Kathy Kexel

I thoroughly enjoyed working at the radio station; it was perhaps one of my favorite jobs. Although I was re wording my show for later broadcasts, for me, the microphone was almost an actual person. Oh, sure, most of the spots were just introducing songs, reading sponsorships, or giving weather reports, but a couple times per hour, I could share my heart and my faith in Christ.

Then, there were the 20+ mile commutes back home in the wee hours of the morning. Sometimes, they were terrifying — when the snow was piled high, the lane markets invisible and wildly whipping winds obscuring the patches of ice beneath my tires. Sometimes, they were just routine. But, oh, sometimes…sometimes… Those were the nights I still miss and this was one such night…

August 2016

What a glorious night, or rather early morning, to be out!  On the road, the sky stretches from horizon to horizon, illuminated by a brilliant full moon that shames the stars into hiding.  Patchy fog hangs in shallow, ragged veils just inches above the dark mystery of the green corn.  The light of the moon turns the earth-bound clouds into filmy, white puffs of cotton candy that swirl across the landscape.

Highway 10 is bordered on both sides by numerous ponds that have disguised the gravel borrow pits that were dug when the new road was constructed.  Their waters shimmer in the lunar glow, still, dark, and serene.  The mists crowd their edges but do not cross over and lend apparent substance to the moonpaths reflected in their inky mirrors.  They remind me of the meres of Middle Earth, or the pools of the Gateway between Worlds.  On such a night, who knows what might emerge from their depths to mount the shimmering trail across the fields.

With windows open, the mild night air imparts a chill through the moisture it carries.  Occasionally a wisp of fog dances across the highway ethereal and translucent.  But in other places, it thickens, congeals, caught in the driver’s headlights and obscuring one’s vision.  On such a night, who knows where one might be when she emerges from the mist…just a little further down the road…or perhaps Middle Earth or Elsinore or Narnia.  Ah…the prosaic rules this night…and the road continues on, as do the fleeting nighttime hours.  Home and a bed are calling and eventually the road, that as Tolkien says, “goes ever, ever on,” turns into a homely driveway and to a broad night sky tamed by the border of rooftops.

Saved?

I was 20 years old when I got “saved.” I am now 70 years old. I put “saved” in quotes because I was raised in the church, was a pious child, and made a public profession of faith when I was ten. So when exactly was I saved? As a toddler at my mother’s knee? At age ten? Twenty? Or when I was baptized a second time at age 50?

Most Evangelicals would say at age 20, when I made the adult decision to follow Jesus. I described that event in a previous blog. The short version of that is: A fellow college student asked me who I thought Jesus Christ is. I gave an answer straight out of the catechism. The man who was with her then asked me if my knowledge made a difference in my life, and when I responded in the negative, asked if I wanted it to. I did.

Why did I respond as I did to that question? Several reasons. I suppose the most important was that the Holy Spirit was working on me. Another was that the previous year, due to emotional turmoil, I had nearly flunked out of college. After revealing a long held dark secret to a counselor and a little bit (very little bit) follow-up counseling, I was on a much more even keel, but I was also rather empty inside. So having a foundation I could rely on was appealing. And third, truth. See, while I may have walked away from church and may even have played with calling myself an atheist, I never really stopped believing the foundational reality of Jehovah God, Jesus Christ, and the Holy Spirit.

My thoughts , as well as I can articulate them, ran like this: if what I said about the identity of Jesus as the Son of God, fully human and fully divine, whether I believe it or not, is true, then to deny the truth is to deny reality. And truth matters. You have to understand that in 1973 on a state university campus, that except for the math and sciences departments, the underlying philosophy being taught was that truth is relative. I did not accept that philosophy. See, even the most liberal of professors (my sociology professor comes immediately to mind) propounding the most blatant assertion of the shifting nature of truth, still would flunk a student for plagiarizing a paper or cheating on her test. Whether she said so or not, in practice she still held to certain absolute principles, as did they all.

So truth was important to me and if the gospel was true, then I ignored it at my peril. So how has that played out for me in the intervening half century? In the early years after my “conversion,” I attended a number of different churches: Roman Catholic, Lutheran, a house church, Baptist, Assembly of God, Christian Reformed, Evangelical Free, Methodist, and an independent Bible church. Plus, I attended every InterVarsity Christian Fellowship convention I could afford and read dozens of books on theology. Some of those church experiences were good; some bad (one, very bad); some confusing.

See, I knew what I had been taught in twelve years of parochial school education, but I was finding contradictions between what I was reading in the Bible and what I had learned in school. I also found contradictions between what was being preached in some of the churches I attended and what I was reading in the Bible. I wanted to know what I believed and why I believed it. (Two books from that era, Paul Little’s “Know What You Believe,” and “Know Why You Believe” were helpful) So eventually I came to a certain synthesis. I recognized three levels of doctrine and practice. The first, or core, was the truth a person must believe to be a Christian. One can find those encapsulated in the Athanasian, Nicene, and Apostle’s Creeds. Deny any of those points, i.e., the absolute sovereignty of God as Creator, the divine and human natures of Jesus Christ, the virgin birth, Jesus’ perfect life, atoning death, resurrection, return, and the existence and power of the Holy Spirit, and one is not a Christian.

The secondary level of doctrine and practice are those beliefs I did not consider absolutely necessary to salvation, although proponents of each may believe so. Things such as infant baptism vs. believers baptism; or transsubtantiaton vs, consubstantiation vs. Communion as a commemoration. Church fellowship for those who hold differing positions on such topics would be difficult, to say the least.

On a tertiary level were things that had no bearing whatsoever on a person’s salvation but merely contributed to the comfort of worshiping within a group. Things such as instrumental music vs. choral music only; contemporary songs and choruses vs. hymns; chairs vs. pews, wine vs. grape juice, the color of the carpet, etc.

Of the various churches I attended seeking a spiritual home, I found that all held to those core doctrines but differed wildly on the secondary and tertiary levels. While still living at home, I finally settled into an Evangelical Free church. Moving to a different city, I found a Methodist church and other Methodist churches on my second and third moves. Conflicts on the tertiary (and personal) levels found me settling into my current church, an independent, Charismatic Evangelical church for the past 29 years.

So that’s where I am today…still a square peg in a round hole. The core doctrines are rock solid. I waffle a bit on the secondary and tertiary levels, but not to the point of finding fellowship impossible. But here’s where I get uncomfortable. Remember how when I wrote, about 800 words ago, that the third reason I gave for surrendering to Christ was that truth mattered? I am not in any way saying my current church denies or denigrates the truth of the gospel. Indeed not! What I am addressing is the analysis I applied to making my decision. It was almost purely intellectual. If the gospel is true, then I must believe it and obey it. Period. Full stop. And that has been my approach to my faith for half a century.

No. I am not a cessationist. I believe God is the same yesterday, today, and tomorrow. If the Holy Spirit directed the gospel and epistle writers to enumerate certain gifts, fruits, blessings, and offices, those things, all of them, are just as valid today as they were when first written. It’s just that I am spiritually tone deaf. I used to joke with my former pastor that I was our church’s token non-Charismatic. He got it. No one else does. So, no. I don’t speak in tongues. I don’t “hear” from God. (The one possible exception may be what happened when I was four years old, but I’m not certain even about that) I don’t have visions. I don’t “feel” the presence of the Holy Spirit. I second guess everything.

In other words, my faith is not based on my experiences. And that’s where the trouble begins. The internet. What an incredibly valuable means of spreading the good news of Jesus Christ! On Facebook and YouTube and other social media platforms, the gospel is being preached daily around the entire world. What a blessing! But there are other messages as well. Certain preachers say “you ought to be experiencing this,” or “you ought to be doing that,” with the sometimes stated and sometimes unstated implication that if one is not, one might not be saved. Heard often enough, even someone who has followed Jesus for a half century, can begin to doubt. Andrew Peterson put it so well in his song, “The Silence of God.” (also covered by Michael Card). “It can make a man crazy…”

So for those, who may be like me, who have lived long with the silence of God, I have a message of hope. My former pastor once said to me, “I have to wonder if God has a special blessing in heaven for those who simply believe Him at His word but don’t have tangible experiences to lean on for proof?” The hope I have to offer comes from the mouth of Jesus Himself, “If you believe in your heart and proclaim with your mouth that Jesus is Lord, you shall be saved.”  It’s just that simple.

I am clumsy. Always have been. No, that is not negative self talk. How else does one explain a broken ankle, broken wrist, broken toes and a fractured kneecap, along with multiple sprains, in childhood? Today is Thanksgiving. There is just Mike, my brother, and I, but there was still a feast to prepare. If I stand too long, the pain in my arthritic knees radiates up to my back and hips so I have a rolling stool in the kitchen to ease the strain of meal preparation. As I was bending to retrieve the roasting pan from the lower cupboard, the stool slipped out from under me. I landed, hard, on my backside. Flat on my back I waited for the air to return to my lungs. It would be hours before Mike showed up for dinner. The phones were in other rooms and I was alone. I remember, long ago, of laughing at the cheesy, “Help! I’ve fallen and can’t get up” commercials. It’s not so funny when one is on the floor.

I had only two options: lie on the floor until Mike came or get up. Flat on my back I contemplated a sit-up. Heck. I couldn’t even do those in high school gym class. So after four or five minutes, I rolled over and got up on my hands and knees. My arthritic knees screamed in pain. I collapsed flat once more. All I had breath for was a whisper, “Help me. Help me, Jesus.” I tried again. Same result. I could reach my cane and with it I was able to pull my stool towards me. With my elbows on the stool, I could roll to the sink, and with that solid support, make it to my feet. Thank you, Jesus.

Good. I could make our dinner with no more surprises. The turkey roasted, the sides baked, The gravy simmered. I was just about to set the table when I heard the back door open. “Miks, dinner will be ready in half an hour,” I called.

Surprise. It wasn’t Mike who answered, but our friend Don. He had a successful deer hunt and brought me a small venison roast. (Christmas dinner!) He also checked out the leak that had disabled my car, declared that it was oil, and surmised the nut on the oil pan had worked loose. That would be a much more affordable repair than the new radiator I was fearing. But I was a hot mess. My house was, and is, a hot mess. Don is the kind of friend who takes no notice. A person needs friends like that.

So Thanksgiving feast prepared and shared with “Little Brother.” A turkey sandwich and pumpkin pie for supper. Dishes in the sink can wait until tomorrow. All’s well. Except. The muscles and joints that impacted the floor have had time to stiffen up and I fear tomorrow they will only be worse.

So. What’s the message for today? To give thanks, yes. That’s the obvious, the cliché reason. Or is the message that even on a holiday, a time of celebration, a time to be joyful, there is still struggle? Having fallen, to lie helpless and give up? Or to fight through the weakness and pain to get back up, to carry on, to do what needs to be done? This day seems a microcosm of life: some struggle, some joy, A little help from one’s friends – and a whole lot of grace from Jesus.

I have not been asked to give my testimony in a long time. But old as I am, 70, I sometimes think I have something to say to teenagers of today.  Not that I will likely ever be asked to address a group of teens. And this document will likely never see the light of day.

People like testimonies that are filled with drama – the regenerate turning to Jesus Christ for salvation. Or the testimonies of famous people – media stars, athletes, politicians. I am none of those. Just an old maid who has lived what most would consider to be a boring life. I am a “Boomer” one of the generation today’s Gen X, Millennials, and Gen Z consider to be the cause of all the world’s troubles. I haven’t been on the mission field. I haven’t got a podcast – although I do have a blog – with five followers. I am just one of those “unimportant” persons in a small town in the middle of flyover country and with the exception of a brief jaunt into Canada, who has never been out of the Midwest. As a teen, I never did drugs, never drank alcohol, rarely went to parties. From high school through college it was school, work (got my first job at thirteen) and family responsibilities.

So. There’s the background. Here’s the story.

I was raised in the Church. Twelve years of Christian education. But even before that, my mother recorded in my baby book that I was saying the Lord’s Prayer on my own at age 2 -1/2. I was the pious kid who had questions for my teachers at an age when they weren’t expecting them. Questions such as, “If God knows what we will do or say before we do or say it, how can we have free will?” That was in second grade. My mom got a call from my teacher that evening.

I wasn’t popular in those schools, and for those who think bullying is a phenomenon found only in public schools – they are wrong. It wasn’t just my classmates. The good roles in the assemblies, the essays on the gold star board, the ones to run errands – all went to the pretty girls, the popular girls. I learned to keep my head down and my mouth shut – most of the time.

But I learned all about God. I learned all about His chosen people. I learned about Jesus. I learned about the Holy Spirit. God was omniscient, omnipotent, omnipresent. He was a God of answered prayers and miracles – even to this very day. At the age of ten, I made a solemn vow in front of my teachers, classmates, and family to follow Jesus Christ and reject the devil and all his works.

Yet as I learned all about who God was and is and what He has done and continues to do, I began to have doubts. Things happened. Things that I was told weren’t supposed to happen to God’s faithful children. My father became disabled, then developed bi-polar disorder and we were plunged into poverty. When I started high school, my father turned over the responsibility of balancing the family checkbook, filling out state and federal tax forms, and riding shotgun when we traveled after he instructed me on what to do if he had a heart attack at the wheel. My younger brother was developmentally disabled and I was frequently given the responsibility of looking after him. I became the unpaid babysitter for my nieces and nephews. My middle brother and his wife lost their infant daughter. Being clumsy, I broke several bones and developed juvenile arthritis. I had severe dysmenorrhea. I required surgery to remove an eighteen pound ovarian tumor. I was sexually assaulted…and all before I was a teenager.

In all this I had questions. “Where are You, God?” “Why won’t You answer my prayers?” After all, I had been taught daily, for years, that God was in the business of answering prayers. In the pain, in the silence, I came to the conclusion that God played favorites – and I was not one of His favorites. Entering my teens, the doubts only grew, and upon high school graduation, at the age of seventeen, I walked away from church, away from God. My mother cried when I said I would no longer be attending church. My father simply said it was my decision and I was old enough to make it.

But God.

There is a name for God young people may never have heard. It was used by poets of old. He is called, “The Hound of Heaven.” Remember that solemn vow I made when I was ten? When a person takes an oath before God, the person may forget or may recant the vow. God never forgets. Like a police dog that is unleashed and told, “search,” God is on the scent and He never gives up.

Junior year in college. Midterms. The University of Wisconsin-Parkside was still under construction and the only place to get a cup of coffee was the snack bar. Ten, maybe a dozen tables, each with four chairs. I got there early, but the place was soon packed. I claimed my territory by spreading my text books and notebooks across the entire table and proceeded to cram for the upcoming tests. Nose in my studies, I didn’t even notice them at first, until he spoke. A guy and a girl, each balancing a cup of coffee and a bagel stood over me.

“Excuse us,” he said. “There are no other chairs available. Would it be okay if we sat with you?”

I wasn’t pleased. But I was trained to be polite – mostly. “Fine,” said, piling up my books. “But I have studying to do, so don’t bother me.” (Well, I did say mostly polite)

They took their seats and after a few minutes, the whispering began. The guy poked the girl with his elbow, “You ask her.”

The girl poked him back, “No. You ask her.”

Back and forth the whispering went at least a half-dozen times. Finally, I closed my book with a slam and demanded, “What!”

The girl said, “Who do you say Jesus Christ is?”

I answered. “Jesus Christ is the Son of God, second person of the Trinity, fully human and fully divine. Now leave me alone”

There was silence. One beat. Two. Three…ten. Then the guy asked, “And what difference has that knowledge made in your life?”

“None.” I thought the conversation was done. I mean, that’s how one gets rid of Jesus people, right? Give them an answer they don’t expect.

Then he asked, “Would you like it to?”

And that’s when, like Jericho, the walls came tumbling down. I packed up my books and we found a quiet corner on campus where we prayed. Not that I didn’t still have doubts. When I was preparing for bed that night I asked myself, “What have I gotten myself into?” But I consoled myself with the thought that it was a large campus and I wasn’t likely to ever see the pair of them again, so no sweat. However, the very next evening there was a knock on my front door. The girl, Sue, had driven up from Kenosha to bring me to a Bible study at her home. And that’s how I became involved in InterVarsity Christian Fellowship, even becoming an officer of the club the next year.

That all happened fifty years ago this month. Fifty years. Half a century. So, after fifty years, do I have it all together? Nope. It has been fifty years during which I lost my parents, three older siblings, and two nephews. It has been fifty years in which I have become the guardian for my developmentally disabled younger brother and my developmentally disabled uncle. It has been fifty years of great jobs, good jobs, terrible jobs and job loss. Half of those fifty years have been spent below the federal poverty level. It has been fifty years of arthritis, fibromyalgia, recurring ovarian cancer, and clinical depression.

So what can I say after fifty years of not having it all together? Simply this. God is good. All the time. 

What makes me think I have anything of value to say to teens?

Two weeks ago, I got a “nudge” to write this. I resisted at first, but eventually gave in. Even as I typed I was asking myself, “What am I supposed to do with this?” Thus the sentence, “this document will likely never see the light of day.”

I’ve been reading a number of articles over the last few years of how teens and college students raised in Christian homes are abandoning the faith. And I thought I could articulate a possible reason: unanswered prayer.

I have seen this in several families I know. Their parents, my age or younger, were enthusiastic members of Evangelical churches that preached a form of Christian triumphalism. “God answers prayers, God had a plan to prosper you, all things work together for good, God won’t give you anything more than you can handle” etc. And as a six-seven-eight year old, those kids joyfully believed. But then difficulties happened: bullying, injuries, illnesses, financial setbacks…either to themselves or people they cared about. Their reality just didn’t match what they had heard about God, so they came to a crossroads: either their reality wasn’t real or God wasn’t real (or if He was real, He just didn’t care). That was the conclusion I had come to.

So. I wish I could tell them Jesus said, “In this world, you will have trouble,” and that means more than just a bad acne outbreak. I want to tell them, you most likely will not understand why those troubles have come your way. You may not feel capable of dealing with them. The pain is just too much. The silence of God is just too deafening.

But.

That’s okay. You don’t have to feel “happy, happy, joy, joy.” If you weep, Jesus weeps with you. If you are in pain, physical, psychological, or spiritual, Jesus has felt that pain. If you are weak, He is strong. His love for you never fails. Even if you fail, even if you turn away, He will be waiting for you. You may or may not have some sort of tangible manifestation of His presence, but He is with you and will always be with you and that is a foundation upon which you can build your life.

Since my retirement in 2016, I don’t drive as much as I used to. My 2012 vehicle has fewer than 66,000 miles on it. At this rate, given that modern cars can reach 200,000 miles, the RAV should be good to go for another 20 years.

Unless.

Early this Spring, I called my mechanic to make an appointment for an oil change. Unfortunately, they were booked into the following month and I needed to make my annual trek north before then. So I put it off. And off. A few weeks ago, the “maintenance required” light began flashing when I started the engine. I had been told in the past that this particular light is no cause for alarm. So, telling myself each Saturday when the garage was closed, that I needed to make an appointment in the upcoming week, the weeks passed with me failing to do so.

Then, this afternoon, a more alarming light showed up on the dashboard – “check engine.” This, I know is a serious light to which attention must be paid. I checked my phone. The mechanic’s garage would be closing in fifteen minutes, but I called. The receptionist at Braun’s is very knowledgeable. She asked pertinent questions about the appearance of the various trouble lights, the driveablility  of the car, whether or not I smelled anything burning, etc. She looked up the vehicle’s maintenance record and told me it had been two years since I last had the oil changed. Two years! I couldn’t believe it. Surely it hadn’t been that long, had it? But it must be so. She put me on hold while she spoke to the owner then came back to tell me I could bring the car in tomorrow morning and they would check the oil and fluid levels just to make sure I could continue to drive the car. A full tune-up was scheduled for two weeks out, since the owner’s manual recommended routine maintenance at 50,000 miles and I had not taken care of that.

Routine maintenance.

It’s so easy to let it slide. Our spiritual lives require routine maintenance just as much as our vehicles. Church attendance, Bible study, prayer – all elements of the routine maintenance for the healthy operation of a Christian. Like regular stops at the gas station, I’m not doing too bad at church attendance. Plus, I am there most weeks to put together the lessons for Children’s church. Bible study? I have a “through the Bible in a year” plan going and I’m actually up to date on it. It’s not intense study, but I am getting the word on a daily basis. Prayer? Well…I could definitely do better there. So, for this year at least, not too bad. But I must confess there have been stretches, sometimes whole years when at least one of those spiritual maintenance issues have been neglected.

So. Starting tomorrow, I resolve to be more diligent in tracking the routine maintenance for my car. Starting tomorrow, I resolve to be more diligent in those areas of routine spiritual maintenance where I am lacking.

What about you?

            I’m a sometime quilter. By that, I mean while I have made since the age of seventeen more than forty quilts of all different sizes and complexity, I can go years between projects. I could say I come by quilting naturally. Both my paternal grandmother Emma and my maternal grandmother Mary were quilters. But while Emma’s quilts were works of art, Mary’s quilts were strictly utilitarian. My quilts take after Grandma Mary.

            I’m working on a quilt now – a wedding present for my nephew. To begin the quilt, I turned to my fabric stash of flannel. There’s enough material there for several quilt tops. I was astonished to find a number of half-finished blocks that I do not remember making. Three inch squares, six inch squares, strings of various widths stitched together into long stripes. But while there was plenty of whole cloth and pieces, somehow the colors of the bits and pieces weren’t working for me. So off to the quilt shop to find some fabric to bind the disparate parts together. Quilting, or rather at this point, piecing in summer is not the best idea, but we’ve been having a stretch of cool rainy weather, so the work has been a pleasant pastime.

            Until.

            Two thirds of the top is pieced and pinned. I had not initially cut enough squares, so I set it aside to cut and assemble the component blocks. As I said, like my Grandma Mary, this is a utilitarian quilt – four-patch blocks of three inch squares alternating with six inch squares. Piecing was coming along quite well. So I began assembling the sub-blocks without referencing the two-thirds that was finished. Big mistake. I put the wrong corners together. The four patch blocks alternate light and dark squares with a dark square in the upper left hand corner. The blocks I just completed have a light square in the upper left hand corner. Oops. Time to let ‘er rip.

            Any seamstress (although I understand that now the politically acceptable term is sewist) is familiar with perhaps one of the most valuable tools in her kit – the seam ripper. (I wonder what sewists and tailors used before this marvelous invention – a straight pin or needle, perhaps) But. I’m working with flannel, I’ve been using a fairly small stitch setting, and I’ve lock-stitched the ends of each block. What this means is that due to the nap of the flannel, the stitches tend to bury themselves in the fabric, the short stitch length, while strong and durable means each stitch is smaller than the  point of the seam ripper, and the lockstitch or backstitch at the end of each block is trebly hard to get at. Add to that, ripping seams requires both visual acuity and manual dexterity – two things that, as I approach my 70^th birthday have diminished. All that said to say – it’s a dang hard and slow process.

            There’s an old proverb, “marry in haste, repent at leisure.” What it means is that going into a project or making a decision hastily can lead to regret later on. In my case what it means is proceeding overconfidently without checking the reference piece means hours of carefully unpicking every single cotton-picking stitch, taking care not to damage the material of the blocks.

            We do that in life, too, don’t we? We think we have the process down pat, the knowledge and wisdom necessary, all the required tools, and forge ahead. Maybe it’s because we’ve walked this particular path before. Maybe it’s because we’ve received bad advice. Or maybe it’s because we are so focused on the goal we desire we don’t bother to read the reference manual. What reference manual? We do have one. It’s called the Bible.  No, the Bible will not tell me to double check that the dark square is in the upper left corner of each quilt block. But it will tell me how to have an intimate relationship with the God who created me. “Love the Lord your God with all your heart and all your soul and all your mind and all your strength. And love your neighbor as yourself.” Beyond those basics, the book of Proverbs is filled with practical advice warning about hanging out in bad company, going into debt, living a selfish life, and so on and so on and so on. Violate these basic principles and at some point down the road, we will have to rip out the stitches. And let me tell ya, ripping out the stitches takes a whole lot more time than sewing the correct seam in the first place.

           

                Susannah Sparrow hatched one fine spring day in a nest high in the branches of a dogwood tree. Sparrows grow up quickly and in just a few weeks she was flying from branch to branch. Over the course of the summer, autumn and winter, she learned to scratch for millet and barley seed on the ground and catch insects on the wing. As winter gave way to spring again, Susannah was ready to build a nest of her own…in the same tall dogwood tree.

                Early one morning her tree began to shake. Susannah fluttered up to the topmost branch and looked down. Men! Men with axes! And they were chopping down her tree. Susannah flew to the next dogwood tree but soon that too, began to shake as more men hacked at the trunk. Then the next tree…and the next…and the next. Susannah now had nowhere to perch.

                Susannah took to the air. She circled over the grove of trees she had called home. Men were everywhere, swinging axes, shouting and laughing. Susannah would need a new home. She flew up from the plain over the hill and could see ahead of her the gleaming golden roof of the temple, surrounded by buildings of all sizes and enclosed within a high stone wall. A city of men. On a hillside above the city a grove of ancient olive trees shaded the land. Men would never cut down those trees, Susannah thought. She winged her way towards it. Then she heard a shriek high above her. A hawk! And it was diving for her. Susannah flew as fast as she could, dipping and weaving, away from the hawk and away from the olive grove with the hawk pursuing her. Finally she topped the high city walls and came to rest on a ledge shielded from the hawk above. She was safe. She was also tired, hungry and thirsty.

                From the ledge, Susannah looked down. There was a tiny stream feeding a pool and at the edge of the stream a small mill. Scattered grains lay on the ground near the water. Just what she needed. Susannah fluttered down. At the edge of the pool she drank her fill. Then she hopped over to the seeds on the path. So busy was she pecking at her food she did not notice a shadow until a net dropped down over her.

                “Gotcha!” a boy crowed. A grubby hand reached into the net and captured Susannah. The boy carried her into a narrow alley where she was thrown into a rickety cage made of twigs tied together with straw. She was so astonished and frightened she had no idea what was happening until a voice spoke.

                “So he got you, too. He’s been looking for another sparrow for days.”

                Susannah turned to the voice and was shocked. The other bird in the cage was also a sparrow, but his feathers were tattered and dull. He lay weakly against the twigs. “What do you mean?” Susannah asked.

                “You’re not a city sparrow, are you?” the other bird asked. “If you were, you would know to never eat the grain by the mill pond. I’m Shallum, by the way. Not that it matters much now.”

                “Why?” Susannah asked.

                “The miller hates sparrows. He says we eat too much of his grain and make him lose money. So he pays the street boys to catch us. He gives them a penny for every two sparrows they bring him. This boy caught me yesterday but he needed another bird in order to be paid. So now he has you.”

                “If the miller hates us so much, why does he want us?”

                “To kill us.”

                Susannah shuddered. She had escaped the danger of the men chopping down her home. She had escaped the hawk. But now she was in a cage and if she could not escape, she would die. She beat her wings against the twigs and tried to shred the straw with her beak but it did no good. The boy holding the cage just laughed and shook the cage so hard both Susannah and Shallum went tumbling.

                “It’s no use,” Shallum said. “I tried that too when I was first caught. The boy has what he wants and as soon as the miller pays him, he will wring our necks.”

                “But we can’t just give up!” Susannah cried.

                “What else can we do?” the other bird replied.

                Laughing, the boy shook the cage again. As he did so, a voice asked, “Hello there, lad. What have you got there?”

                The boy looked up at the man who had asked the question. “What’s it to you, mister?”

                “Oh, I was just curious what a boy with two sparrows in a cage was up to. What are you planning to do with them?”

                “I’m going to sell them. The miller gives me a penny for every two sparrows I catch.”         

                “And what does the miller do with them?” the man asked.

                “He kills them.”

                The man was silent for a long moment. “Tell you what. Will you sell the sparrows to me instead of the miller?”

                “Why should I? If I don’t keep bringing the miller birds, he might stop paying me.”

                “Well, what if I gave you ten pennies for the sparrows?”

                “Ten pennies!” the boy shouted. “Why would you do that? They aren’t worth ten pennies. They aren’t good for anything.”

                “Does it matter why I would do that? Now, would you like ten pennies or are you determined to sell them to the miller for one penny?”

                “You’ve got a deal!”

                The man counted out ten pennies and the boy handed over the cage, then ran towards the marketplace dreaming of all the sweets he could buy with ten whole pennies. As soon as the boy was out of sight, the man opened the cage. He took Shallum out first. The poor bird lay in his hand, too weak to even flap his wings. The man held Shallum up in his open hand and gently blew on him. The tattered feathers smoothed out and became shiny once again. Shallum even seemed to grow plumper. Then with a grateful chirp he spread his wings and flew off. The man reached for Susannah. Unlike when the boy had cruelly clutched her, the man was gentle and Susannah was not afraid. The man blew on her and it seemed she once more smelled the dogwood trees in blossom. Then she too, launched into flight.

                When the man left the alley, Susannah followed him high above. He walked through the city streets greeting one person, then another. Soon a crowd was following him and he led them to the temple. In the courtyard, he stood and spoke to the crowd, telling stories and teaching them. When he was finished, he walked into the temple and knelt to pray. Susannah flew in also. Inside, high above the people were sturdy cedar beams. Here, Susannah perched. What a perfect place for a nest! High above the grubby hands of little boys, shielded from hawks flying above, and plenty of grain, spilled from offerings around the base of the altar.

                So Susannah built her nest on the cedar beam, flying out each day to catch insects. From a ledge on the wall she would watch and listen to the man who had set her free. At night, she was safely shut inside. As the spring days grew longer, thousands and thousands of people came to the temple to celebrate a great festival. For many days the man did not come. One day, there was a great uproar among the crowds. Susannah flew out to see the cause of the commotion. There, in the center of the street, surrounded by soldiers, was her man. He did not look like the day he freed her. His clothes were torn and bloody and he wore a crown of thorns upon his head. He carried the beam of a tree upon his shoulders. With a shock, Susannah recognized the tree…it was the dogwood that had been her first home.

                Susannah followed until the man was led to a hill outside the city. There he was nailed to the beam that was lifted up onto the upright of a cross. She could watch no more. Susannah fled to the safety of her nest in the temple. Time passed and a strange thing happened. The skies became dark as night. Susannah tucked her head under her wing. Sparrows sleep in the dark. Suddenly there was a terrible shaking, as in the day when her home in the dogwood tree was cut down. The whole building shook and with a screech that sounded like the hunting hawk, the huge curtain that hung before the inner part of the temple ripped in two, beginning from the top down to the bottom. The light had returned, and frightened, Susannah flew out of the temple until she came to a garden. There were small trees and shrubs here and a wall of rock that had chambers carved into it. Susannah settled into one of the trees. Just before sunset, a group of men came carrying a body on a litter. They covered the body with linen cloth and spices and laid it in the chamber carved into the rock, then sealed the opening with a large stone. Susannah once more recognized her man. She did not understand what was happening. She was only a sparrow, after all, but she grieved.

                Afraid to go back to the temple after the earthquake, Susannah set about building a new nest in a tree in the garden. Men came and took up positions in front of the tomb of her man. On the third day, just as false dawn awakened Susannah, there came another rumbling and then a light shone out of the chamber brighter than the sun. The men guarding the tomb fell down in fear.  But Susannah was not afraid of the light, for out of it stepped her man…alive…the man who had set her free and who had come to set the whole world free.

The Psalmist said, “Even the sparrow has found a home, and the swallow a nest for herself where she may have her young – a place near your altar, Lord Almighty, my King and my God”

Jesus said, “Are not two sparrows sold for a penny? Yet not one of them will fall to the ground outside your Father’s care. And even the hairs of your head are numbered. So don’t be afraid; you are worth mor than many sparrows.”

Balance.

It’s all about balance.

At least, that’s what the motivational speakers, gurus, and even her own therapist told Amanda.

Night and Day

Work and Play.

Summer and Winter.

Good…and evil.

            Amanda just needed to find that point of balance. In her mind’s eye, Amanda envisioned a set of ornately crafted, old-fashioned brass scales. On one side, a lead weight dropped – the impossible demands of her job and an impending promotion. The pan tipped nearly to the ground. Another weight fell on the other side – her responsibility to her widowed mother with Alzheimer’s.  Were the scales now even? No. Not quite. A phantom hand swept the pans clear. They teetered back and forth for a few moments until settling into equilibrium once more. Another weight descended. That unexpected windfall from her Uncle Percival and with it the dream of a Jamaican vacation. No sooner had the lead touched the pan than another descended on the opposite pan – the leaking roof overhead and the leaking water heater in the cellar below. Balance? Not even close. Again, the scales were swept clean.  Dropping with a force so strong it dented the pan – Amanda’s passionate love for Jonathan. Just as fast, and with even more force, the just discovered knowledge of his gambling addiction and string of affairs. Under that weight, the scales crumbled to dust.

            Just as Amanda’s vision dissipated, so was her reverie broken by a smattering of raindrops. She opened her eyes to look skyward through the canopy of birch and spruce to a roiling tumble of clouds. Where had the sun gone? It had been so bright and hot Amanda had sought shelter and shade amid the trees surrounding her rented, four-room cabin. The forecast had been for hot, fair weather all week.  Emerging from the forest overhang, Amanda was drenched by pellets of hail and a stinging downpour before she reached the cabin porch twenty yards away. Shivering, she leaned against the door. “How appropriate,” she thought. Just one more thing off balance – fair weather and storm.

            A week at an isolated cabin in the woods had been her therapist’s idea. Dr. Rogers had said some time alone, some time away from daily stressors would help Amanda find balance. Ironic that this day happened to be summer solstice – the longest day of the year. Tomorrow, the darkness would begin its victory dance, cumulating in the days Amanda would needs rise before the sun and make her way home from work beneath the orange glare of streetlights. Indeed, on this day, the tipping point of the year, the dark was winning – just as the darknesses – responsibilities, financial difficulties, and heartbreak – were winning in Amanda’s life.

            A crack of thunder so close it vibrated the boards beneath her feet startled Amanda sand she sought the shelter of the cabin’s interior. It was dark here, too. No electricity. No running water, no cell phone service – the place was truly rustic. Amanda lit two of the oil lamps in the tiny living room. She carried one into the equally small kitchen. The coals in the green and cream iron cookstove were still hot so she added more wood and set a kettle on to boil. Amazing how much time it took for the water to boil when Amanda could accomplish the same thing with her microwave oven in less than two minutes. While the water was heating, she found a towel in the closet in the bedroom, dried off, and changed to warmer clothes. Finally, the kettle whistled and Amanda made a cup of tea.

            The storm continued to rage as Amanda settled at the oilcloth covered table with her steaming mug. She stared at the small backpack on the table. Time passed as the liquid in the cup between her hands cooled and storm darkness gave way to twilight. Amanda continued to sit, her mind as blank as her eyes.

            Outside, the wind howled and shook the cabin. With one last, shuddering roar of thunder, the storm departed. The thunderclap roused Amanda from her stupor. She took a sip of her cold tea, grimaced, and rose to toss the bitter infusion out the front door. Then she shook out the contents of the backpack and there it was – the solution to her personal darkness – a full bottle of digoxin. Her mother’s physician had taken her off the medication but not before Amanda had gotten a refill. Digoxin – digitalis – the poison produced by the leaves of the enchanting, flowering foxglove. In medicinal doses, it strengthened the heart muscle and slowed a too fast heartbeat. More than that, and it slowed the heart until it stopped. Just like going to sleep, Amanda had heard. She uncapped the bottle. All her darkness – the demands of job and family, finances, betrayal – would be swallowed up in one great, unfeeling darkness. Her boss could find another employee. Her mother would go to a nursing home and be cared for. And Jonathan? Well Jonathan was welcome to whatever hell his life would devolve into. Water. Amanda needed water. She picked up the teakettle. Empty. Frustrated at being thwarted, she slammed the kettle down. Then picked it up again and went outside to the pitcher pump. Up and down. Up and down. It seemed to take forever for the water to gush forth. As she stood there pumping, the clouds parted and the crescent moon cast a beam of light on pump handle, on her hand.

            Amanda looked up. Partnering with the sliver of moon, the Milky Way blazed forth in the rift between the departing clouds. She stilled. A light breeze carried the perfume of spruce and cedar. Moonlight and starlight glimmered on the bedewed grass. A hooting owl broke the stillness for a moment then all was quiet again. In the quietness a question arose in Amanda’s mind. No. Not a question. A voice. “What are you doing, Amanda? What are you doing?”

            Stunned, Amanda’s mouth went dry. She bowed her head and fell to her knees. Then she lifted her face to the sky and screamed, “What am I doing? What am I doing? There is no balance! The darkness is winning! The darkness has won! I’m finally seeing the truth. I am giving up. I concede the battle. I can’t win. There is no balance! I am ending it!”

            “No,” the voice responded. “There is no balance. But what makes you think ending it will end the darkness? This world is not the end. Your darkness here may yet see a dawn, but the darkness you think you desire is so much worse and has no end.”

            “Then what? Then why?” She cried.

            “The reason there is no balance is because darkness cannot be balanced by light…the darkness will ultimately lose. You thought this day, this night is the tipping point of the world. The light decreases and the dark increases. But the darkness does not increase forever, for in just a few months, the light will increase once more and the dark diminish. In this world the cycle has repeated uncountable times and will continue to do so…for a while. For a day is coming when the light will reign victorious.”

            “So what!” Amanda spat. “So what! Good for the world. It does nothing for me!”

            “Ah, child. But it can. It can. All you see now is darkness. All you hear is the voice of despair. But you have heard another voice. Just listen.”

            A memory arose in Amanda’s thoughts. She was a girl again, sitting on the hassock by her father’s feet. The open book in his lap was large, with a worn, black, leather cover. Some of the pages were wrinkled and coming loose. Her father turned the leaves with care. His lovely baritone rumbled. “Listen, Mandy girl. Listen. This is what the very word of God says to you. ‘For God so loved the world…’ that means God so loved you… ‘that He gave his only begotten Son that whosoever…’ that means you… ‘believes on Him should not perish but have eternal life.’ There’s more. ‘The Light has come into the world but men loved the darkness more than the Light. For everyone who does evil hates the light and does not come to the light. But whoever loves the truth comes to the light.’” He turned a few more pages. “Jesus said, “I am the Light of the world Whoever follows me will not walk in darkness but will have the light of life.’” A few more pages. “Jesus also said, ‘In this world you will have trouble. But take hope, for I have overcome the world.’”

            “Mandy girl, sometimes life will seem terribly dark. It will seem like the darkness is winning and you will be tempted to despair. Don’t. You must always remember, the light wins in the end. Any darkness you experience on this earth is temporary. Cling to the Light.”             Her father’s voice faded with the memory. She had been so young when he died, she had forgotten the strength of his faith. In the moment, Amanda knew that strong as it was, his faith was not enough to carry her now. This night was indeed a tipping point. But not into inevitable, unremitting darkness. In this moment, in this tipping point, Amanda chose the light.