trash. You who text me “a verse for the day,” and you who bring way too much ice cream. You who walk in my front door like you live here too—because that tells me that you accept my desire to love you like family and declare my desire legitimate and good. You who will look at the same moon at the same time and say so to me. You who encouraged me to keep on doing the next right thing, just one more day. You who listen to my story, and offer to tell your own—wounds and warts and all. You who share music with me because it touches your soul and you’re willing to reach out and touch mine too. You who let me in close enough to you to know how to pray for you, to offer assistance. You who hug long and fearlessly, even in public, unashamed.

“Unbind her, and let her go.”

Listen. Did you hear him?

I’m blessed right now to be a part of a study of the book of Jonah. The study is dubbed “Man on the Run.” Every one of you who can relate to something listed in that paragraph three hard returns up: May God bless you, sons and daughters of faithfulness. He has given you opportunity to take part in a work he’s doing that will have eternal impact. And you did not run from him and his presence, but accepted your participation joyfully. We all have “Jonah times” in our lives, but you chose not to be Jonahs in these areas.

“The rest of your healing will come in community,” my counselor said. My response at the time was much like that of Ezekiel to the Lord when looking over the valley of the dry bones. “Can I make these dry bones live?” asked the Lord. Ezekiel, I expect not wanting to seem hopeless, and yet completely helpless to know how it might happen, surrenders, “O Lord God, you know.”

That’s all I had. An open palm turned toward heaven. Would these dry bones live? “O Lord God, you know.”

And while I stood waiting, he breathed on me, called me out, and then turned to you. Maybe he whispered it softly into your heart. I don’t know how you heard him. All I know is that you did.

“Unbind her,” he said, and whether you knew it or not, you replied, “Yes, we will!”

To God be the glory. Great things he has done. To God be the glory that he chooses to work through his people. Thank you for being my kindred. Thank you for reaching out and laying hold of the grave clothes and helping me be set free.