Destination Discipline

“I never knew lonely could be so blue, I never knew lonely could tear you in two, I never loved someone like I love you, I never knew lonely til you.”  – Vince Gill

The stars come out when the sky grows dark. I forget this sometimes in the summer because the days are so long I don’t experience true darkness. I usually crawl into bed as dusk settles over the house and close my eyes as I prepare for the inevitabilities tomorrow will bring. But there are times when the sadness’s of the day are not ready to retire. My eyes won’t close, and I can’t find rest. There is an ache that defies definition—an ache that sets my mind to wandering for a remedy.

Jesus once said, “Sufficient for the day is its own trouble.” (Matthew 6:34) So what does one do when the trouble of the day doesn’t want to end?

No one wants to be lonely. Loneliness feels like a curse. If we aren’t lonely today, we fear that we will be lonely in the future. When we open our hearts to love other people, we open the door to the possibility of loneliness. Sometimes the people we love don’t love us back. Other times they love us for a while and then walk away. Worst of all, we may grow to an age where everyone we love has died. It is usually about this age that we discover sleep is no longer a friend. That is when we learn the true meaning of darkness. Then, not even the light from a picture window will brighten our hearts.

“O my God, I cry by day, but you do not answer, and by night, but I find no rest.” Psalm 22:2

I ponder loneliness when I stand in my front yard at 2:00am. The solitary whistle of the train as it rattles down the tracks reminds me I am not the only one awake, but I still feel alone. I look up into the heavens to find my favorite constellations. There is comfort in the sameness of the stars. I say, “There you are” and I smile. The stars never disappoint me. They don’t say unkind words. They don’t neglect or ignore me. The nature of their work is to shine light into the darkness and that is what they keep on doing. Sometimes they peek through fluffy clouds and other times they are completely obscured by rain. But I know they are there and their faithfulness comforts me. We all need something faithful to anchor our hearts to when we ache.

Have you ever stood in the wreckage of horrible circumstances and wondered what happened? Have you cursed the gods for allowing such all-encompassing annihilation? Have you cried, like Job, “He breaks me down on every side, and I am gone, and my hope has he pulled up like a tree” (Job 19:10)? The loneliness of those moments surpasses anything approaching manageable. These “unfixable and uncontrollable moments” (Zack Eswine) wring the sorrow from our brows. These moments solidify the knowledge that we truly have no control over the trajectory of our lives. We grasp for something—anything to steady us. We just need something solid to grasp. Something faithful—more faithful than even the stars.

“Righteousness shall be the belt of his waist, and faithfulness the belt of his loins.” Isaiah 11:5

Though we cannot see him with our eyes, He is real. Though we cannot smell Him with our nose, He exists. Though we cannot touch him with our hands, He is authentic. Jesus, the lamb of God who was sent to take away the sin of the world, is our faithful Savior. If we trust in Him, He will deliver us.

I have recently been learning from a friend what it means to follow Jesus. Yes, sometimes I forget. Pain has a way of obscuring the truth. Especially if I turn to religiosity and ritual rather than to the personhood of Christ. I collapse into the temptation to believe He is an uncaring monster who wishes me harm rather than a man who took my sin and was tortured to death so that I might enter the most joyful relationship known to mankind.

In His book, “Sensing Jesus”, Zack Eswine reminds me that “Jesus doesn’t see victory in this world the way I wish he would.” These words comfort me because they remind me that I am not God. I am not omniscient or omnipresent. I am just Margaret. And this comforts me because it takes all the pressure off performing tasks I don’t feel capable of completing. If I allow God to be God and myself to be me, I can just relax. I can throw up my hands and cry out in pain, “God, I can’t figure this out. I need you to help me.” Or I can simply weep. And in those moments of perplexing pain I have experienced the hand of grace as it catches me—not unlike a little bird with a broken wing—and whispers to me, “Margaret, I am here. You are precious in my sight. I love you and I will save you.”

Zack describes it this way. “There is a kind of power that Jesus gives. It goes where other kinds of power will not. It does what other kinds of power cannot.” But one cannot experience it until we fully surrender to Him. We must relinquish control of our lives. Besides, we don’t actually have control anyway. And if you think you do, just wait until the doctor says, “Stage 4 pancreatic cancer”.

I sat in the unrelenting loneliness of pain last week. I cried out to God and He answered me. On this occasion it was to remind me that I have an old pair of roller skates in the basement that I haven’t used in several years. I brushed off the dust and laced them up. Then I started to glide up and down the street in front of my house—just like I did when I was 12. We don’t have any sidewalks so I had to skate in the street. I waved at the cars that drove by and talked to the neighborhood children who were riding bikes and scooters. And I laughed at the looks of the people driving past as they gawked at me or simply smiled. Because how often does one see a 44 year old woman rolling around on white roller derby skates and waving her arms? I suppose some will think this is a strange response to pain but my loneliness definitely dissipated. I found laughter and happiness, but I also found deep joy. Because Jesus was roller skating with me. I can’t remember the last time I felt so happy and carefree.

“The afflicted shall eat and be satisfied; those who seek him shall praise the Lord! May your hearts live forever!” Psalm 22:26

Today if you are suffering from the loneliness pain and suffering brings, cast your cares on Him who cares for you. He is faithful.

The sparkling waters of the Meramec River dance over rocks and silt as they filter through Missouri. They begin as springs east of Salem and are aqua blue as they shimmer in the sun. By the time they reach St. Louis they are distinctly darker as they pick up mud when they join the Bourbeuse River near Moselle. Still, some people would argue that they never shone brighter than they did on the shores of Times Beach in the years before heartache flooded the town.

I recently toured what is left of the resort town. I stepped inside the Route 66 state park museum and read a little bit of history and saw a few photographs. I reviewed the giant plat map which looks not unlike a big green piece of pie situated close to Eureka, Missouri. I am in the company of my friend, Stefanie, who once lived there and who has filled my heart with wonder for the tiny town that is no longer there. This small “mausoleum” is not sturdy enough to hold all the love each resident had for that small slice of heaven. No one can truly capture with words what that place meant to them. For my friend, it was simply home.

She was there in the winter of 1982 when the flood waters rolled in and tells the harrowing story of barely escaping. Their house was surrounded by the churning Meramec as it swelled over its banks. They lost everything they had, which is how they ended up at Wal-Mart—wet and soggy—in search of dry socks and shoes.

We drove under the highway as we entered Route 66 State Park—what used to be Times Beach. Cyclists and joggers passed our car on pristine, paved roads. It was a sunny, blue sky kind of day and we were thankful for air conditioning. I scanned the swampy pools next to the road for frogs while my friend tried to find where her house used to be. I tried to envision what it once looked like while my friend described her childhood, running down the hot streets to the river to swim. It was the kind of place I would have liked to live—a small town filled with relatively poor people who knew how to spend the only real currency they had in abundance; love.

Stefanie asked if I wanted to take any pictures. I said no. Everything I wanted to see was torn down years ago. I tried to imagine myself in that place when I was her age, riding my bike behind the truck that sprayed oil on the dirt roads to keep the dust down. I tried to picture the stone and brick house she once lived in but had to abandon the year she turned 13. I tried to picture her friends—the ones she loved so dearly—and her brave parents who fought not only the murky waters but the media spectacle that blocked the only way out of town and forced them to abandon their vehicle in the rising water. I felt the anger, the disappointment, and the shame she experienced in the aftermath as they tried to find a place to live. I sensed the horror of losing all sense of stability—to the point that even though she continued to go to school, she failed the 8^th grade.

I could not help but think of the refugees who flee war torn areas in search of safety. Do they feel like my friend who had to grieve the sudden loss of her childhood? Do they cling to each other with hope in the face of tremendous adversity? Do they try to go back years later to try to rekindle the sense of home they lost even though there is no physical structure left to experience? For those who don’t know the story of that place, it wasn’t only the flood that ruined the town. Sadly, the former residents are still managing the pain and sorrow caused by disease and death of those they love. One of Stefanie’s close friends passed away two months ago—37 years after the floor—from a rare form of cancer caused by a terrible poison. She still cannot speak of the loss without tears.

When I think about Times Beach, I consider how God views men who prey on innocent people.

“As for the scoundrel—his devices are evil; he plans wicked schemes to ruin the poor with lying words, even when the plea of the needy is right.” Isaiah 32:7

God hates the wicked machinations of men. In fact, the bible is one long story of a God who loves justice and—finding none—stretches out his own arm to save the people he loves. I don’t intend to turn the story of Times Beach into a bible lesson. Forgive me if it comes across this way. It is only that as I crossed into that magical place, I could not help but think about what it will be one day. I was quietly clinging to the promise that Jesus makes—“Behold, I am making all things new”. (Revelation 21:5) The Apostle John’s vision of a new heaven and a new earth gives me real hope I can cling to. I believe that one day Times Beach will be a wholly clean and safe place to live. There will be picnics and hula hoops and people roller skating without fear as they embrace their friends knowing that the former things have passed away. The Meramec River will shine in exquisite beauty—a river we have never known this side of death. It will be free of pollution and trash and fear from drowning. It will be wonderful.

I suppose this kind of writing will make some people wonder about my mental capacity. Still, without the hope of God, I could not bear to think about the tragedies of this broken world. I know the Bible is just a book but I believe God is real and those really are His words. I cling to the promises he makes and hope with joy for a future where death and dying will be no more.

The sun still rises and sets over Times Beach. The Meramec River still flows over the banks and people can still fish and swim. But all the houses are gone. The streets are gone. And even the annual reunion of former residents can’t recapture the life they had in bygone years. But I take immense comfort in the words of the prophet Isaiah when he writes of this great God who created that wonderful place.

“I am the Lord, and there is no other, besides me there is no God; I equip you, though you do not know me, that people may know, from the rising of the sun and from the west, that there is none besides me; I am the Lord, and there is no other. I form light and create darkness, I make well-being and create calamity, I am the Lord, who does all these things.” Isaiah 45:5-7

“Some trust in chariots and some in horses, but we trust in the name of the Lord our God. They collapse and fall, but we rise and stand upright.”  – Psalm 20:7-8

Thunder is always ominous, but never more so when the skies are blue. The deep rumble sets a heart on edge, especially if one is knee deep in a river. For every peel, a question explodes in the mind. Will the storm blow over? Do I have time to grab my things? How long will it last?

When the dark clouds blow in and lightening begins to flash, the questions grow darker still. What if it strikes a tree? What if it hits me? Will I be electrocuted? Will it hurt or will I simply die? Will my family even miss me when I’m gone? Or will they celebrate a reprieve from green vegetables with takeout every night?

I contemplate these things as I fish on the Borbeuse River this week. Storms blow in as I try to relax and enjoy a few minutes away from my daily routines. Instead of rushing to work out, I sleep in and stretch. I take a short cut through the woods and get lost in a creek. I stroke a patch of moist moss and chase a lizard into the undergrowth. I wade into the warm river water and watch a fresh water muscle puff water from its spout. It moves through the sand a centimeter and I wonder how long until a greedy raccoon scoops it from the water and indulges in fresh flesh.

We head back to my grandpa’s house when the lightning flashes. Still, I rush to the lake so I can cast my white spinner across the ripples and into the cold deep. I snag a few times but finally catch something as cold drops splash onto my forehead. I pull out a fat sunfish but throw him back as the white-hot electricity pulses around me. I holler at my children. “Danger! Take cover!” And we run to the house as the heavens let loose. We stand there panting while gray curtains of water rattle against the ground. My grandpa leans forward in his chair and says, “Looks like we’re going to get some rain.”

We take advantage of the weather by catching up and reminiscing. My grandpa is nearly 85 years old and a shadow of the man he used to be. He can no longer dig fence posts and bale hay. Instead, he struggles to walk to the bathroom with his walker and to hear simple phrases. Every sentence begins with a loud, “What?” as he strains to understand what was just said. Still, I enjoy his company immensely. He verbally remembers the many trips we took in his boat up river in search of the big bass, and the nights spent camped out on the sandy banks of the Borbeuse River. “There was always a storm brewing,” he says. “We had to keep one eye on the sky at all times.” I listen closely in case there’s a story developing that I haven’t heard before.

I am not disappointed this trip. He tells the story of the time he and my grandmother went to camp on the river and left my little uncle Denny in the car to finish a nap. When he went to check on him, Denny was gone. His little foot prints in the dirt indicated he had wandered off into 50 acres of corn. My grandpa finally found him but said he’d never forget it. “I never took my eyes off those kids again.”

My uncle Tim is in from Cape Girardeau. He has the same idea I do—escape the daily grind with a good old-fashioned sweat. He grabs a weed eater and makes short work of the tall grass that has accumulated around the small pond. He edges the sidewalks in front of the house and unearths the stone path that leads from the house to the road. I don’t know how long it took my grandpa to build that little stretch of stones. I only know he dug it by hand and filled it with large rocks he took from the river. Tim said that next time he’d bring the Round-Up, an idea my uncle Mike firmly disdained.

At times our conversations turn political—a topic I generally despise—but I so enjoy talking with my family members I contribute to the best of my ability. I have always admired my uncles. I think they are the most handsome, the most winsome, and the most brave men I know. My father’s brothers are broad shouldered and have dark hair like my grandmother. They are fishermen, hunters, and fierce protectors of their families. My uncle Tim shows me pictures of the house he is rehabbing for his daughter. He is so like my dad and also different. When I tell my grandfather how great they are he says of his children, “There’s not a bad one in the bunch.” And he’s right. I think just as highly of my courageous and beautiful aunts.

Of course, the worries come out in our conversations too. Health issues. Money. One of my cousins will lose her job when the company she works for closes its doors in a few weeks. The roof my grandfather paid good money for is leaking and the contractor who put it on won’t return a call. Uncle Tim says, “Life is like a box of chocolates. You never know what you’re going to get.” While we quietly wonder if cancer is the next chocolate in the box and desperately pray it is not, we remember Grandma, who passed into glory this time last year. I see her when my aunts and uncles smile, but I hear her voice when Uncle Tim instructs me not to do any more dishes because he will take care of that. I didn’t make breakfast this morning because he made it before I got up. Because of him, I can smell her eggs over easy too.

I stand in the river again and stare are the white, fluffy clouds. They are fluent; moving and morphing. Their beauty confounds me and I want them to freeze in time just like I want my cousins to stop growing. I want to go back and take one more trip up the river with my grandpa. I want him to show me how to tie the lure, jig the bait worm, and trick that big bass into biting. I want one more dip in the river with my grandma. One more hug. I need time to stop moving so fast. Because even though I’m in the best shape of my life, I can’t seem to catch my breath.

We are all worrying over the future and the pain we know will come. The sting of death lurks much closer now than it used to. We talk about the hordes of wasps that guard the entrance to Grandpa’s old corn crib/workshop and I shudder. My son holds ice to his leg where one of the wasps stung him and I wonder if there is an ice cube strong enough to dull the throb of the sting that is sure to pierce our hearts. And then I remember the words that soothe even the most acute aches.

“I tell you this, brothers: flesh and blood cannot inherit the kingdom of God, nor does the perishable inherit the imperishable. Behold! I tell you a mystery. We shall not all sleep, but we shall all be changed, in a moment, in the twinkling of an eye, at the last trumpet. For the trumpet will sound, and the dead will be raised imperishable, and we shall be changed. For this perishable body must put on the imperishable, and this mortal body must put on immortality. When the perishable put on the imperishable, and the mortal puts on immortality, then shall come to pass the saying that is written: ‘Death is swallowed up in victory. O death, where is your victory? O death, where is your sting?’ The sting of death is sin, and the power of sin is the law. But thanks be to God, who gives us the victory through our Lord Jesus Christ.” 1 Corinthians 15:50-58

The thunder storms roll out and the blue skies appear again. The earth is fresh and new. The ground is wet. The frogs are chirruping. The hummingbirds pause to sip nectar while I watch with wonder. And that is when I accept the fact that yes, the “Good byes” are coming. But more importantly, so are the “Welcome homes!”