The One
April 30, 2010 by Billy Coffey · 14 Comments
image courtesy of photobucket.com
One day God sat upon His heavenly throne and looked down upon all He had made. All the galaxies of all the universes were in His sight. Some were spiral, some flat, some round, but each were wondrous in their size and beauty.
He saw comets whisking about, their tails long and shiny. Suns burst with incredible brilliance. Black holes churned. And He saw the secret places where no eyes but His own ever roamed. Everything turned in a silent celestial dance that many could ponder but only He could understand.
Then the eyes of the Lord settled upon one small galaxy among the millions, then upon one yellow star among the billions, to one pale, blue dot.
Of all the worlds God had created, the blue dot was the most beautiful in His eyes. It was a world of unsurpassed beauty, of churning oceans and majestic mountains, of soaring birds and graceful animals.
But there was something more there. Something far more valuable. For God had made oceans and mountains and creatures on many other worlds and in many other galaxies, but only in this one place, only upon this pale, blue dot, did God fashion beings who carried within them a part of Himself.
Man and Woman, the Lord called them. It was God’s love that gave them life, and it was God’s love that gave them the choice of whether to love Him back. But they chose unwisely. Now, the very ones God had created had forgotten Him. His children had lost their way. And more than that, they had lost their faith.
The pale, blue dot that was once so pure was now nearly ruined. There was war and bloodshed, hate and slavery, pain and suffering. And as the Lord listened, the cries of the people echoed throughout all of heaven. The smile that was upon God’s face began to fade.
Then with a powerful voice He called out, “Michael, come!”
The doors of the throne room opened as Michael the archangel, commander of the armies of heaven, appeared. His clothing shone brighter than the brightest star, and a golden sword hung from his side. As he bowed before the Lord his wings stretched outward, so large and majestic that they seemed to touch the very corners of heaven.
“What is Thy wish, my Lord?” Michael asked.
“Michael,” God answered, “the time has come. Go forth and bring to me the soul unlike all others. Bring to me The One.”
At those words the cherubim again burst into joyful song, for they knew all of heaven had waited for this moment since time itself began. Michael’s smile was lit with the radiance of a hundred suns. “As you wish, my Lord,” he said, drawing his massive sword in salute.
Michael left the presence of God and searched throughout heaven. He walked along the golden streets and by the crystal sea until, finally, he had found whom God had requested, whom God had called The One. The two of them journeyed back to the throne and bowed before the Lord.
“My child,” God said, “do you see the pale, blue dot below you?”
“Yes, Father,” replied The One.
“No world is more precious to Me. And none of the souls I have ever created are more loved by My heart than those whom you see walking upon it. And yet they have forgotten how to live. They have forgotten that they share one Father, and so they quarrel and hate. Their words maim the heart and their actions destroy the soul. Yet My love for them is such that I will not forsake them. They have cried out for My help, and I will answer them. I will send them you.
“You must go and take their form. You will grow to walk among them, and you are to help them remember how I would have them live. Teach them to love one another. Show them that they can have joy. Tell them that they must never take their days for granted. Tell them not to worry and not to fear. Tell them that the Lord watches over them, and that His love is great.
“Take care, My child, and be strong. Let the light I have put in you shine forth and do not forget your purpose, for you will suffer greatly. You will feel the pains of loss, and you will journey to the depths of sadness and despair. These things you must experience, for they are shared by all. Only turn to Me, your Father. I will comfort you in your anguish, I will laugh with you in your joy, and I will bless you abundantly.
“Go now, My child, and make haste, for you are the answer to their prayers. Do not forget Me. Remain strong and courageous, and remember that I look down upon you always.”
With that the precious soul rose up and stood upon the edge of heaven. All the angels gathered there in silence as Michael took The One by the hand and together descended to the tiny, blue dot…
How does the story end? I can’t say. I don’t know.
Because, you see, the story is still happening.
Because you are The One.
Send me
April 28, 2010 by Billy Coffey · 28 Comments
image courtesy of photobucket.com
Despite all of its tourism, Virginia Beach has always been a military town. The naval base was just down the road and to the right of our hotel, and the Oceanic Naval Air Station was just a few miles beyond that.
I guess it was all that testosterone that nearly got me into a lot of trouble Tuesday morning.
My wife and I decided to have an early breakfast at a nice little restaurant down from our hotel. One that didn’t promise the kind of food you could neither pronounce nor eat without proper instruction.
We decided to make our return trip via the sidewalk rather than the boardwalk, thereby avoiding the daily throng of joggers, walkers, and rollerbladers. After all, a good breakfast should always be followed by some good peace and quiet. And that’s exactly what we had for a while. Until I looked up and saw the four men jogging toward us.
“What are these guys doing?” I asked. “Don’t they know to run on the boardwalk with everyone else?”
“Don’t worry about it,” my wife told me.
But I did.
Maybe it was the fact that they weren’t following the rules. Maybe it was the identical blue T shirts with fancy emblems all four of them were wearing. I didn’t know. I did know, however, that there was no way four little jogging club nerds were going to make me move. Oh, no. They were going to get out of my way.
My wife began to veer off to the side, giving them ample room to maneuver past us. I stayed put. Our locked hands went from slack to taut, nearly pulling her off her feet.
“Let them move,” I said. “The sidewalk’s ours.”
She rolled her eyes. It was not the first time she had done so, and very likely not the last. Nonetheless, she surrendered to my macho idiocy.
The four runners crossed the road and onto our block. The two in the lead saw us in the way. Their brows wrinkled.
Uh-huh, I said to myself, I know you see me. I ain’t movin’, either.
The six of us met in front of the Atlantic Sands Oceanfront Hotel.
“Excuse us, sir,” one of the lead men said.
I didn’t move.
“You guys are supposed to be on the boardwalk with the rest of the beautiful people,” I said. “Sidewalk’s ours.”
My wife poked me in the ribs with an elbow. I ignored her.
“Our apologies, sir,” the other lead man said.
Our apologies? I thought. Oh yeah, these guys are SO intimidated by me.
Another poke by my wife. Harder.
“Sheesh,” I said, “I know city folk don’t care about manners and all, but you guys take the cake. You think you–
(poke poke POKE)
–can waltz around anywhere you want!”
(POKE POKE POKE POKE)
“What?” I whispered to my wife. “I have some manly mojo going on here.”
She ignored me. Her eyes were instead fixed on the T shirts of the men in front of us. The blue ones. With the fancy emblems.
I then realized two things. One was that there was another, very unique military base not too far from where we were standing called Naval Amphibious Base, Little Creek. The other was that the fancy emblems on the shirts of those four men said “U.S. Naval Special Warfare.”
I was picking a fight with four Navy SEALs.
My manly mojo drained along with the color from my face.
“Beg your pardon, sir,” the first man said again. “We just like to run out here because there aren’t many folks out this time of morning. We like to keep a quick pace, and that isn’t always easy with all the people on the boardwalk.”
I tried speaking, but all that came out was “Whhh…” I cleared my very dry throat and tried again. “Oh…well, um…good. That’s just…real good.”
“We appreciate that, sir,” he said, then shook my hand. When he did, I noticed the tattoo on his forearm. Written in old script beneath a sword was written, “Isaiah 6:8.”
“Hooyah,” I said.
“Hooyah,” he smile and answered. And off they went.
I didn’t say much on the way back to the hotel, and my wife was kind enough not to say much, either.
I wasn’t thinking about the nasty taste left over from having my foot in my mouth. I was thinking about the scripture tattooed on that Frogman’s arm. Isaiah 6:8. There are other verses in the Bible that carry more meaning for me, but that verse has always been my favorite.
Then I heard the voice of the Lord saying, “Whom shall I send? And who will go for us?” And I said, “Here am I. Send me!”
For four days I relaxed in the sun and the sand, staying up late and sleeping in with little worries and few cares. Yet around me all week were people who dedicated themselves to nothing more than ensuring I could do just that. Rest. Without worry or care. Because they manned the walls and filled the breaches. Men and women who flew the Blackhawks and the fighters, who rose before the sun to run the beaches, who stood watch on the ships so we could sleep in peace.
They endure and train and fight. They are separated from families and loved ones. They live under the constant threat of mortal danger.
Not because they must. Because they choose.
Because each of them said, “Don’t send him. Don’t send her. Send me.”
A fate worse than death
April 27, 2010 by Billy Coffey · 23 Comments
image courtesy of photobucket.com
Last Saturday I donned my best suit and tie and drove to the local funeral home, where I faced the unenviable task of expressing condolences to a family suffering through the worst kind of pain: the death of the man who was both husband and father.
Funeral homes rank just below hospitals as Worst Places I Want to Visit, and it’s still a pretty close race.
The reasons weren’t all that obvious. I knew what was waiting for me on the other side of this world, knew that however much suffering and pain involved in getting there was worth the price, and knew that, in the end, everything would be just fine.
I didn’t like funeral homes because I was afraid of death. I was mournful of the pain the dead left behind. Like the pain felt by the wife left to tend to her family, the children left to mourn their lost innocence, and the parents who were burying their son. Parents who once found comfort in knowing they would pass first through the thin veil between this world and the next, but who were now left with the hard-won knowledge that it’s often the things we most take for granted in life that disappoint us in the end.
Standing in front of the open casket, I pondered who this person was. Son and brother. Soldier. Factory worker. Known to his family as Sweetheart and Dad, Lover and Best Friend. Lived a good life. Was a good man.
“It was so sudden, wasn’t it?” sobbed a stranger beside me.
I nodded to her. She was right. He left for the grocery store and offered a quick “Be back soon” to his family, but what came back was merely the earthen vessel I was looking down upon. One moment here, the next gone.
I moved on to others who represented a small portion of his friends and family, engaging myself in the polite and hushed conversations that funeral homes require. Small talk, mostly. Weather and crops first, which merged into recollections of the deceased second, which moved on to the sadness last.
Each exchange brought a variation of the sobbing woman beside me had said moments before.
“It was so sudden,” she had said.
Echoed by others as:
“He passed so quickly.”
“He died far too young.”
“There was no warning.”
I listened to them all, keeping my answers brief. A Yes to the question of “Horrible, isn’t it?” A nod to “Such a shame.”
A shame, yes. Unfortunate and horrible. But as I looked upon the solemn faces of the gathered, I realized there was far worse shame and misfortune in this life. Far worse horrors.
Should the quickness of a death that must come to us all be cause for added grief? Perhaps. But perhaps it would do us all well to remember that the next moment is never guaranteed. And perhaps it would do us all well to know there is a death worse than what I experienced in that room. One that does not strike with speed, but numbness.
Far worse than the buried dead are those who have perished and yet still walk. Those who have yielded to the crushing weight of the world, who have surrendered their hopes and dreams to the arid winds of despair. Who have seen too much darkness and so surrendered their light, believing it to be too faint to matter.
That life must simply be endured is among the worst of lies. We are not merely to tolerate this world, but overcome it. We are called not to plod on, but to laugh and skip.
God commands us not to guard our hearts, but to give them freely. To feel pain instead of ignoring it, if only so that pain can turn to greater joy. To face our struggles with steeled eyes and iron will. To take the arrows of circumstance in our chests, marching forward, and not our backs in retreat.
This is our duty. Our charge. And to fail is to fail both ourselves and our God. It is to meet the end before our ending. That is the worst death. Not the one that robs the body of its soul, but the heart of its passion.
Nightandloveyou
April 26, 2010 by Billy Coffey · 17 Comments
There’s a lot going on in the Coffey house this week, most notably with regards to my son.
Around nine o’clock or so this morning, we’ll climb into the truck and drive the dozen or so miles to the nearest hospital, where he will spend the majority of the morning saying goodbye to his tonsils. It’s not a big deal, really. Happens a thousand times a day to a thousand different kids. But as this is one particular time and my particular child…well, I’m sure you understand.
Given the fact that today and the rest of the week will call for some extra Daddy Time, I won’t get much time for writing. Instead, I thought it best to take this week to look back on some of my favorite posts of the last year and a half. And since my son will be front and center in my life today, I thought I’d start the week with something about him.
To read it, feel free to hop on over to katdish’s blog. And once you’re done, feel free to offer up a little prayer for my little guy.
Waiting on a miracle
April 23, 2010 by Billy Coffey · 36 Comments
image courtesy of photobucket.com
So I walk over and say, “Afternoon, ma’am.”
“I’m not so sure about that,” she says. Then, as if to clarify, she points to the open maw of her sedan and says, “Stupid car.”
“Someone on the way?” I ask her.
“No. Can’t get hold of anyone.”
I nod. “Mind if I take a look?”
“Be my guest.”
I peek under the hood and check the usual suspects. Battery cables are good. Belts are fine. Plenty of coolant and oil.
“Will it turn over at all?” I ask.
“It acts like it wants to start,” she says, “but then it get stubborn.”
I step around her, climb into the driver’s seat, and turn the ignition. The car sputters and churns, then dies.
“Huh,” I say to no one.
Then, just as I’m about to give up, I check the gauges. Temperature, battery, and oil pressure won’t tell me much if the car isn’t running, but the last gauge will.
“I think I know what’s wrong,” I say.
“What is it?”
“You don’t have any gas.”
There is a pause, then a very quiet, “Oh.”
I climb back out. The two of us stand over the car like it’s a casket at a wake.
“Want me to call the gas station?” I ask her. “Maybe someone can run a can of regular down here. Or I could go get you some.”
She doesn’t answer me, which isn’t so strange. But she raises her face and hands skyward, which really sort of is.
“In the name of Jesus Christ the Risen Savior, I command this car to start!” she screams. Then she looks at me and says, “Try it.”
“Ma’am?”
“Try to start it again.”
The thought occurs to me that I am in the presence of a crazy woman.
“Everything is possible with the Lord,” she says, Lord coming out as Lawd. “I prayed in faith, and if faith can move a mountain, then it can sure get my car started and get me where God needs me to be. So try to start it.”
“Um, ma’am,” I say. “God ain’t gonna put gas in your car. Havin’ faith doesn’t mean you have to lose your head.”
“TRY. IT.”
Okay, fine.
I climb back into the car and turn the ignition. Nothing.
“Maybe you should be the one turnin’ the key,” I say through the windshield. “I reckon I just don’t have enough faith.”
“Fine,” she says. “Step aside.”
I do. She tries. No go.
“Would you like me to go get you some gas, ma’am?”
“No,” she says. “Thank you, but I’ll wait. God will send someone along.”
I let the fact that I just might be that someone slide, told her I was sorry and to have a good day, and left. As I pulled out of the parking lot I looked in the rearview mirror. She was standing in front of the car with her hands to the sky again, no doubt casting out the demons of fuel consumption.
Maybe I’m being too hard on her, I think to myself. But then again, maybe not. Because not only did that lady waste about fifteen minutes of my life, she also set a pretty bad example for Christians.
Yes, God can do anything. And yes, faith can move mountains. Put the two of them together, and I wouldn’t be a bit surprised if somewhere in the history of humanity, a car managed to get where it needed to go without any gas.
But that’s not the norm.
Sometimes I think we count on a miracle too much. That sometimes we trust and believe that God will provide so we won’t have to do as much as He expects from us.
Because God is more than willing to get us where He needs us to go, and faith will help get us there.
But it’s up to us to make sure the tank’s full.
The Bad Between
April 21, 2010 by Billy Coffey · 39 Comments
photo courtesy of Beckey Zimmerman
I see him by the steps as I pull up. Standing there, staring at the door. He’s still there when I park, still there as I climb out of my truck with shopping list in hand. Still there when I sidle up beside him.
“Hey Charlie,” I say.
He turns and looks at me. “Hey.”
“Whatcha doin’?”
“Oh,” he says, “just waitin’.”
“Uh-huh,” I answer.
I decide not to say anything else. I know what might happen if I do, and I know what might happen after that. Because Charlie is one of those people who can start a conversation in the real world and finish it somewhere in the Twilight Zone.
But then I figure what the heck, I have some time to kill.
“You know,” I say, “they’re not gonna bring your groceries out to you. You gotta go in and get them yourself.”
Charlie nods. “Yep,” he says. “I’ll be going in directly. Just gotta wait for it to leave.”
“Gotta wait for what to leave?”
Charlie points to the flying speck of something in front of the door and says, “That.”
I squint my eyes and stare ahead, trying to figure out what I’m looking at. After careful consideration, I decide it’s a bumblebee.
“You’re not going in because there’s a bee in your way?” I ask.
“Yep.” Then he says, “Nope,” just in case he got his words mixed up.
The door swooshes open then as an older woman rolls her grocery cart out, oblivious to the certain death that hovered over her. Charlie winces as she walks past, exhaling only after she was clear of the danger zone.
“You allergic to bees, Charlie?”
“Nope.”
I nod, trying to find the right words to ask him what I need to ask him next. “You, um…you ain’t, you know…afraid of them, are you?”
“Nope.”
I nod again. “Okay, well want me to go get your beer?”
I don’t know for sure that Charlie is here for his beer. He might be low on something else, maybe hamburger or peanut butter or ice cream, because Charlie loves his ice cream. But he loves his beer even more, and I have a feeling that his shaky right hand isn’t completely due to the bee.
“Nah,” he says. “I’ll go. I got the time to wait. Just don’t wanna get stung.”
It’s then that I realized Charlie really is afraid. I’m not convinced that is a bad thing, though. No one likes getting stung by a bee. It hurts. Everyone knows that.
More than that, I realize people do this sort of thing all the time. Myself included. We all eventually realize not just where we were, but also where we want to be. And we realize there is usually some sort of Bad blocking the way. It could be a rejection slip or an unreturned phone call. Could be nerves or insecurity. Could even be the prospect of success after years of failure.
Regardless of what it is, that’s what’s floating between you and it. Between where you are and where you want to go.
The size of what’s blocking your way doesn’t matter either, because the fact of the matter is this—there is risk involved in proceeding further. You could fall. You could fail. You could be disappointed.
You could get stung.
And that hurts. Everyone knows that.
The alternative, of course, is to stay where you are. With practice and dedication you may convince yourself that you’ve gotten this far, which is further than some and maybe even most. That might be good enough. And you might even begin to believe that holding onto the prospect of what you could have done will be good enough.
I could have been a writer. Or a teacher. Or a nurse. I could have gone to school. I could have had that job or that career. But there was this Bad between me and it and, well, things just didn’t work out.
But you know what? That never works.
I know from experience that Could Have is just the same as Never Did.
“I’m gonna go in, Charlie,” I say. Then I look at him. “You know that bee’s gonna fly right out of my way, right? Because I’m bigger than the bee.”
“Yep.”
“Okay, then.”
I leave him there at the door and pick up the few things on my list. Charlie’s still standing there when I head back to my truck.
“Don’t want to get stung,” he says again.
“I know,” I answer.
Mondays with Jack
April 19, 2010 by Billy Coffey · 39 Comments
image courtesy of photobucket.com
My son says, “Daddy, is it Monday?”
“Yep, sure is.”
“Okay. Well then I guess I’ll shut the door and go to bed.”
“Shut the door?” I ask him. “Why should you shut the door?”
“Because it’s Monday,” he says. “Mom says you turn into a crazy man on Mondays.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Oh, really? I had no idea.”
He shrugs and says, “She says it’s Jack’s fault. And you do sound crazy. So I guess I’ll shut my door so I can sleep. Who’s Jack?”
“No one you know,” I say. And I smile, because he is right and she is right. I do tend to lose a little control on Mondays. And it is because of Jack.
When I first met Jack Bauer, he was interrogating a child molester who had been granted immunity in return for information he had about a supposed terror cell bent on detonating a nuclear bomb in Los Angeles. Jack was frustrated. The bomb was set to go off in two hours. The endless lawyer-wrangling and red tape was ensuring a win for the bad guys, and Jack was determined to not let the bad guys win.
Extreme measures had to be taken. Jack had to find a way to infiltrate the cell and put an end to the whole mess, but he needed to be trusted by the terrorists. He had to make them think he was on their side.
So he did what any good anti-hero would do. He shot the child molester in the chest, turned to his stunned boss, and said, “I’m gonna need a hacksaw.”
I remember eating a bowl of ice cream while watching that episode. I remember dropping my spoon into the bowl when Jack pulled his gun and fired. Remember staring wide-eyed with vanilla oozing from the corners of my mouth when he made the “hacksaw” comment.
And I remember whispering to myself, “That…was…awesome.”
Thus began my eight-year friendship with Jack Bauer. I’ve never missed an episode of 24 since. I’m not ashamed of that, either. I am a peaceful man. By no means a pacifist, but neither violence-hungry. But if you’ve taken the time to get to know that character and that show, then you understand. Jack Bauer is everything most are not but maybe secretly wish they could be. He is unafraid and confident and determined. He has a clear distinction between good and evil. And though the needle on his moral compass may be bent at times, it always points due north.
I could leave it at that, and for the sake of my family probably should. But I don’t. Because whether it’s the action or the tension or the characters, I get sucked in every time. And it’s noisy. Just ask my son.
A typical Monday night will find me on the sofa and my wife in the recliner. That way she figures she’s close enough to talk to me during commercials but far enough away during the show that her eardrums won’t burst when I yell things like, “KILL him, Jack! KILL. HIM!!”
“I hate this show,” my wife will say between papers to grade.
“Shh!” I’ll answer. “It’s the good part.”
“You think all of it is the good part.”
“Shh!” I’ll say, then, “Kill him!”
This goes far beyond mere vengeance against the bad guys, though. I scream at other people on the show, too.
I call the politically-correct White House staff idiots.
I call the inept higher-ups pansies.
And I call whomever happens to try and prevent Jack from saving the world…well, never mind.
Childish, I know. Childish and maybe more than a little barbaric. I should act better. Be better. And I usually am. Just not on Mondays.
It’s tough keeping yourself in control sometimes. It’s hard to turn the other cheek and love people as yourself and do unto others as you’d have them do unto you.
It’s a process, our becoming. It’s standing up and moving on and knowing all the while that we’ll fall again.
This is the last season of 24. My wife and children are joyous at that. Me, I’m not. I’m going to miss Jack. I’m even going to miss my yelling. Because it’s a good reminder that we can’t always be whom we’re supposed to be because we’re always stuck with who we are.
This post is part of the One Word at a Time Blog Carnival: Self Control, hosted by Bridget Chumbley.
The Rules
April 19, 2010 by Billy Coffey · 3 Comments
![scan0005[1]](http://www.billycoffey.com/wp-content/uploads/2010/04/scan00051-300x238.jpg "scan0005[1]")
Once upon a time, I was a baseball player. And that’s putting it mildly.
It would be closer to the point to say I was a baseball fanatic. While most teenaged boys would have posters of scantily-clad women or music groups tacked to their bedroom walls, I had ballplayers. And while most would spend their free time perusing the latest issue of Rolling Stone, I would spend mine with Baseball Digest.
You get the idea.
Fortunately (and I can say that now–”fortunately”), God had other things in mind for my future. Baseball was my first true love, and our breakup was a tough one.
Though the two of us have gone our separate ways, we still have opportunities now and then for a little flirtation. One of those opportunities came last week, care of my job.
College kids are cocky by design. They know much about the world and little about themselves, and the combination results in broad declarations and high claims. So when the girls fastpitch softball team challenged the faculty and staff to a game, the results were obvious. And not.
To hear the story, follow me over to katdish’s blog. You’ll learn a little about softball in the process. And a lot about life.
Every season
April 16, 2010 by Billy Coffey · 23 Comments
image courtesy of photobucket.com
I’m standing on my front porch in the early a.m., as is my habit before starting the day. A cup of coffee and a view of the neighborhood serves as my morning news, and it’s all the news I need. The mountains and the creek are right where I left them last night. I need that assurance. It reminds me that even if the world’s a mess, the mountains and the creek are still here and so am I.
My eyes wander to the flower beds below me, and then to the green something poking up from the mulch and dirt. To me, flowers have always been like people I meet once and then again months later—I can place what they look like but can’t seem to remember their names. So ask if me if we have roses and daisies and begonias, and I’ll answer no. I will say, however, that we have red flowers and white flowers and pink flowers.
But these green things shooting up from the earth? These I know.
Tulips.
The tulips are the first spring flowers to sprout around here. Which to me makes them much more than just a plant, but a vital part of nature’s calendar. When you begin to see tulips, you know better times are at hand. No more cold, no more snow, no more gray skies and bare trees. Everything is about to be make new again.
Seeing that first tulip means I’ve made it. That I’ve survived one more long and dreary winter.
That’s how it usually is, anyway. But as I stand there staring down at this first true sign of spring, all the joy and peace I know I should be feeling isn’t there.
Because I’ve cheated, you see. These aren’t the first tulips I’ve seen this year.
The local nursery is owned by relatives of mine, Mennonites with green thumbs. They can grow anything. And thanks to the modern marvels of both science and climate controlled greenhouses, they can grow anything at any time. Even in the middle of the worst winter I could remember.
So in the middle of January and our third consecutive snowstorm, I stopped one day to say hello and buy some tulips. Things were getting pretty blah at that point, and so was I. I was tired of having to endure and scrape by. Tired of the sadness and outright heartache that winter always seems to bring.
I needed an act of defiance. A symbol of hope.
So I brought the tulips home and sat them right in front of the window. I’d stare at them as the snow fell and thumb my nose at Old Man Winter. When they died, I bought more. And then more. I’ve had tulips for about two months now in an effort to thwart the one barren and agonizing season I dread most.
It’s worked, too.
Maybe too well.
Because as I look down upon this miracle of God below me, it doesn’t seem like a miracle at all. It just seems like a tulip.
The rusty tumblers of my mind click into place and open, revealing a very important truth. I had wanted to skip a season. Winter and I have never gotten along, so I thought keeping a steady supply of spring on hand would cheer me. I was right about that. I did.
But I never considered the consequences of having those flowers by the window. I was so consumed with the now that I dismissed the later. I surrounded myself with a symbol of joy and warmth for so long that it became the same old. My tulips lost their luster not by becoming rare, but by becoming familiar.
Which is why next year I think I’ll leave them at the nursery down the road. I’ll let someone else give it a try. I will instead take the seasons as they come. I’ll revel in the sunshine while I have it and then stumble through the months of cold and gray as best as I can.
We’re not meant for perpetual joy, I think. There are seasons in the world and there are seasons in us, and each have their own purpose.
We are made for winter as much as spring. Made for tears as much as for laughter.
And we are here not just to dance, but to endure.
Leaving a Path
April 14, 2010 by Billy Coffey · 6 Comments
Photo by Ann Voskamp
I’ve been a father for eight years now, but it was only last weekend when I finally figured out what exactly being a father meant. I had the basics down, of course. I knew a father was a guide and a shepherd and a protector. An encourager. And, for better or worse, the foundation for his children’s initial impression of God. Many theologians and pastors believe our opinions of our Heavenly Father are borrowed from our opinions of our earthly ones.
I agree with that, I really do. Which is why I approach my job with the utmost seriousness.
But like I said, I’ve struggled with what that all meant for the last eight years.
Then came Saturday evening, when I washed the truck and the car.
Part of my responsibility is to teach my children some of their own. We’re a family. A household. Four people who have to work together in order to keep things running in a smooth fashion.
Which means them pitching in wherever and whenever needed—clearing the dinner table, keeping their bedrooms clean, and, when their father is rushed, helping to wash the vehicles…
To read the rest of this post, follow me to HighCallingBlogs…
I’m a writer whose first novel, Snow Day, will be published by FaithWords in 2010.
But don’t let that fool you. I’m just as confused as anyone.
And that is fine with me, because the great thing about wandering around in the fog is that you never know what you might run into.
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