Bird in a Storm

It's a rainy Saturday, which means any motivation that would normally come to the surface is staying underground. It's good to have a rainy September 11th. The weather distances itself from the gorgeous sunniness of that day nine years ago.

The rain has been steady all morning, and I looked out the window to see half a dozen robins hopping around the front yard. It gave me pause; I'm not used to seeing birds voluntarily getting soaked like that. At first it was odd, but then I realized why. When there is a steady rain, the water seeps into the ground and floods the tunnels that worms live in, causing them to come to the surface for air (which is why you see so many worms on the surface after rainstorms). Robins, being worm eaters, have prime opportunity to find easy food before their long flights to warmer climes.

I don't know why it struck me today as so beautiful--that sense of provision, of God being in the rain, of delicate and specific care—I don't think it has to do with the date. Maybe it does.
But in that moment I said a little prayer to ask that I learn to see the worms in the rainstorms.

The Face of the Journey It Took

Don Miller is one of my favorite authors*.

I like him because he is honest and he somehow makes this honesty beautiful; makes shards look like more than just broken bits of 2 cent pottery. He writes with a lot of grace.

On his blog he is giving away a podcast of a lecture he did on the power of story and I’ve been listening to it in bits and pieces while I work. Today I heard him talk about conflict in story; how conflict can create the beauty and worth of the prize because of the journey it takes to get there.

Don told a story of hiking Machu Picchu. His guide pointed toward one trail and said, “If we took this trail we could get to the lost city Machu Picchu in 5, maybe 6 hours. This afternoon we could arrive. But we are not taking that trail.” And the guide pointed at the trail leading up a 21,000 ft mountain. He said, “For the next two days, we are going to climb 13,000 ft, we are going to have to get our bodies out of the altitude very quickly. We will camp at a low altitude and then climb another 12,000 feet before we do 9 miles of stairs to the lost city. We are going to do this over the next four days. It will be excruciating.”

The reason the Incas make people take the long journey through the mountains is because they want them to value and appreciate the city when they get there; if they didn’t go through pain, through conflict, they wouldn’t respect the city. Machu Picchu is special because it took real work to see it through.

How beautiful and true. I identify with this and I know that at the end of my conflicts the resolution is that much sweeter, in the face of the journey it took to get there. I often want things easily and quickly but value isn’t found in those drive-thru words.

*In the interest of full disclosure, I should admit that I have a huge crush on Don Miller and do still hold out the hope that one day we will meet and he will fall madly in love with me. Hey, a girl can hope.

Holy Day

Easters have gotten less important with time, like birthdays. It has little to do with baskets full of shredded green plastic grass or cheap chocolate molded into fertility demigods; it is the meaning that has faded, not just the trinkets. I haven’t had an Easter basket since I was 10 or 12. Maybe younger. My childhood was spent with more browbeating about meanings than presents and it stuck. Every Christmas and Easter I go through this mental obstacle course, trying to remember to focus on the meanings of the holidays rather than the accoutrement that dress them. And every holiday I fail. I forget, or I remember but feel nothing. I tend to want to spend those days alone; cloister myself into meaning. To be completely honest, I get more emotional about Independence Day than I do about Easter. The brilliant bursts of light in the sky, the hand over the heart, singing Francis Scott Key: this is a holy day to me. This I understand. There is life and bright color and hope and joy.
As my faith has faded to more muted tones so has my guilt about my lack of holy on holidays. I appreciate the day, I get why it is important. I just don’t feel anything about it but a vague sense of gratitude and an even fainter sense of loss.