Epic Journey

Bekah called it “The Epic Move.”

After much prayer my friend and her colleague were to move from their remote village in the heart of Lesotho to an even more remote village in the northern mountains. Even at its most basic the journey would have been nothing less than epic. Six 4x4 vehicles. Three days. A rugged drive in and out of an isolated valley, over mountains, across a river, into an obscure village… At it’s most basic.

But life has a way of not working out the way we plan. And halfway through our “epic” journey we found that God had a greater adventure in mind.

The first leg of the expedition, aside from battery failure, a late start, hot breaks, painful goodbyes, and acquiring a chicken, went relatively without a hitch. Afternoon turned into evening, yet the day’s success was marred with the growing possibility that our valiant efforts might be thwarted by a flooded river on the next stage of our excursion.

Uncertainty and hope mingled. The caravan moved out in the chill air of the morning with guarded anticipation to the river.

We had heard that the dam upstream was releasing water to ease the burgeoning lake behind its mighty wall. We were told that the river could be flooded, even impassable. We had seen the swollen river weaving in and out of our line of sight as we snaked along the rock-strewn road. And there we were, our toes daring to press into the brink of cold and force flowing by, bringing us all –thrill seekers and homebodies alike– to a standstill.

We stood at the river’s edge, water swirling, rushing, racing over the cement driving bridge that spanned the river. I prayed for the waters to part. I prayed for the waters to still. I asked the Lord if we must step out in faith and cross the rushing river and just believe Him for safe passage. Speak Lord, speak!

And He did, O Faithful One that He is. He spoke in that voice He uses so often with me, the one where it is just a glimpse of quiet, a soft thought in my mind. The kind of quiet where I almost miss it. The kind of quiet that commands the busyness of my thoughts to be still and makes me strain to listen, as when one of my children stirs after bedtime and I stop all I am doing to discern their voices in the night.

A better way.

But what does it mean, Lord? No reply.

What do I do with a God who simply won’t behave as I think He aught?

When plans seemingly crumble before me…only to be resurrected to new life?

New life, new plans. Better plans. Better life. A better way.

Caleb’s Song

The late summer breeze is autumn-kissed. The willow trees’ vibrant emerald fades as glimpes of gold emerge. Nathan and I sit on our back stoop to eat supper, fajitas dripping, paper plates drooping. Across from us, Adara and Caleb share a green garden chair, a sea captain’s wayfaring seat.

“Where’s my water?”

Nathan examines his empty cup. I swallow a guilty gulp. He goes with an incredulous huff to find his missing beverage. “What wrong?” Caleb watches the scene unfold, sensing the unspoken banter hanging in the air. He tries to make sense of the emotions, playfulness disguised as frustration. “I drank all of Daddy’s water without asking. I should have asked him. It wasn’t nice of me.”

“Oh.”

Then, as if on cue:

“We have to share, we have to share, we have to share.

We have to lay down our lives… for Jesus!

We have to bow down to Jesus,

We have to bow down to Jesus,

We have to bow down to Jesus… in our love!”

I close my eyes and soak it in, the praise ordained from the mouth of my boy. Holy worship flowing from his lips.

We have to bow down to Jesus, We have to bow down to Jesus in our love…

“Did you know I could sing like that, Mommy?”

I open my eyes. His wide green ones meet mine. “No, Caleb, I had no idea you could sing like that.”

He smiles, a knowing smile. So full of life. “It was a great song, huh?”

“Yes, my boy, that was the best worship song I have heard lately.”

Spontaneous worship. Joyful proclamation. Heart song; life song; love song. Let it be mine. May it be yours. Holy Spirit, make this a reality for me today.

We have to bow down to Jesus in our love…

Dust

An afternoon walk, transformed into an adventure. The children wade through tall grass, inspect termites scurrying in and out of a crevice, leap over ditches and climb “mountains,” race down concrete water drains. Bottle caps and orange berries become treasures tucked tight in tiny fists. Bare feet, painted toes digging into soft sand, kicking up clouds of pale tan. Caleb and Nathan lead the way as Adara and I follow, hand in hand. The dust clouds billow out from those in front and I feel the clouds settling on my face and hands. I slow down with my little girl, watching the “men” walk further on. I try to avoid the dust shower that is trailing behind them. I don’t want to get dirty. I don’t want to deal with the grit of a joyful walk. And I am reminded then of being covered with the dust of my Rabbi.

“One of the earliest stages of the Mishnah, Yose ben Yoezer, said to disciples, ‘Cover yourself with the dust of [your rabbi’s] feet.’

The idea of being covered in the dust of your rabbi came from something everybody had seen. A rabbi would come to town, and right behind him would be this group of students, doing their best to keep up with the rabbi as he went about teaching…from one place to another. By the end of a day of walking in the dirt directly behind their rabbi the students would have the dust from his feet all over them.

And that was a good thing.” (Rob Bell, Velvet Elvis p 130)

As the father-son duo moves beyond and I fall behind, avoiding the spray of dust in front of me, I wonder where I am walking behind Jesus. Like today’s “adventure,” I suspect I am lagging, not wanting to get dirty. Not wanting to feel the grit. I am comfortable staying clean. But there is a cost. I am not close to Him. I cannot hear the laughter that comes from a far-away smile. I cannot hear His words over the din of life as it presses in on me…

An acquaintance greets me, “Long time no see!” I find myself telling “white” lies to excuse why I didn’t respond to her SMS. Why did I say that? I grieve the Spirit within me. I grieve myself. I am farther behind Him then I thought.

Adara is in my arms now and I am hit with the tragic realization that when I am far behind Jesus, so are my children. They are only as close to Him as I am.

Caleb and Nathan wait for us in a shady patch of the field just ahead. I hurry to catch up. Knee high grasses tickle my legs as I rush through them. Babe in arms, I leap over a ditch, eager to be reunited with the ones waiting for us, the ones I love.

So it is with my Jesus. There is no reason to delay. No penance to serve. Simply a humble and contrite recognition that I have fallen away. I align my thoughts, my will, my heart, to His. I hurry to catch up. He is waiting for me, the One I love. And suddenly the dust is a welcome friend. Thank you for the reminder, Lord. Cover me.