Any Time Now

There are any number of things that can go wrong on a long journey; trekking about in foreign places seems to have a way of bringing out the occasions where stress, forgetfulness, and confusion coalesce into one menacing package. For David and I, one month into a three month honeymoon backpacking trip through Europe, those occasions haven't dampened our enthusiasm for our journey, but I'm uncertain that they're quite teaching us patience either.

Thursday was one such instance. After spending a day in Poland visiting Auschwitz and Krakow, we were at the end of an overnight train ride that would roll into Vienna about 6:45 a.m. The swaying, heaving motion had lulled me into a rather deep sleep despite the less than cushiony bunk beds and the fact that my husband had been booked in a separate sleeping car; the conductor unceremoniously shook me out of such peaceful slumber and announced that we would be arriving at the station in 25 minutes. Somewhere during my half-alert teeth-brushing, face-washing session, David popped in with my second, smaller backpack that he had been storing overnight, and I mumbled something unintelligible before he left--not knowing that it would be the last time we would see each other for quite awhile.

There was a brief, preliminary stop at Wien Miedling where I glanced out of our window into the semi-darkness to see if we had arrived, but almost as quickly the lurching, swaying motion began again, and with some commendable will power, I snapped my mountainous luggage into place on my back instead of drifting back to sleep. Moments later we reached the end of the line--Wien Westbahnhof--and I alighted without much grace and began searching the platform for David. A few minutes passed, all the passengers from our train flowed past in sleepy parade, probably collectively pulled along by the thought of coffee somewhere nearby, but my husband wasn't among them. Though I didn't think he would leave the platform and go into the train station without me, it seemed like the next best idea, so I walked inside and looked around the upper level near the entrance. No David.

I never went downstairs. If David were at the station, I was sure he would have been waiting for me where he knew I would see him; since he wasn't I had to assume he had accidentally taken the first stop. Shifting Mount McKinley on my back, I waddled my way over to the railing overlooking the escalators to the lower levels and stood for a while drinking in the sunrise through the eastern windows. Silhouetted against the pastel clouds was a cathedral tower, darkly elegant by contrast. It was picture perfect, and I started digging through the smaller backpack for my phone to catch the sight for future posterity and Instagram.

Right about then I discovered that David, having collected all our various electronic devices the night before to charge them, had packed them into the backpack he gave me. I had my phone, his phone, the iPod, and the iPad--leaving him with no method of accessing the Internet (our phones are inactive for the duration of our stay in Europe, but they are useful if one can find wifi). I took a picture of the quickly brightening sky gradually enveloping the cathedral.

(See photo here: http://instagram.com/p/QESwVYujOr/ )

It was 7:00. I picked up some free wifi, settled down on a bench near a power outlet, and fished out my ticket. Clearly printed after the arrow from "Krakow" was the station title "Wien Westbahnhof." With a sigh of relief, I noted that I had definitely taken the correct stop and that David had only to look at his ticket to recognize that he was at the wrong stop--and know where to find me. It was just a matter of waiting until he caught the next train in.

An hour later there was still no sign of my husband. I sent him a message on facebook detailing exactly where in the station I was so he would have no difficulty locating me when he arrived. I knew he would find a computer or borrow someone's phone or somehow find a method of contacting me to explain the delay. As time rolled by much slower than the trains breezing in and out, I sent a couple emails just to be on the safe side and plugged my phone into the outlet next to me to avoid running the battery down.

By 9:00 I was hungry, needed to find a restroom, and still missing my husband. Reattaching the luggage I'd removed for the couple hours I'd been sitting in the same spot, I walked a few yards to the InfoPoint across from my bench. Had they possibly heard from my husband or could they call around for him? While they announced his name over the intercom I struggled over to the nearest shop for an apple strudel, and came back. They said they would call the other station, and I spent the interlude dragging my Mt. McKinley up a couple flights of stairs to the ladies' restroom. When I returned there was news: The other station verified that David had been there, but they had sent him off with directions to arrive at my station.

This was encouraging, and naturally I expected him to walk in the door at any minute. I had no way of knowing my extended stay on the metal bench wasn't to end as quickly as I hoped, but I assured my concerned family back home that I wasn't stranded--I knew David would come find me any time now.

But no familiar faces appeared from the masses of people who came and went in the busy station. My seat mates on the hard, metal bench changed dozens of times and still I sat, waiting. I chatted with a few--a young woman designer from Brazil, a young Austrian soldier, a couple bored security guys patrolling the station-and most of them heard about my alleged husband who theoretically was going to come get me...sometime. And before long they would leave, and he still had not arrived.

It was nearing 12 o'clock. It had been more than 5 hours since I had last seen David, and for all I knew I could be waiting in the Vienna train station for days, sitting on the same bench, eating an occasional snack from the concessions nearby, and assuring everyone that my husband was going to come find me anytime now. By the time he did I would probably be speaking passable German and the security guards would have thrown me out half a dozen times.

Just before my plight actually became that serious, I looked up to see the most beautiful face I could imagine coming toward me from across the room. David grinned broadly and opened his arms wide in a triumphant gesture that I might have run toward if rapid movement were even mildly tolerated by my Mt. McKinley.

We excitedly began comparing stories to figure out what had happened. My version basically consisted of me sitting, not moving, waiting. As it turned out, so did his. He had taken the stop the conductor said was his, then immediately discovered I wasn't there. Borrowing someone's Facebook (it wouldn't let him sign in to his own) he sent me a message telling me where I could find him--and then he waited, patiently, for me to follow his directions. But I never came. At last, he had come to my train station and found me.

In some obscure folder with no alert sat his message: "Michelle, this is David. I got off at the wrong stop. I am at Wein Meidling; I am in the hallway between/under the platforms. I will not move. Please come find me. I love you." I'd never received it.

However, despite of hours of waiting, delays to our exploration of Vienna, and the inconveniences all that entailed, we were just happy. Relieved to be back together. And very ready to leave the train station.

The next day we were on a train again, rolling toward Croatia and watching the beautiful Austrian countryside unfold along the tracks. With so much time to think, I couldn't help but remember that another bride is waiting for her Groom to come get her. It's been such a long, long wait, yet through all the years that have passed, she insists He will come. Any time now. She watches the eastern sky, and she waits. He will come...any time now.

But He doesn't come, and she wonders why He delays. So she sits, and she waits. Maybe she's missed a message somewhere, where He asked her to do something other than sit still, but at least she waits--confident that He is coming soon. Any time now, they'll be reunited.

And when Christ has waited as long as He can for the church, at last He will come for her, right where she waits, so ready to leave this station. He will smile the most beautiful smile and open His arms wide, triumphantly, to greet her. Any time now, it will all be worth the wait.

Marital Bliss and a Library Trip

I've been married now for three weeks and three days, and it's mostly just what I thought married life would be. Granted, people say the whole magical aura is supposed to fade gently (or not so gently) with time, and clearly time isn't really our marriage's strong point at this juncture, so I have no substantial argument as to why I think we are bound for "happily ever after." However, I have high hopes for the lifetime of happiness everyone so emphatically and repeatedly wished upon David and me the day of our wedding. In spite of hosts of well-wishes, most married people seem to expect that newlyweds are headed for some seriously surprising jolts by matrimony; I, for one, am convinced they are completely correct.

David and I waited in the chilly reception area of the chiropractor's office, seated in straight-backed chairs with the sort of padding and contours that ensure that, by the time the doctor sees you, back pain will be a resounding 'yes.' We had just finished discussing the lack in the English language for a feminine version of the word 'emasculating' when he informed me that he wanted to stop by Aldi on the way home since it wouldn't be out of the way. Now, empirically speaking, the nearest Aldi store was definitely not located "on the way" home. Not empirically speaking, Aldi is not out of the way if that's where your husband wants to go and he is driving (Wife Rule #1: Don't correct your husband's sense of direction, even if it is wrong, and especially if he knows it). I resigned to a trip to Aldi.

Soon we had steered east, taken a couple right turns, and arrived at The Library Center, which, while located on the same general side of town as Aldi, looks absolutely nothing like it once you get beyond the category of "buildings constructed after the turn of the 20th century." David grinned, "See, I said Aldi was on the way home. Now it is!" Now, empirically speaking, making twice as many stops on a detour doesn't suddenly negate the 'detour' factor of that route. Not empirically speaking, a second stop out of the way doubles the purpose of taking that purposeless route (Wife rule #2: Don't correct your husband's math, even if he thinks that 0 x 2 = 2). I was increasingly glad I had no particularly serious reason to be home soon.

Walking past small knick-knack stores, the Mudhouse coffee shop, and various other things I didn't expect to find inside a library, we approached the "check-out desk" that dwarfed most of the furniture in our house, combined. David smiled at the curly-haired girl behind one of the computers, "We need to get my wife a library card."

Suddenly heaven dawned. Of course, how had it not occurred to me that I had moved within the city limits of a town with a library?! I had lived out of city limits (where library access costs $60/year) for so many years of my life that it hadn't even creeped across the stage of my mind that now, wonderfully, buildings full of books were at my full disposal. 'Giddy' would scarcely describe how I felt, but fortunately there were several aisles of references books available to relieve my quandary. One of them would surely house a thesaurus where dozens of similar words would tell me exactly how to describe my excitement, likely advising me that 'giddy' is really the best descriptor, though 'reeling' is a close second.

"Does it cost anything?" I asked David as we prepared to check-out with the nine books I had selected. I'm pretty sure he laughed at me. Apparently, introducing a bookworm to the library is a bit like taking a shopaholic to the Mall of America for the first time, except cheaper. David seemed rather amused at my inordinate excitement over library access and perhaps confused that I considered city residency the single greatest boon of married life. 

So everyone was right--married life is full of surprises. Great ones, in my opinion. The best part about it, though, is the part that I was aware of from the minute I said "yes" to David's proposal; the most awesome part of married life hasn't been one of those unexpected surprises along the way. It is the privilege of having someone to love who loves you and of getting to spend every day with the most amazing person you can imagine. City residency and library cards are wonderful, but really, the single greatest boon of married life is being with my husband.

Sitting in church today, I almost didn't turn to the Scripture reading for Pastor Rester's sermon--the passage was familiar enough I could repeat it by heart. "Let not your heart be troubled: ye believe in God, believe also in me. In my Father's house are many mansions: if it were not so, I would have told you. I go to prepare a place for you. And if I go and prepare a place for you, I will come again, and receive you unto myself; that where I am, there ye may be also." (John 14:1-3)

It is one of the most heart-warming promises, and we love to repeat these passages, these beacons from eternity. The mansions Jesus is preparing for us, the streets of gold and gates of pearl John saw in vision, the lion and lamb napping peacefully together in a country Isaiah depicts in perfect harmony--these glimpses of heaven are all throughout the Bible. Paul (often with sage insight in spite of not being married) assures us that, even with all we have been told of heaven, there are still surprises in store. He assures us that no earthly eye has seen, nor ear heard, all of the unimaginable things that await us in that land of utopian happiness. 

But the very best part of eternity isn't a surprise at all. No shocking, new revelation will give us the ultimate "what makes heaven, heaven." Jesus already told us the climax, the grandest dream come true: "I will come again and receive you to Myself; that where I am, there ye may be also." The most beautiful part of heaven and a new world is the privilege of having Someone to love who loves you the most...and getting to spend every day with the most amazing Person you can imagine.

The mansions will be wonderful, the scenery spectacular, residency in the most incredible city ever built...phenomenal. But no privilege--not even a library card--that comes with living in the New Jerusalem will ever, ever equal the pure ecstasy of finally spending eternity with Love.

"...and as the bridegroom rejoices over the bride, so shall your God rejoice over you." Isaiah 62:5

Under a Rock

"You don’t know what the Muppets are?! Have you been living under a rock?”

“P!NK, you know, like…‘Glitter in the Air?’ No?! Have you been living under a rock?”

“Jim Carrey, you know, from ‘Dumb and Dumber’…Oh, right, you’ve been living under a rock.”

“You know there’s this Family Guy episode where…Never mind, you wouldn’t—I forgot you live under a rock.”

Sometimes I hear that phrase about living “under a rock” several times in the same week. I find it amusing, and sometimes I just answer “No, I don’t know…I’ve been living under a rock. It's okay, you can call me an ingénue.” Then I smile while I wait for them to decide whether or not to ask what ingénue means.

It’s true, I still can’t quite remember what Muppets are, in spite of the fact that I’m sure at least three different astonished people have described them to me. I couldn’t name a single song by the Backstreet Boys, haven’t seen Grease, and never did get fractured fairytales since I’m not sure how Cinderella let her long hair down so some handsome prince (who was a frog before she kissed him and Princess Aurora) could climb up and bring her back her slipper, which the Seven Dwarves returned after it was found by Little Red Riding Hood…or whatever happened. Those stories never made it into our library of books or videos when I was growing up. If any of that suggests that I have been living under a rock, then yes, I guess I have.

Granted, I’ve picked up a lot more pop culture in the last few years—in fact, I’m pretty sure I could sing along with the radio at least once every half hour if you put it on scan. These days I’ve seen a lot more modern media than I even care to, but none of it has convinced me that I missed out on anything growing up “under a rock.” Occasionally I just wonder if kids today are aware that rock can actually reference a hard object found outdoors as well as a music genre…let alone know how to spell genre.

I don’t mean to criticize all the kids raised with all the knowledge that I freely admit is foreign to me; I fault them for nothing except perhaps faulting me for not knowing the same things they do. Really, I simply want to reassure concerned parents that their kids won’t necessarily grow up hating them for having raised them under a rock. In fact, they might even be grateful for it. I am.

See, my parents didn’t raise my brother and me watching Barney. We watched Janice’s Attic, where I learned what caused condensation, what a kimono was, and that if Jesus made even the elephants to be kind to each other then I could be more thoughtful too. We didn’t read Cinderella, but I still know the names of dozens of missionaries and great men and women—Mary Slessor, John Paton, David Livingstone, Josephine Cunnington Edwards, Moses, Narcissa Prentiss, F.A. Stahl,  Joseph, William Booth, Wycliffe, Roger Williams, Corrie Ten Boom, Uriah Smith, Eric B. Hare, Martin Luther, Esther, Daniel Boone, John Bunyan, Joan of Arc, the Wesley brothers, Ellen G. White, Abraham Lincoln, Adoniram Judson, Johann Sebastian Bach, and Jesus Christ—because I read their stories or listened to their dramatized biographies on Your Story Hour. We didn’t sing along with Britney Spears, but we did sing this song at church called “The Wise Man Built His House Upon the Rock.”

So when people ask me if I’ve been living “under a rock” I have to smile at the irony. My parents weren’t raising me to be living “under a rock;” they raised me to live on the Rock. Sure, they made plenty of mistakes and didn’t raise my brother and me in some blissfully picture-perfect family that could probably find its simile in some TV sitcom I’ve never seen, but I can’t regret for a minute the many things from which they sheltered me, all in an attempt to build the house of my character firmly on the Rock of Ages. Every positive aspect of my life I can trace back to the foundations laid in my upbringing, foundations that could have been built on the world’s shifting sand, but instead were painstakingly grounded by my parents on the unmoving Rock, the Cornerstone many builders are still rejecting (Acts 4:10-12).

If you’re a parent, I want to reassure you that building your children on the Rock is worth it; at least, I’m so grateful that my parents took the effort. If your parents raised you in such a way that you occasionally get asked if you’ve been living “under a rock,” I hope you smile and aren’t at all embarrassed by it. After all, someday—when the Rock cut out without hands returns to bring this world to an end—no one is going to ask you how many episodes of The Simpsons you missed out on growing up.

Living under a rock? No. Living on the Rock? I pray it will always be so.

The Way...sans maps or GPS

In general, I have a distinct aversion to using a GPS. The invention was possibly the summit of brilliance and annoyance all rolled into one fantastic and pricey package that offers the opportunity to get given incorrect directions in a voice that conveys less personality than the slam of my car door. Personally, I'd much rather just go the old fashioned way and use a map when necessary.

Bad directions aren't unique to using a GPS, however. In fact, there are times when I might prefer to capitulate to popular choice and use a GPS rather than attempt to follow people's directions. Case in point...

Scenario: Meeting a friend at the Battlefield Mall. Texting upon arrival.

Me: Hey, where are you?

Friend: The mall.

I shook my head and tried to quell the responses coming to mind.

Me: Yeah, you're also in Springfield, MO, but I could use something a bit more specific.

Friend: Macy's

In my experience, department stores like Macy’s on the mall have only slightly fewer entrances than the catacombs. There are dozens of departments, entrances in the mall, out of the mall, upstairs, downstairs.

Macy’s. Really?!

I finally got enough clues in the hunt to locate my friend, and by the time we were going to meet to leave I got a text asking where to pick me up. The golden opportunity to reply "outside the mall" fleetingly danced around in my brain, but I resisted the urge and answered, "Could you just pick me up on the east side at the north end by Hu Hot restaurant? I will be outside on the sidewalk."

Am I asking too much to request reasonable, detailed directions? Probably so. It’s probably why I can identify with Thomas’ question to Jesus in John 14. Right after one of Jesus’ most beautiful promises of going to prepare mansions, a place for each us, Thomas has to pipe up. Listen to the dialogue:

“And where I go you know, and the way you know,” Jesus tells the disciples.

“Thomas said to Him, ‘Lord, we do not know where You are going, and how can we know the way?’” 

“Jesus said to him, ‘I am the way, the truth, and the life. No one comes to the Father except through Me.’”

The sad part—I can just hear myself asking the same question Thomas did. I want to know exactly where we are going and how we are getting there; is that so unreasonable? Do you have a map, Lord? I’d really like to know the ETA…What about a GPS? I know you know the latitude and longitude coordinates, so just plug those in and I’ll be ready to go.

I can see Jesus smiling sadly. They missed it. He had been showing them The Way and telling them where He was going for three and a half years, ever since His initial command “Follow Me,” recorded in eleven different places throughout the Gospels.

You see, if there is one thing better than detailed directions, it’s having someone lead you directly to your destination. No worries about taking a wrong turn, confusing one exit for another, or accidently entering the wrong end of a mall’s department store. Just follow the one who knows the way already.

When Jesus asked anyone to follow Him, it wasn’t merely “Let’s go this way today and see what we can find to do.” It was a calling that went far deeper. As they followed Him literally and figuratively He was showing them The Way; they saw it each day, like a map written in the dust of Capernaum or Nazareth or Jerusalem, and so, as Christ’s ministry drew to a close, He knew they had seen where He was going…and they knew The Way. It was simple—all they had to do was keep following Him.

So long after the days of the Apostles, I have a little Thomas inside me persistently wanting further directions. Lord, don’t you know I could get lost if I don’t have step by step instructions? Where are you going, and what is the way? Maybe you, like me, find yourself demanding detailed directions from God for your life.

I can just see Jesus smiling sadly. You missed it. Where I go you know, and the way you know. Remember that I said to follow Me? Just follow the One Who knows the way already.

Remember Me

I pulled into a parking space at Springfield's botanical gardens Sabbath afternoon, and Daniel roared his motorcycle into a spot a couple spaces over. Since we had both driven into church that morning and were planning to attend the evening program, we decided to save the gas expense of a trip home and back again. The somewhat less gas efficient alternative to simply waiting at the church was my idea--spending the afternoon at an awesome park.

We wandered down the paths toward the lake which separated us from a couple in wedding attire being posed and photographed by two zealous photographers. The paths divided trees and carefully chosen plant life until they led into a clearing centered with a figure on a bench. At first glance I thought it was a woman watching the geese at the edge of the lake, but the plaque on the back of her bench revealed that it was a statue, a memorial to a lady I had never heard of before.

Photo Credit to M. Daniel W. Wilson

For a while we sat on the bench with her, took a few pictures, and moved on. Down the path was a spread of plants and flowers framing another bench with the inscription, "Sit Awhile With John and Mary." I was beginning to understand why the botanical gardens were also collectively referred to as the Memorial Park. It was an odd sight, all the life humming and growing around silent memorials to individuals who had passed away, all of them complete strangers to me.

The lesson I have been discussing for the last couple weeks with the youth class that I lead at church has been about the Lord's Supper, and somehow I found Christ's choice of words oddly striking--"This do in remembrance of Me." (Luke 22:19) Never was there a life of more significance than Jesus' life, and the same is true of His death, so it makes perfect sense that there should be a memorial to Him of equivalent significance. So I wondered how it was that He chose the memorial that He did...the observance of His final supper, from the foot washing before to the exact meal that followed.

It's not the typical memorial, to be sure. Lincoln has his memorial, Washington his monument, and Sojourner Truth has a statue to commemorate her as well. I've seen them all. Historically, even the Babylonian king, Nebuchadnezzar, chose a massive golden statue as a tribute to his achievements. When Jesus chose a memorial He might have had any kind of monument He wished; if He wanted a statue of Himself calming the waves, or a crucifix, a nativity scene--perhaps made of gold or marble or pearls--He could have commanded it to be. But instead He gave us something alive: an experience. It's an experience involving emblems of sacrifice, a living testimony to His undying love. Every time we observe the Lord's Supper we can experience His love and forgiveness in a new way, which is infinitely more moving than a statue and far more meaningful than a plaque, picture, or commemorative phrase.

"This do in remembrance of Me," Jesus said. And then He led His disciples from the upper room to a garden...If it had been the botanical gardens instead of Gethsemane perhaps there would be a bench under some trees inscribed with the Savior's plea, "Tarry ye here, and watch with me." (Matthew 26:38)

...For the rest of your life

In general, I must admit, I have a low opinion of facebook quizzes, surveys, and apps in general. This is not just because I no longer have time to do them but because they have such a tendency toward the utterly frivolous and irrelevant. Who seriously cares "Which Converse Color" you are, or if you are, in fact, a potato? Do any of us need to take a quiz to find out how old we are? Apparently there are too many people with an unlimited amount of time and curiosity, and so there will always be those who must try to determine who they were in a past life or what zombie they will become.

For all their downfalls, facebook quizzes, surveys, and apps do occasionally give one something of a more serious nature to think about. And when I say occasionally I mean very, extremely rarely. However, one of those rare occasions was a question that was on a facebook survey I was filling out.

Let me clarify. Actually, it was a question that was not on the survey I was filling out. The questions were basic and general, things such as "Where is the coldest place you've been," and "Which food describes you best," until I got to one that read: "Do you want to live for the rest of your life?" I chuckled...like I have an option. Then I noticed I'd missed the word "Where" on the above line at the other side of the page. "Where do you want to live for the rest of your life" was a much more understandable question, but it was the one I thought I read that stuck with me.

Is there some option other than living for the rest of our lives? The idea seems to have an inherent contradiction in terms. It seems there simply is no way to avoid living for the "rest" of our lives--not even a car accident or suicide can prevent us from being alive as long as we are alive.

I pondered the notion only briefly before I decided the question wasn't nonsense after all. As I thought quickly past the purely physical and literal approach to it, I suddenly sat back in my chair and turned to make a note on my bulletin board. Immediately I knew I would use it as an illustration in the future.

The thought that struck me so forcefully was how valid the necessary pretext of that question is--that it is possible to not live for the "rest of your life." I know it because I walk streets dotted with houses full of people living pseudo-lives, carrying out their existence more dead than alive. The quip "I hope life isn't a joke because I don't get it" is all too real to them.

This isn't a local concern, however; it's the chronic condition of the human race. If it wasn't, why would so many people chose suicide to end the charade? Why do we drive ourselves in the pursuit of anything and everything that offers to give us hope and meaning--to put "life" in our lives?

Before I turn this into an entire sermon, lecture, or thesis, I'll cut right to the point--the solution. It comes in the form of a Person. In Him, the Word, was life, and He came so that we might have life more abundantly--a life that is alive.

It should follow then that the degree in which we have Him and His word in us is the degree in which we will live...and I mean really live, in its truest sense. I love the way this author puts it:

"The Word of God contains our life insurance policy. To eat the flesh and drink the blood of the Son of God means to study the Word and to carry that Word into the life in obedience to all its precepts. Those who thus partake of the Son of God become partakers of the divine nature, one with Christ. They breathe a holy atmosphere, in which only the soul can truly live." (White, The Upward Look, pg. 78)

Did you catch that little qualifying word--truly? How much we truly live will be directly proportionate to the amount of "life" we choose to accept from the Word. There is a life that is not living, an existence that is not alive, but it doesn't have to be that way. There is another option, and it is found in Jesus.

So how about your life--do you feel 100% alive? Are there those days when you go through the motions, but you feel more mechanical than human? Has your life felt lacking in meaning, direction, purpose...and life?

Would you like to live for the rest of your life?