“Glad to do it.” Tom took the mug from my hands and sat down in his recliner. I was grateful he had taken it upon himself to make sure Flash was safe. It was beyond the kind of cold I wanted to face that night. Brrrr. I went back to my book, but a word Tom had said niggled at me. I thought for a moment. What was it?
Shelter.
That was it.
It was the thing Flash had needed the most, and it had been available to him from the moment the storm hit. Just a few small steps would have taken him right inside, and he’d have been spared the dangerous misery he experienced as the ice and temperatures fell that day. I pictured him as he stood there, becoming coated with sleet, and yet unable, or unwilling, to seek shelter. I felt both sorry for him and puzzled by his behavior. I couldn’t understand it.
Setting the book down once again, I suddenly had a vision of my own self—in the darkest moments of my life—standing outside, cold and alone, just as Flash had been. Oh sure, there had been many times I’d needed help and had been comforted by the shelter of God’s presence. But there had also been just as many times that I’d stood shivering in lonely misery. Could it be possible that in my own moments of deepest need I had been just that close to comfort and not realized it?
Refuge—true refuge in the face of life’s struggles—can be found only in Him. I know that. So why was it that when times got tough for us, the first thing I wanted to do was go shopping for a new purse? And eat something completely decadent, like a molten death-by-chocolate dessert topped with gooey ice cream? It’s like I wanted to find comfort in the mall. Or more specifically, the food court of the mall. Or both.
Sometimes my refuge du jour was losing myself online in Facebook and Twitter. Doing Google searches for red-carpet hairstyles or shopping on Amazon. I never got into alcohol, but I hear it does a bang-up job of numbing pain. I’ve got plenty of little “coping techniques” for stress and storms, but in reality all of them are just substitutes for true comfort. Temporary relief for my deeper problems. They are counterfeits that seem like the real thing, but in the end, don’t work.
I was learning the hard way that counterfeits in general can get you into trouble. I’m reminded of the time not long ago when an invitation to a wedding taught me this valuable lesson. I made a last-minute stop at the store for a gift and something to wear because, as per usual, I had nothing suitable on hand. Now running late, I dashed home and threw on my new outfit, then realized the clothes I’d so hurriedly bought would show the dreaded panty lines. Yikes. I rummaged like a madwoman through my drawers and baskets for my SPANX, the miracle outfit fixer, but could not come up with it anywhere.
Not to worry. In the deep recesses of my memory, a fashion tip I’d once heard surfaced: If you’re in a pinch for a bottom-smoother, simply cut the legs off of a pair of panty hose and slide the top part on for a perfect substitute.
Eureka!
I grabbed some scissors, sliced the legs away from an old pair, and put them on. Fabulous idea—I was set. And so proud of my innovation. But perhaps I should point out that the title of this little illustration should be “Things That Seemed like Great Ideas at the Time But Did Not Live Up to Expectations.”
The modified panty hose indeed work great in theory . . . for about the first hour. But after some time elapses, the problems set in.
I had made it all the way through the ceremony and into the reception when I realized that my science wasn’t as sound as I’d assumed. As I stood up to get more cheese from the appetizer table, the cutoff edges of my faux SPANX rolled up to my derriere like Cuban cigars, creating a visual disaster zone. Way too much cheese, my friends.
Mortified, I stiffly made my way to the ladies’ room for an adjustment and decided to stand for the rest of the reception. There would be no dancing that day.
I learned, via personal humiliation, that there is no substitute for the Real Thing.
Oh, the Bible has so much to say about the Real Thing—the true kind of refuge that is found in its pages. It’s one of those subjects that makes my ears perk up when I hear it, maybe because I need it so often. Refuge—something that brings comfort to the soul—is one of our deepest needs as human beings. We long for it. And when you consider why we do the things we do, the need for refuge fuels most of the activity in the world.
Webster’s dictionary defines refuge this way: “protection or shelter, as from danger or hardship; a source of help, relief, or comfort in times of trouble.”
Refuge, in a practical sense, is
Safety: protection from outside forces, the “storms of life”
Security: freedom from fear, which allows you to flourish
Significance: being confident in your place in the world; your contribution
Provision: having your physical, emotional, and spiritual needs met
Belonging: knowing you are part of something bigger than yourself
I thought of the times I’d experienced a vague sense of unease and unsettledness that was hard to put a finger on. And when weariness, like the kind I had when Flash showed up on our doorstep, had settled deeply in my bones. Something seemed to be missing, but what? I was going through the motions of parenting and working and serving, but I felt like there was a hole in the middle of it all. Perhaps it was the “significance” factor or the aspect of “belonging” that I wasn’t experiencing, and inside I simply longed for some kind of refuge.
And then there were other times in which the circumstances of life were too painful to bear, when the vague unease became absolute desperation for comfort.
I was about to turn forty, and two faint pink lines on a stick from a test kit told me I was pregnant—ten years after our youngest child had been born, fifteen and seventeen years after our daughters. Once the surprise (and let’s be honest, panic) wore off, excitement set in. This was the child we had desired for so long, had hoped for, and had given up on ever having.
It thrilled me that I would get to experience mommyhood all over again! I loved those years with little ones and could not believe we were going to be blessed with a fourth baby. And both my sister and sister-in-law were expecting babies within days of my due date! What were the chances of that happening? We surprised my mother with back-to-back Mother’s Day phone calls telling her our news. The whole family was elated.
And then our excitement was cut short.
“I’m so sorry,” the doctor said, tears filling her eyes in sympathy as she moved the ultrasound wand over my abdomen. My heart pounded out of my chest as I clutched Tom’s hand in the small examination room. We scanned the dark screen, desperate to see any sign of movement, but there was nothing. Just a tiny, lifeless form that had been our baby.
Just a few weeks before, in an effort to break up the monotony of a long, hot summer day, I was making a spontaneous run to the video store with Grayson when our vehicle was hit head-on by a distracted driver on a country road. We felt lucky to walk away from the wreck unscratched, and I immediately went to the doctor to make sure the baby’s heartbeat was still there. What a relief to hear it! But it didn’t last.
“Abruption of the placenta,” they called it—the result of trauma. In sudden shock and grief, the floor fell away from my feet, the room spinning around us.
They give you twenty-four hours to absorb the news before inducing labor. They tell you to go home and rest, that it will all soon be over. They tell you it is “nature’s way” and that you’ll be able to have other babies, don’t worry. What they don’t tell you is how hard you’ll cry, or how alone you’ll feel, or that your heart will break in a million pieces while you wait. They don’t tell you that labor, when you know at the end of it you’ll have no baby to bring home, is horrific. They don’t tell you that when your milk comes in and there is no baby to nurse, you’ll sit in the shower and sob until you can’t sob anymore. They don’t tell you any of that.
But then, nothing can prepare you for this kind of disappointment, this much heartache.
Tom and I got to
see our little boy in the delivery room. We named him Collin, and he was beautiful. So utterly perfect. There was a small funeral and a tiny casket under an awning in the rain . . . and so many questions. I wished God had left us well enough alone. We’d been content with three wonderful, healthy children—why on earth had He snatched Collin away so cruelly, only pretending to give us another precious gift?
For months I could not stop the tears that would come, unbidden, as I washed dishes or folded clothes, or drove along on the country road where the cars had collided and my happy little world had ended. I couldn’t bear the holidays; the thought of seeing my sister and sister-in-law’s pregnant bellies was too much, so we stayed away. I felt a constant lump in my throat, and I squeezed my eyes shut so I wouldn’t think of the precious life—the little fingers and toes and belly button—that we would never know.
I needed refuge. Comfort for the anguish that engulfed me.
I clung to Psalm 34:18—“The LORD is close to the brokenhearted; he rescues those whose spirits are crushed”—as well as Psalm 145:14—“The LORD upholds all who fall and lifts up all who are bowed down” (NIV). Jesus, please. Please be close to me. Most days I could not sense Him anywhere. But there was something that had occurred during the long night before I was scheduled for labor that gave me the tiniest glimmer of hope, a trace of refuge that somehow carried me. It was unexplainable.
It happened when the old clock radio next to my bed clicked on at a time no one had set it for. As I struggled to figure out why the radio was on at this strange hour, a song by Fernando Ortega began to play. “Jesus, King of Angels” poured over me like warm honey. That’s the only way I can describe it. I weighed a thousand pounds and could not move as the words gently dripped down into my soul and pooled there.
The lyrics reminded me that the infinite God of the universe is mindful of each sparrow that falls. My baby. Oh, my little one. He was mindful of all the anxious thoughts that filled me, and He would be with me and keep me in His peace. The final notes of the guitar faded.
Tears, and more tears. My pillow was soaked with them. I lay in the predawn gray hours and ached for the baby I was about to deliver, the one I would never get to know. I dreaded the hours, days, and weeks that were to come. And yet my heart replayed the song hundreds of times as the dark days passed, a reminder that His presence was with me, even when I could not feel Him or understand the whys.
There was a hint of a promise that one day I would again rise to speak the goodness of His name, and there was comfort, even in my ashes. The recurring melody pulled me those last few feet into the shelter that was just beyond me. I was warm and safe and dry, even in the midst of hurting.
Just like Flash on that cold, icy night.
I went to the window, which was now glazed with a fine sheet of ice. Through it, I could see the amber glow of the stall lights shining through the darkness and spilling onto the frozen ground beyond. And I knew in my heart that I was being pulled close once again.
Psalm 91:1-2 says,
Those who live in the shelter of the Most High
will find rest in the shadow of the Almighty.
This I declare about the LORD:
He alone is my refuge, my place of safety;
he is my God, and I trust him.
I tucked in tightly under His shadow. Chose to trust in His care. Leaned into His comfort.
Shelter.
Sanctuary.
Refuge.
God’s presence is always with us, even when we can’t feel or see Him. Even when we can’t understand our circumstances. And though we might try a million other ways to fill our voids and find shelter from our storms, there is no substitute for the real thing. Only God can be our true source of refuge.
How many times do we stand outside in the cold when shelter is so close at hand? Sometimes all it takes is a few more steps—and then we are in His arms, encircled in His care and carried by His comfort.
He has all the fresh towels and blankets we need.
Know where to find refuge.
True sanctuary is found in God alone.
It was early morning when Bridgette called. After the formal chitchat about how-are-the-kids-and-how-is-Hay-soos (eye roll), she got to her point.
“I’ve got a wonderful opportunity for your talents,” she said. “Please pardon my huffing and puffing. I’m trying to get my power walk in while I talk.”
“No problem,” I replied. I was still in my bathrobe, but that wouldn’t keep me from discussing business. I poured a second cup of coffee and grabbed a chocolate chip cookie, the breakfast of champions.
It seemed that she and Steve had been hired to design and oversee the finish-out of a corporate building in Fort Worth, a project that would include a restaurant and call center.
“This would be per-fect for you and Tom,” Bridgette remarked with enthusiasm. “It’s just one big, blank canvas, and your creativity will make it come to life. It needs custom finishes, artwork, signage, and furniture. And, by the way, we’d like to hire you to head up the FF&E.”
Bridgette continued on, discussing issues and describing her vision for the space, her effusive voice filling my ear. But I wasn’t following it. I was still stuck on “FF&E.” FF&E? Never heard of it. Were they actual letters, or a word spelled effeffeny? I didn’t want to appear foolish, so I played along while she threw out other trade acronyms she obviously assumed I knew. I caught what I could and furiously scribbled notes so I could look things up later.
“Wow, sounds like a great project,” I said confidently. “We’d love to be part of it!” Bridgette’s energy and excitement were contagious, and somehow even her use of inside industry terms made me feel ready to take on the world. Our mural business was still bumping along, and this was exactly the break we’d been waiting for. We set a time to meet at the building site and then hung up.
My heart sank. The reality of having to present the ideas in person to the client suddenly hit me. What was I thinking? This job was way beyond the scope of anything we’d ever done, and I didn’t understand even half of what Bridgette was talking about. Not only was this project going forward in a language I didn’t understand . . . I also didn’t have the wardrobe for it. Years of painting baby nurseries and cramped bathrooms had hardly prepared me for effeffeny, or whatever it was. It sounded so corporate and professional. This would not end well, I just knew it. My stomach turned at the thought.
Meanwhile, Tom was calling our place “some kind of circus,” and he wasn’t too far off in his assessment. It seemed every animal in the county made its way onto our property at one time or another: raccoons who regularly dined on Beau’s dog food, opossums who loved picking apart our trash, mice running amok, coyotes, bobcats, snakes, stray dogs and cows . . . all looking for mischief, and they all seemed to find us.
In fact, shortly before Flash had arrived on the scene, we were awakened from sleep by four loose horses traipsing through our yard at midnight, followed by people in pickup trucks who were trying to round them up. Maybe it was the whoops, hollers, and blaring music that spooked the renegades, or perhaps it was the spinning tires, or the sound of beer bottles being thrown, or the crazy gunfire aimed skyward that made the horses run wildly in circles. Hard to tell. All we knew was that later, when a stray donkey showed up, it seemed like just another act in an animal circus gone awry.
By the time spring rolled around, Flash had become friends with the rather large and cumbersome cattle in the next pasture. As we educated ourselves about donkeys, we learned they are social creatures who are best kept with other donkeys. Unfortunately, that was not anywhere in our budget. Flash would have to fly solo for a while.
In the absence of another donkey, they might make do with a cow, horse, sheep, or goat. Anything but a dog, at least in Flash’s case. Dogs (and coyotes) are donkeys’ natural enemies, which explained a whole lot about Flash and Beau’s chilly relationship. Still in a barking/kicking standoff with one another, each day found Flash at
the back fence, preferring to fraternize with the fat bovines on the other side than with a slobbery, exuberant Lab. While the cows seemed mostly indifferent—lying down or standing with their heads through the fence for the “better” grass on our side—Flash hung out near them like a comfortable old companion.
The days were warming, and there was a slow, easy pace to life in the pasture. I wished I could say the same for life on the “people” side of the fence. The stream of marauding animals only complicated the juggling act of work and family. There was nothing like picking up the contents of an overturned garbage can after a gang of raccoons had picked through it, while still trying to make it to the day’s job site on time. Country life, while much prettier than suburban life, takes a whole lot more work to maintain.
Finally, a weekend arrived that wasn’t filled with hockey games and trips to Home Depot for project supplies. We could catch up on some of our own honey-dos for a change. I stood at the kitchen sink and plunged my hands into the sudsy water to tackle the pile of dishes from the night before.
Washing dishes didn’t seem quite so bad when I had time to look out the window and watch Grayson untangle his fishing pole and sort the tackle box in the front yard. Beau lay beside him and yawned, clearly relaxed by the sound of spinners, jigs, and spooners being organized in the hard plastic container. Grayson closed the lid, and the large dog snapped to attention, instantly ready for a walk to the pond with his boy.
Pole over shoulder, tackle box in hand, dog at side. Thank You, God, for this.
I reached for a plate and dunked it into the water, still gazing through the window, past the yard to the wildflowers beyond. Suddenly, the moment was interrupted by three gorgeous horses who emerged from the woods and trotted into the front field. It was as if they materialized right before my eyes, Star Trek style.
Flash Page 6
