The Sylvr Pen

It’s a day “not fit for man nor beast.” Yet there are the birds…

Slippery gray slush stripes the road out front, but I’m not going anywhere, and the birds, well, they can fly. And their focus and mine is not the road, or neighbors, or even the field, opposite side of the house…

I am sitting by the window that looks out on my chosen “secret spot” for this one hour of this morning.

Quite an open “secret,” as Husband passes by, glancing sidelong and quizzical.

“I’m having breakfast with the birds,” I tell him.

He just smiles; he knows me.

They’re busy at the feeder. I sit, plate in lap, with luscious little homemade pita filled with omelet, colored bright and flavored rich with broccoli and herbed minced onion left from dinner yesterday and a few melted shreds of  good wheel cheese from the country store. 

Husband wouldn’t touch this, and he’s had his early chow, now headed out to tramp through snow-sleet up the hill to sharpen tools by woodstove warmth in the old milk house turned wood shop.

I first veiled my presence by curtain lace, inside light extinguished, to see them without them seeing me.  By now I’ve pushed the lace aside a bit, to clear my view, acclimate them to my intrusion, and pushed down the upper sash, to listen.

I hear, faint and distant, a “twert-twert-twert-twert,” then a sort of gutteral trill. But these birds nearby are strangely quiet today. At last I hear familiar “chickadee-dee-dee” (but brief) and later some plain chirps of sparrows, but mostly there’s serious silence of song.

The weather whispers round me though, sparkling tinkle of fine sleet, a sort of auditory glitter.

Soon it hits my window pane and sill in larger beads, and bursts of blops, leaving tracks upon the glass…

And bird wings beat, intermittent, a drum of air, and when something startles, the fleeing flock makes collective “Whoosh!”

Me, I sit still and just let them be. The cold steals in down the window pane and cools my feet and I don’t mind. The curtains pulled fully back now, I feel I’m a silent member, almost in their midst.

No big thoughts, no deep lessons. Just me in the morning, sitting, in community with the birds.

That alone brings a warm sort of  peace.

If I repeated this enough, I’d start to see not just a flock, nor different species, but unique personalities, and yes, birds do have them. I note some individual quirks already: in the downy’s own personal flight path in, in one cardinal’s repeated glancing over his shoulder at the bigger, sharp-beaked flicker whose curled claws cling to suet cage…

They come and go, nibble and leave. They watch their surrounds—and neighbors— wary, but they neither sow nor reap, and yet they’re fed—ultimately not by the can that dumps seed into the feeder, nor the human hand that flicks it sideways down, but “their heavenly Father” (Mt 6:26). And perhaps that subconscious truth running beneath this shade of maple is source of this serenity.

Giving thanks this morning for…

• stripes decorating road out front,
• shelter from the wet,
• sound of bird wing, beat and flutter,
• tinkling of sheer sleet spray,
• endearing buzz of “chickadee-dee-dee!”
• signature songs of other feathered friends,
• delightful detail and variety, even individualization, among His feathered creations,
• cold-dropping draft, reminding me what a gift warmth is, 
• feeding-flock reminder of the Father’s ready provision,
• excuse of a “snow day” to linger longer, (in)
• maple-shadow serenity.

*****

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Tell Me a True Story

Sabbath isn’t rules, but rest.

That’s what makes it hard.

Sometimes the hardest thing to do is nothing.

That was my first hard lesson in Christ living. I’m still learning, decades later.

Why is it so hard?

A sense of self-importance, perhaps? (“I’ve gotta, I’ve gotta, I’ve gotta…” or it won’t get done, or the world will stop revolving, or we’ll starve on some dirty curb… ?)

Or, a compulsion to look good to all those other driven people? (What will all the Yankee-work-ethic folk think of me, just sitting here, gazing out the window,  cancelling out on busy plans, just to rest quiet in light-and-shadow flickers from the fireplace?)

Or, my desires that churn within me: to rise, to achieve,  to possess, to keep so busy I cannot see what I don’t want to see? (“I’m gonna, I’m gonna, I’m gonna…”?)

Really, doesn’t all that come down to this: Not wanting to just let Him be God?

And isn’t that why His first command for me to obey was “Stop!”…

Is that not why His first commemoration for man to note was a day of ceasing from labor, a day of rest (Gen 2:3)?

(Ps 37:7)

Come to rest.

Come to quietness.

Come to peace.

“Make every effort to enter His rest.”

(Heb 4:9-11)

*****

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And joining with Shelly and the others in the Surrendering to Sabbath Sisterhood. (Would you like to join us? Click on the link and find out more.)

This improvement in my vision I wrote about yesterday: is it a miracle?

I don’t know.

But do I believe in miracles? Oh, yes!

I believe in God.

And the God I believe in is miracle-Doer extraordinaire!

I believe what the record says about His miracles—partly because He’s given me the faith to believe, and partly because I’ve witnessed astounding things in my own lifetime.

I believe…

God spoke the entire universe into being (Gen 1). If that’s no miracle, I don’t know what is!

I believe…

by miracles God delivered His people out of bondage  (Ex 13:14)

and through the wilds (Ex 13:17-18),

parted the sea for them to pass through (Ex 14:21-22),

and drove out powerful forces before them Josh 24:18).

I believe…

that in Christ He visited

and redeemed His people (Lk 1:68-69)

—and while bodily on earth, did wonders testifying to Who He was (Jhn 20:30-31):

turned water into wine (Jhn 2:9),

fed multitudes from multiplied crumbs (Jhn 6:9-12),

cured the lame,

the blind (Mt 21:14),

the leprous (Lk 17:14),

delivered the demon-driven (Mt 4:24),

raised the dead (Mk 5:40-41),

and lifted men to heavenly hope.

Miracles all!

I also believe…

God does not change (Mal 3:6).

And Jesus Christ remains the same, yesterday, today, and forever (Heb 13:8)

So. He. still. can. do. miracles.

And. He. does!

The greatest miracle in any of our human lives is deliverance from our own inherent disease of sin and death (Col 1:13). If God quit doing miracles, no one would be saved, we’d all be just doomed! (Jhn 3:3,5-8). If He hadn’t done this miracle for me, I know without doubt I wouldn’t be alive on earth today to sit here typing this post! I was so on the brink of total destruction when He rescued me.

But what about the “signs and wonders” stuff now?

When He acts through my utter weakness (2 Cor 12:5,9),

so I find myself doing what I know I myself I cannot (2 Cor 12:9-10),

isn’t that miraculous, a work of God impossible with man?

When I find myself freed from some infirmity medical science still deems unconquered, is that not a miracle?

When I observe a sister in Christ healed in one evening of “irreversible” hearing loss, astonishing her doctor, haven’t I witnessed a miracle?

Yes, God still does miracles.

But He doesn’t always do them, according to our whims and wishes.

Jesus healed. But not everyone. He left crowds pressing Him for healing, to go preach the good news of humanity’s greatest miracle-gift offer (and need), redemption from the ruined realm of earthly self.

He turned crumbs into food abundance, but at no one’s demand but the Father’s. When crowds came clambering to make Him their earthly king because He could provide such abundance, He rebuked them and turned away.

Christ performed miracles born from compassion. But their greatest purpose was/is always to glorify God.

By miracles in the wilderness God brought both deliverance and disaster. The same Red Sea parting that provided escape for fleeing slaves drowned pursuing armies. God both healed, and sent, plagues, set some men on solid rock and caused the earth to swallow others. Not by whim, but for good reason.

And in my life, by His power, He has brought both pain and healing, marvelous abundance and devastating loss. He has healed and He has wounded. And both “bad” and “good,” well, it’s all really good. For Romans 8:28 is about Romans 8:29, and the ultimate good of the latter far surpasses easy earthly fixes.

Honestly, I’ve derived more spiritual gain from earthly pains and losses than from any wonder of healing or prosperity.

God knows better than we what we need, and gives it…

And that’s a miracle, too!

[Of course, one blog post can hardly cover this topic. Please read the comments that follow for more. And remember that every flower petal, every breath, every new day is, really, a miracle of His grace.]

~

What do you believe about miracles?

~~~

MORE REASONS TO PRAISE HIM: Each underlined phrase above is yet another reason (#664 – #683), in my counting toward “10,000 REASONS”.

[Soon: I hope to post about “When God Heals… and Doesn’t”]

*****

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Do you see it, that little dot of light just above the horizon, slightly left of center?

When it first caught my eye, it startled. “What could that be?” I wondered. Too large for a star, and wrong time of day. Too still for a plane or UFO. Fading, then reappearing, sometimes flashing brilliant.

Then I detected the feeble silhouette (look hard, below, it’s there), and knew it was sunlight, glancing off its flailing surface to my eyes…

Yet now when I look out and see that simple homestead windmill, whether flashing sun’s reflection or silhouetted gray against clouds, it surprises me again.

The biggest surprise is that I can see it at all!

By just last summer I couldn’t. It had faded. Rather, my eyesight had. The corneal dystrophy that plagued my eyes had worsened. There were lots of things I couldn’t see well…

That was to be expected. Continued deterioration of vision, perhaps to the point of full blindness someday, was something just to accept—a genetic disorder medical science knows no way of arresting, let alone reversing.

But then, last fall, I found myself seeing things that, before, had appeared fogged up even on good (dry, stress-free) days. Something astounding had happened!

Even now, this late-winter morning, I can still look out and see it, my sign of wonder there on the hill.

Not with perfect vision (20-20 that I’ve never enjoyed), nor fully cured condition, for I still have times when fatigue or stress affect my eyesight. And I don’t know if this will last. But still there’s improvement no one could expect (except God, and childlike believers.)

This trouble with my seeing, it has to do with the eye’s wondrous workings by God’s design, which we all take for granted, even when ignorant of it:

On one of the cornea’s layers special little cells act like mini water pumps, ridding the cornea of debris and excess moisture.

When they begin to die and drop (inexplicably) no new cells replace them. So the cornea fills with moisture and muck like a steamy soap-scummed shower stall and the view beyond gets clouded. Other troubles strike when the remaining cells attempt the work of the previous many. Spreading out trying to cover all bases, they can stretch beyond their limits, and burst, inflicting pain instead.

So what can I do but take my vitamins, get my sleep, and avoid stress, so that what remains works as well as possible? That’s all.

And yet…

There’s my beacon on the hill, in my clear view. Along with other signs of improvement.

So, in reflection on all of this, I’m especially thanking God this day for…

• the surprising reflection on the hill
• ability still to see not only its reflecting, but even its pale gray silhouette 
• amazing workings of my eye, marvelous instrument far more complex than what I learned in school
• joyful beauty of eight, yes eight, bright cardinals busy together at the feeder
• books I’d packed up to sell or give away, that I’ve put back on the bookshelves
• fun of working a jigsaw puzzle with Husband, able to discern color nuances. (Last year it got too frustrating to enjoy.)
• ability to “do the taxes” myself this year, after all—though I still wouldn’t call that fun! (Last year, pale lines and boxes on forms nearly drove me to distraction!)
• ability to differentiate blackish navy from bluish black of socks I’d assigned last year to separate drawers to avoid wearing navy with black slacks (blush)!
• That I was only with knowing friends when I did that color faux pas!
• For candles lined up, glowing, on our supper tabletop, custom resurrected from the past.
• For color beauty in foods:
  • multi shades of fresh peppers from the store,
  • red apples and bright oranges in a basket together
  • clear green of broccoli, frozen from summer’s garden, cooked just enough
  • dried herbs harvested from patio bed, still holding green hue and fresh taste
• crunch of pecans in the color mix of a tasty sweet potato salsa
• blue shadows on new snow…
• subtle shades on morning’s horizon

I could go on and on…

***** 

The window shade wavers slight back and forth, in-out, as the wind shifts.

The gale, swinging now from south to west, soon northwest-to-be, roars in the distance, moans nearby around the corners of this drafty, creaking farmhouse.

Rain still falls, drippingly, drumming slow intermittent tattoo on the roof, but a sudden plunge from spring-like warmth to arctic bite and sudden snow squall may make road travel “near impossible” with whiteout and icing, and no one knows just when. So says the National Weather Service.

So he’s just left for the prison, early—to ensure on-time arrival. (He preaches there, one turn per month.) 

There’s wood in the lidded front-porch box for the library woodstove, waiting… He said (quite out of character) I should turn the thermostats up, for extra warmth to linger, should wind blow down the power. He made sure of kindling in the box as well as logs. And three candles stand at attention, on kitchen tabletop, in the still-gray hour.

Had we not checked the forecast, we might have been blindsided.

Wind shifts can do that.

And such surprise storms are not to be sneezed at. (Though that’s a natural response.) Caught out with a friend in one myself once, I experienced airborne adventure, unintentional off-roading, in a “God-forsaken” woodland. (Though not God-forsaken, really. He rode there with us, even steering the airborne truck… But. We should have acted more wisely! With the temperature plummeting like it was, if we hadn’t found that inhabited dwelling…)

Since then, to my shock I’ve learn that weather-caused death rates run higher in this corner of the country than in places we think are scary!

So we take a few precautions.

…

[Later] I sit here and listen to the chase of powerful air tides.

I hear garbage cans crashing, and see out a window a panicked black cat’s high-speed zig-zag streaking down a noisy hill. Cracking sounds are coming from the big black-maple just beyond the window, and a lanky arborvitae is dancing a swaying frenzy.

I consider moving my computer and myself to a different side of the house…

And I ponder the wind-shifts and sea-changes of earth-life.

They happen—perhaps to all, surely to most.

There are tides to be “taken at the flood,” and floods to be fled and avoided. Wild and wicked winds can come banging on life’s door like sudden bombs, and knock us off our feet.

(I’ve had a few come blow my life around.)

How does one line up candles for such spells, so light may not be lost? How does one insure warmth for living when normal power fails us?

I look to the word and this I see:

Keep your (candle) lamps burning (Lk 12:35),

keep them fueled (Mt 25:1-4).

Keep stirring up and feeding the coals of God’s fire within you (2 Ti 1:5-7).

Be ready at any moment for the enemy’s rush-in flood (Is 59:19),

holding the hand of God’s love always (Jud 1:20-21),

like the child in the crowd of potential dangers (Mt 10:16;28:19-20)

— alert in prayer (Eph 6:18),

and always listening for His warnings and instructions,

abiding in them, and thus in Him (Jhn 15:10).

(Rich blessing whether the onslaught ever comes or not.)

*****

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