By Flickering Candlelight (Haiku)

Lithe, swaying shadows,

Angels on a textured wall,

Inspire gentle strength.

A Commentary

Yesterday afternoon I perched on the top step of our deck, relishing watery breezes washing my face - a posture from childhood when I sat on another wooden step at a different lake with other circumstances defining my life.  In those days I was often alone, and the lake was literally my best friend.  An element of that formative reality still holds true all these years later.

As I studied half-a-dozen wild swans dabbling nearby, the sky suddenly darkened.  Rolls of thunder blasted somewhere to the northwest, gunshot echoing in a hundred empty oil drums.  Rain had not been forecasted, so I thought the storm would miss us - but I was wrong.  Raindrops soon began indenting the face of the lake, striking and rebounding like little pearly acrobats on a watery trampoline. 

More and more drops quickly descended, pummeling the lake into a tempest of roiling activity while dimming the opposite shoreline.  The change was dramatic.  It affected absolutely everything.

Giant blue hostas, growing tall beside our deck, flailed like victims under attack. A single, stunning streak of lightning jumped down from the sky to strike some point just beyond the peninsula, while a loud crack simultaneously split the air. I challenged myself to feel the storm for a few seconds - the wind and rain against my skin - before retreating to the house.

The surprise downpour subsided as quickly as it had come.  Before long, clouds parted and dispersed, inviting sunshine to reflect blinding diamonds on the choppy lake.  

Surely there’s a rainbow somewhere, I thought, although I didn’t actually see one.  My expectancy lingered, however; I love the very idea of rainbows.  They bedazzle me with grandeur, and point to God’s ancient promise that reminds me He is ultimately in control.  Of everything.

* * *

This little incident overlaps with recent thoughts I’ve had about life’s fierce storms – illness, disappointment, disability, and seeming misfortune of so many kinds.  Such tempests can hit without warning to send us scrambling for protection and security.  They too seem to affect everything, while God is still in control.

At this stage of my life I think of human suffering not exclusively as a problem to solve or an issue to fix, but also (mostly) a divine mystery. It is an opportunity to prioritize carefully, and live differently, because of what feels like a challenging intrusion - and then to expect profound results at God’s hand. 

I’m slowly learning to let suffering tell its own story rather than force it to fit my preconceived expectation, especially in the case of chronic suffering that affects everything for the long-term.  When I do this, earthly difficulties shift away from being mere accidental or problematic foes.  Instead, they inspire legendary tales of human challenge laced with God’s mercy and purpose, accounts with meaning far beyond the obvious. In fact, when I embrace and explore suffering, and allow it to tell its own deeper story, I end up owning it as redemptive mystery (even if there’s an element of calamity involved) because I realize it somehow changes me for the better.  I don’t need to understand all the ins and outs, and resolve the clamoring whys.  Even more, everything about me changes as something at the core begins to heal.  It is even possible that I become an icon of hope to others. 

The Door

This old, marred wooden screen door is outdated and well-used.  Some people might even consider it an ugly, ratty-looking eyesore.

However, I find it inspiring. When it closes, the resulting smack-of-a-bang sets off memories of sandy bare feet tromping across a threshold with wet beach towels dragged behind.  It’s a sound very similar to that made by the door to the lake cottage of my childhood.

So often we want what we think is better, only to find it is less.  In fact, it is rare to live close to the earth like we did back then, co-existing with squadrons of moths patrolling our light bulbs, and mineral-laced well water pumped straight from the earth.  Back when I shared the sleeping porch with graceful spiders on stilts: granddaddy long legs.

Doors that fit that kind of life - like this very door I am touching right now - aren’t even made anymore.

See?  It locks with a swinging fastener, exactly the way I remember my special door from the past – a silver hook that carved a smooth, pale scar during so many in-and-out visitations.

A door is just a door, until it becomes a symbol of a lifestyle gone with the times.  When it represents the beauty of less, in the form of simplicity and freedom.