His Point of View

Our across-the-street neighbor is a curious old man with the enthusiasm of a child and the body of the Abominable Snowman.  I know this only because he rarely wears a shirt.  No matter the season, he rarely deviates from his bill-cap, back-brace, and cut-off shorts uniform. Most days, he sits in a frayed blue lawn-chair in his drive-way and waves to each and every car that drives by Hitler style.  Cluttered garage on display and blue-grass blaring, my neighbor putters constantly.  As my next-door neighbor puts it, “It seems he’s always busy, but rarely accomplishes anything.”

Personally, I’ve watched him whittle, simonize, plant, prune, and polish lots of things, and, over the past four years, I’ve probably watched him take in and put back out close to four dozen plants and trees.  And still, though I’ve never actually seen anything take shape or grow as a result of his focused attention, I’d say the old man is onto something.  He sees things I don’t, and I mean that quite literally.

Recently, I ventured into Abominable’s lair to let him know we’d be out of town for a few days.  I figured there was no one better to keep an eye on things, as he spends most of his time gazing in the direction of our house anyway.  Our burly friend was pleased to help and told me so with a lippy smile.  Anxious to get back home, I turned to leave, but my feet stood still.  Met with the most beautiful panoramic view of the Tulsa sky that I’ve seen to date, I suddenly forgot what it was I needed to hurry back and do. Fluffy, cumulonimbus clouds slid across the turquoise sky like frothy bubble bath, their bottoms heavy with rain that would fall soon enough somewhere else.     

“Wow,” I muttered.

“Tell me about it,” he chuckled.  Leaning back in his lawn chair, he sighed, his hands, one holding an oozing bottle of furniture polish and the other a rag, resting against bare thighs.  Watching the clouds with me, he continued, “Just don’t want to be inside when I can be out here, you know?”  Suddenly I understood. In my neighbor’s eyes, life isn’t about the task, but the view.

We who truly seek to follow Christ must look like crazy people to the rest of the world, talking to an invisible God, giving up what seems to be ours for the eternal good of others, treating people right only to be mistreated.  To those with their eyes set on the tangible and temporary, we must look like busy people who rarely accomplish anything.  If only they understood what we understand, that this life is but a breath in the grand scheme of things, that a rich inheritance awaits those who surrender their hearts to Jesus, that true joy is found only in sacrifice, then they would understand why live the way that we do, our eyes constantly on the Father, our hearts set on things above.  They would want for themselves what we have because life finally makes sense when you see it from the Father’s point of view.           

Can't Have Your Tadpole and Jesus, Too

Camp is the best place in the world to people watch.  Last week, my daughter and I went on a long hike around Falls Creek youth camp in the Arbuckle Mountains of Oklahoma.  We spend most of each summer at Falls Creek and have experienced it from all sides, so we welcome any opportunity to see camp in a fresh way through the eyes of others.  We walked everywhere, the bookstore, the West End coffee shop, the Prayer Garden, and finally, Boulder Springs.

By the time we reached Boulder Springs, it was literally crawling with elementary aged girls.  Sugar-buzzed from concession stand treats and goofy from lack of sleep, they picked their way across the rocks, holding spindly little arms out for balance.  Some made it all the way to the fresh spring quickly without slipping into stagnant water and cheered for themselves on the other side, wide-eyed and giddy with adrenaline.  Others chose to take their time, leaning on each other for support and pointing out minnows and water bugs to one another along the way.   Exhausted from swimming in the lake, others simply stood dazed on the bank and waited for their friends, letting the afternoon sun dry and stiffen the swimsuits they still wore.  Thoroughly entertained, Hope and I settled onto one of the rocks and soaked our feet in the clearest pool at the base of the fresh spring waterfall.

“Don’t do that!  You’ll swallow him!” a squeaky little voice called from above. 

“I will not!  I know how to be careful,” a voice answered defensively. 

At the source of the spring, two little girls squatted, their hair hanging in ringlets around their faces.  Squeaky was blonde and frail-looking, her friend, a sturdier brunette with purple snow-cone stains on her soft cheeks.  The brunette was peering intently into a Styrofoam cup, which she held just out of Squeaky’s reach.

“But, it’s dirty waterrrrrr!” Squeaky pleaded, reaching for the cup.

“It is not,” Snow Cone answered with confidence.  “It’s from the spring.  They said you can drink from the spring.  It’s clean.  Besides, the tadpole water is way down at the bottom.”

“You’ll get sick,” Squeaky whined.

Snow Cone ignored her friend’s warning, tipping the cup up cautiously to take a drink, her eyes wide with concentration.  A split second later, she lowered it quickly.   Apparently, the tadpole had gotten closer than she had anticipated.  Undaunted, she gave the cup a swirl and tipped it up again. Squeaky covered her face and whimpered.  

After a few close calls, Snow Cone gave up.  “I don’t want him to die yet,” she announced.  I wondered when she did want the tadpole to die.  Squeaky looked relieved, and the two made their way back across the rocks with their squirmy little captive.

Most people want to experience the Living Water that Jesus talks about in the Bible.  Thirsty, they know that He can fill and satisfy them.  The problem is, they want to keep their tadpoles, too, and it just doesn’t work like that. 

You can’t experience the profound peace and power of God in your life as long as you are holding on to pet sins.  While that seems to go without saying, I’m not talking about big, obvious sins like theft, murder, adultery, etc., things that are generally frowned upon by moral society.  I’m talking about the things that we tend to overlook and accept in ourselves and others, sins easily caught and kept in the Styrofoam cup of our hearts, so to speak.  While we find it easy to tolerate, even foster things like jealousy, pride, gossip, and sloth, the Lord calls them detestable.    

So, if you find yourself struggling to find or regain the kind of intimacy with God that others talk about or you once had, maybe it’s time to show the Father what’s in your heart and let him clean it out and fill it for you.  Don’t be shy.  Believe me, you won’t be the first one to bring Him something dirty.     

Bring It

Chico and I took a walk in a new neighborhood recently and came across something pretty remarkable.  Judging by the way he walked afterward, pulling at his leash, head held high, I think Chico was inspired.  I know I was. 

We’d been walking only a few minutes when we topped the first hill.  Suddenly, a dirty soccer ball appeared from the side lawn of a nearby house and skipped toward our curb.  

“Bring it, Maximus,” a man’s voice called. 

Instinctively, I scooped Chico up and stood my ground.  I just knew a Great Dane or some other huge dog would bound around the corner to fetch the big ball and make a snack of my Chihuahua on the way. 

That didn’t happen. 

Instead, a shaggy little ball of black and tan fur not much bigger than the magnolia blooms on a nearby tree came tearing out from behind the house, his tiny ears perked, his neck arched like he meant business.  I had to laugh.  This was Maximus? A Yorkie? 

Chico looked surprised, too, relaxing a bit in my arms and tilting his head.

Maximus ignored us, focused fully on his task.  In just a few short, but determined little leaps, he passed the soccer ball and wheeled around on it, lowering his head to absorb the impact.  Surprisingly, the ball stopped, knocking the pup back only a couple of inches.   I was mesmerized.  What would he do now?  There was no way he could get that thing in his mouth. 

“Maximus, bring it.” 

Determined, Maximus threw himself toward the soccer ball in response to his master’s voice.  In rapid succession, he used his forehead, nose, and front paws to get the ball moving, picking up speed as he went.  By the time he had moved the enormous fetch toy ten feet, he had a rhythm going.  Enjoying himself immensely, he shoved the ball ahead repeatedly, hopping along behind it, his tongue hanging out.  

I couldn’t believe it.  I looked at Chico.  His nose twitched.  He couldn’t believe it either.  

When Maximus disappeared behind the house with the ball, we followed and cleared the hedge just in time to watch Maximus “bring it” to the feet of his master, an older gentleman with a full head of wavy white hair and white mustache.  Chuckling his approval, he leaned down to pet the dog’s head.  Then, nodding a hello to Chico and me, he held a trickling garden hose just under Maximus’s nose.  Maximus took only a quick drink before looking back to his master, ready for another go at the soccer ball.

Playing fetch with a soccer ball was obviously something that the two had been doing together for a long time, and I wondered how the tradition had begun.  I’m sure that the man didn’t throw a soccer ball the first time out.  He probably started with one of those tiny tennis balls made for miniature dogs and gradually worked his way up. 

Although Maximus was probably skilled at the game of catch by the time the first soccer ball was ever thrown, I can’t help but wonder how he felt the first time his master threw it.  What was he thinking as he moved into position behind the giant moving ball and prepared for impact? He couldn’t have had a clear view of his master from that vantage point, and I wonder whether he hesitated when he realized it.  Whatever his thoughts, at some point, Maximus mustered up the nerve to take the first blow and charged forward, relying on fetching skills developed over time and trust in his master born from past experience.  Sooner or later, he must have successfully delivered the ball to his master’s feet and enjoyed praise and reward for his obedience as well as a deepening bond with his master.  Why else would he keep doing it?  

Strange as it seems, I can relate to Maximus in some ways.  Over time, my Heavenly Father has asked more and more of me, allowing things that I would never have chosen for myself to enter my life.  However, He has never asked more of me than He has already prepared me to handle, and He is never far away, even when the size or nature of the challenge at hand makes it seem as if He is. In those lonely moments, when the obstacle looms large and I am tempted to give in to fear or worse, the Master calls to me through His Word.  In my spirit, I feel it, and my heart quickens, giving me just what I need to push through and overcome.   

When I do choose to obey, my faith grows stronger.  God renews my strength and prepares me for whatever comes next.  While I can’t honestly say that I look forward to each new challenge with eagerness like Maximus does, I do trust the Master.  He is faithful.  He is good.  He sustains me and has promised to work everything together for my good and His glory.  Only because I know Him can I even think of saying to the future, “Bring it.”