The Truck.

Today is my Dad's 60th Birthday.  There are lots of things I'd like to say about him, and so many stories I recount and remember.  I like to think of him in hat-back hot-dogging on a bot, or telling "stories from 'Nam" while smacking the dinner table, or swinging me in dance to "Rodeo" around the Sunday kitchen table...  But the story that gets retold the most, but one he knows the least of, was his best parenting moment ever... and one I will never forget.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

The day was coming to a close.  Hot summer night twinkled in with fireflies and crickets chirping.  The waves slowed down to a murmur of lapping peace against the shore.  Quiet and calm, hugs to mom in her nightgown, standing at the swinging white screen door.  Work tomorrow, dad was already at home, the end of another good lake day.

I threw my backpack and purse into the side of his new, white, heavy-duty Ford truck.  Tough and strong, it towered over me, surging with strength and energy in its size.  I felt proud, cool, as my sixteen year old self started the deep, throaty, hardy roar of the engine.

Pulling the side lever, I lurched it into gear, propped up high on the new leather seat.  Darkness surrounded me, just dim lights inside the row of cottages on the other side of the street.  Stillness, calm, nightfall at the lake.

Scrape!  

The long, drawn out scratching sound slid down the side of the truck.  Like shaving off metal, it razored through the side panel, ripping and denting the doorframe along the way.   Loud and dynamic, a scream breaking through silence.  Terror.  Destroying.

I scrambled to lurch the beast out of reverse.  What had I done?!

My mom came back outside, startled and wondering, walking out the same cottage-white doorframe as moments before.  "Are you okay?"  She slippered out towards me in robe and nightgown.

It was too dark to see the damage.  Just the haunting of sound to remember something had gone a-rye.  I stood there, terrified and perplexed.  "I don't know what happen!  I must have put it in reverse and not known there was a anything there!"

But there was something there. The culprit: a titanic telephone pole, straight and stiff, a silhouette of strength and stubbornness etched in the sky.

My soul sank, embarrassed and horrified, shocked and dismayed.  His brand new glossy truck completely clawed and dented down the whole side panel, tire to tire.  White paint turned gray metal. Pride turned pain.

Dreading the conversation and confession that was to come, I sunk into the drivers seat again and roared the engine, misery on my mind as I drove the truck home to Homerich.

I walked in the garage door. Swallowing hard, I found my humbled courage to walk into his office door.  It was the front room of the house, gray architect walls and maroon thick curtains, large black leather chair, two windows facing acres of manicured lawn.  He was working quietly, sitting at the large wood desk, plans and blueprints and 10-Key clicking away.

"Dad?"  I shyly squeezed the word out, standing at the end of his desk.

He had his black ink in hand, Wever Concrete logo on papers.

"Um, Dad..."  I gulped again, finding words to say.  "I wrecked your truck."

He looked up, relaxed and calm. "Are you okay?"

"Yes, but Dad, I wrecked your truck." I repeated, making sure he heard me.

"Okay. But are you okay?"  He looked up at me again, at ease and nonchalant about the whole confession.

"Yes, but I scrapped the whole thing down the side.  I hit a telephone pole.  It's pretty bad." I waited for him to respond with something more dramatic.  "I parked it in the barn."

"But your okay?" He lifted his brows and shrugged my way.

"Yes."

"Okay.  Thanks for telling me.  I'll go check it out in a bit."

And that was it.

It was nearly 10:30 at night, darkness filled the sky and I was in the midst of one of the overt mistakes of my life.  I felt horrible!  Yet watching and hearing my dads response changed and magnified his character in my mind that night.

I crept up the stairs and got dressed for bed, listening keenly for his footsteps, or his reaction, or his worry.  Nothing.  He was unfazed.  Just kept working away in the office as if nothing had happened at all.  Just caring about me, and making sure I was okay.

I laid awake in the twilight, my peach bedroom turned black with night, my attention fully awake, waiting still for his response.

A full half hour passed before I heard the sound of the backdoor open, him making way to the brick barn to survey my damage.  The darkness of my room felt sharply still, pensive to his observation.

He came back in a few minutes later.  I waited for him to approach my door and deliver his thoughts or what I owed or some sort of reaction.

Nothing.  I never heard another thing about it.  He simply walked up the stairs and crawled into his bed and the next day started like all the rest.  That was it.

That was it: clear love for me and care with concern for my heart and well-being and safety.

The treasures of this world will pass away, the things we own or care for will someday ruin or be wrecked along a telephone pole.  But this relationship that night changed forever, as I saw a character and love for me in my dad that I could never rationalize, but have been enamored and awed by ever since.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Happy 60th Birthday to the man who keeps driving trucks and Cadillacs and Corvettes and quads all in perspective.  Love you Dad.

♡ Christina Jill

Jericho: Day Six.

Six times.  Once per day.  Circle the city.  In silence.

Simple instructions.  Clear Commands.

But to a people of wandering, one has to wonder, and compare, what their voices murmured, their hearts questioned, and their confidence felt.

These are The People.  The Israelites.  The chosen nation of God.  Holy and devoted to him.  The same people who witnessed the plagues, dripped blood over doors, and crossed the Red Sea.  The same people who saw the Egyptian army drowned, ate quail and manna from heaven, and drank water from a rock.  The same people who saw Moses go up onto Mt. Sinai, were guided by the cloud and fire, and walked the Jordan on dry sand.

Their also the same people who wished to go back into slavery from exile, who grumbled for better provisions, who danced before the golden calf.

These are the children of that nation, the second generation of the Red Sea, the firstborn hearers of the oral stories, the tales of the true and old.

Their leaders have courage, strength and soul-worthy. Of the twelve, these two names forever known.  Joshua and Caleb, they directed them.  A people freshly crossed into Promised Land.

The land was theirs, the city too.  Already given, handed, conquered.  Before they strapped their sandals to walk.

"See, I have given Jericho into your hand, with its king and mighty men of color.  You shall march around the city..." [said the Lord] (Joshua 6:2)  {Notice the past tense: given - already sealed and done! And present tense: shall march - the promise was granted before the obedience!}

And here is where I stop to pause.  The story is common, told and retold.  But the message to me new, afresh.

Six times.  Six times they had to just show up.  To see Day Seven.  To view the promise.  To gain the reward.

But then I know them, I read their Torah stories, and know them in my heart.  Its hot.  Its dry.  They're hungry, they're tired.  The'yre living in tents, they're dirty, they're probably hungry.  Their children are crying, they're sick of wandering, and now this silly stunt.

I hear their grumbles, I see their rolling eye.  I feel my shoulder shrug,  I bicker in my soul.

So much of me is like them.  I know it in my soul.  Like them, I don't want to get up.  I don't want to get more dusty, more dirty.  I don't want to show up on Day Four... Five... Six.

They hear the sounds of taunting, angry people of Jericho, yelling from walls.  They listen to the striking of iron, the clanging of armor, the men inside preparing for battle. They hear the frantic hustle of women, gathering gusto for war.  They cringe at screams from children, huddled careful underneath cloaks.  They know these are the giants, mirrored Goliath-men daunting the bravest men.  Israelites feeble and frightened, questioning if fool to be marching around Jericho again.  Day Six.

They have seen miracle after marvel after milestone.  And yet...  They're the same people who wallow their weakness, who want to sit under the shade tree, who have yet to fully trust God to do Day Seven what he said he would do.

And I wonder if I would show up with my sandals on that Day Six.  Strapped and ready, trusting God in walking, in waiting, and in silence.

But only from couraging and committing to Day Six, does one get to partake in the glory of Day Seven.

Standing, marching, dirty with calloused feet.  The people start the dusty trod.  Then Joshua exclaims, "Shout!  For the Lord has given you the city!" (Joshua 6:16).

The screaming starts.  The people utterly belch out every part of their depth, yelling and trumpets and wailing in obedience, aimed at the thick city wall.  Then...

Crack...

To hear the first crackle, the first splitting rock, the first fissure in the stone!

I want to be there when Jericho falls.  I want to watch the first quake, see the first crash, and feel the first sandstone tumble, before the rupture and ruin take place.

But I only get to be part of Day Seven, if I show up for Days One, Two Three, Four, Five, and Six.  I only get to grasp the greatness of glory, if I do the hard walk of waiting in the preparation days.

I want to be there on Day Seven.  I want to see the greatness of God displayed!  I want watch the rubble so the name of God is praised.  Dear Lord, let me trust in your granted promises, with strength, courage and endurance to show up on Day Six.

Tunnel Not Tomb.

Beth Moore called it her "Season of Defeat."  This season when struggle seems more common than smiling, and striving never ceases to sabbath.  So much of my courage is swallowed up or suffocating, and living is squandered by surviving.  

For me, this Season of Defeat is overrun and overruled by medical appointments and disruptions.  Somedays, I honestly just can't make one more medical phone call or specialist visit or physical therapy appointment or ear check haul.  I have lists of medical analysis and prescriptions to try or surgery details.  Its like an ongoing cavern, deeper and deeper into a mountain of dark, questions or visits just guiding downward to more phone calls and more physicians.  The ceaseless medical need for Judah and me has whacked and confused and used so much time and energy that the whirlwind and debris is dehabilitating.  And has turned me crazy and angry, and defeated.

This season is saying No.  No. No. No.  No to almost everything, to say yes to something, but the No's bring so much hardship too.  No to Community Group, which in essence sometimes feels like No to belonging or friends or prayer buddies.  No to Women's teaching/study, which means No to using my gifts and callings and refreshment.  No to coffee with friends, no to complete sentences of conversation, no deeper friendship.  No to more preschool, no to the YMCA, no to fitting in.  No to space for breathing, listening, thinking.  There are "yes's", of course, like to home at night and being available for these little people, but it is mostly a time of lots of hard No.

So much is dusted by defeat.  Dinners are haphazard.  A desire for a schedule far from the dream.  And toys and dirty dishes overwhelm me.

I woke this morning with the day already overwhelming me with defeat.  Maria Goff calls it the opening of the Stock Market, when the kids start swarming and squealing for their needs of the day.  And its just how I feel. I know all my "thank-you's" and "blessings" and list after list of good things,  but somehow often all the chaos clouds my perspective and I feel instead, all of life frustrating and endless, with constant yanking on my time or energy or words or limbs.  

It makes me frazzled and frantic and soul depleted and dead, this Season of Defeat.  But as I rumpled out of bed in the darkness towards the little people, God spoke to me in the darkness about the difference between a tunnel and a tomb.

A tunnel is dark for a season, damp and yucky and miry.   So much pushing and stumbling and sadness and saying "No" can make it feel even longer or more lonely and more confined...

But a tomb is all those things, but with defeat stamped forever.  All the despair, all the doubt, all the dark.  Done.  

Yet a tunnel has hope and grace and mercy pouring somewhere on the other end.  Even if I cannot see it.  Even if the days loom so long and lonely and frustrating and exhausting ahead.  A tunnel has an end.  Has light.  Has life.

Dear Jesus, you speak to me through this hope, through offering life and light, and through holding my hand and calling me still, because this season of defeat is a tunnel, not a tomb.