Farther along
August 22, 2011 by Billy Coffey · 23 Comments
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She and her husband were in the back row. That was the accustomed place for my family and in-laws, as we are numerous enough to require an entire pew unto ourselves. We scrunched in, the seven of us seated at her and her husband’s left, careful not to bump her wheelchair.
“I love you,” she said, first to my wife and then my daughter. Her words were muffled and childlike, as if spoken in surprise and through a mouth filled with marbles.
“I love you,” she said to the couple who approached her. They placed their hands on her shoulders and spoke in calm and deliberate words. They asked how she was feeling, how she was. “I love you,” she said again, and the smile on her face said more than her faded vocabulary could.
The preacher—“I love you”—said he loved her right back. He tucked his worn leather Bible under his left arm and took her hand in both of his. I watched as the muscles in his forearm flexed, giving her fingers a light squeeze, praising God.
“I love you.”
The congregation settled into the Sunday morning ritual of greeting/prayer/announcement. The pianist then began the opening of the first hymn—“To God be the Glory”—and all but she stood to praise the Lord in song.
To God be the glory, great things He hath done…
The slow movement to my left was hers. She placed one frail hand upon her husband’s and bid him to help her stand. He placed his arms around her and hefted her up, steadying her against the gravity that pushed down on her and the mind that worked to make sense of it all. I wondered if this too was the glory of God, a great thing He hath done.
I watched her as she sang, her voice too soft to stand with the others but her lips moving free, mouthing not O perfect redemption, the purchase of blood, but I love you I love you I love you I love.
I watched her, and what I saw was the woman she once was rather than the woman she was now. The Sunday school teacher, the choir member, the woman who organized Bible School in the summer and the Christmas program in the winter, the woman who at the young age of barely fifty had suffered a stroke that erased much of who she’d been and replaced it with a child imprisoned in a cell of flesh and blood. A child who needed help to move and wash and eat and whose vocabulary was condensed to three words.
I love you.
Act II of the Sunday morning ritual contained further announcements and a brief presentation by the church’s youngsters. Do not ask me what was said, I don’t know. I suppose I should have been listening, but I was watching her. Watching as she eased back into her wheelchair and looked out with bright but confused eyes. Watching as she said I love you to her husband.
We rose for the offertory hymn, this “Worthy of Worship,” a congregational favorite. She remained seated this time—she’s so tired now, not like before—but mouthed her own translation nonetheless, mouthing
I love you I love, you I love you
where we sang
Worthy of rev’rence, worthy of fear
And I wondered upon looking at her—God help me, but I did—that her sight made me fear God but also tempted me not to reverence Him. What God was worthy of reverence who could allow such a thing to one of His own? To pardon the darkness of this world and allow it to strip this woman down? To leave her a husk of what she once was and call it good?
For much the same reasons I missed the children’s presentation, I missed the sermon. The congregation rose. I joined them when I saw that she and I were the only people not standing. Three men stood behind the podium, songbooks in their hands, as the piano began the closing hymn, Farther Along.
I did not sing. Could not. I was watching her instead, still not knowing the Why—it’s always the Why that trips me up—but knowing that the fears and worries that once upon a time defined her living did no more. Like her body, her life had been reduced to the most fundamental level, one where Hello and Goodbye and Thank you and Praise the Lord all mean I love you, and perhaps that is what it should mean for all of us.
I joined in on the last refrain:
Farther along we’ll know all about it,
Farther along we’ll understand why.
Cheer up my brother, live in the sunshine,
We’ll understand it all by and by.
Nighttime prayers
August 15, 2011 by Billy Coffey · 14 Comments
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An important part of my nighttime routine is making a final pass through the house. I make sure the doors are locked and the outside light is on. Make sure the morning coffee is ready—it’s the smell of coffee and not the sound of the alarm that gets me out of bed—and the lights above the sink are shining—just in case someone wakes in the middle of the night thirsty. I’ll check to make sure my son is adequately covered and hasn’t flopped and flipped his blankets off. My final stop is to check my daughter’s sugar, because she may sleep and we all may sleep, but diabetes never does.
I always pray over my children then. Every night, without fail. They don’t know this; I’ve never told them. I suppose doing so is as much for my benefit as theirs. I have an uneasy relationship with the night. It’s the time of day when I often get most of my work done, and yet I spend much of that time peering into the shadows for what isn’t there.
My prayers are the usual ones—help us to sleep well, bless our family, let Your angels stand guard. And keep us safe, always that. Always a lot of that.
I heard a preacher the other day talk about praying for safety. He said Christians shouldn’t place so much of a premium on that, that this is pretty much one of the safest countries in the world and so we’re pretty much wasting our words, that we should instead pray for boldness because that’s what we need more. He said we’re often content to remain where we are because that’s where everything is safe and familiar, when God wants us to go forth and conquer new lands within and without.
I’ll admit he stepped on my toes a little with that. It’s probably true that I need more boldness than safety, just as true about those new lands. And I’ll say that fear plays an important part in my life and maybe too much, what with all those shadows and whatnot.
So maybe instead of praying that God will keep us safe, I should pray that He will keep us on our toes. And rather than asking that His angels stand guard over us, I should pray that they will charge ahead of us into new places and new ways of seeing things. Maybe I’ve been tricked into thinking that my life is better thought of as something to be endured rather than made better, as if my purpose in being here is to comfort myself before I comfort others.
Maybe.
But maybe praying for safety is important, too. It reminds me that despite what everyone in my family may believe, I’m small. Just a tiny speck in a big world, one that oftentimes is much more scary than it is beautiful. And one who often needs a great deal of help.
Perhaps if I had the faith of the preacher I heard the other day, I wouldn’t need to ask for so much safety. Perhaps if I had his view of the world, I would see no reason to fear anything. I would see the battle as already won and the last sentence already written, one with an exclamation point rather than a period.
I hope to have that sort of faith one day. For now, I don’t. For now, I look at this world and see more shadows than light and more of what could go wrong than what has already gone right.
In the name of Jayzus!
July 25, 2011 by Billy Coffey · 14 Comments
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I was winning.
Nothing too strange about that. The backyard baseball games with my son are usually close on purpose, which is much more important than who wins or loses. Sometimes I let him win in an effort to teach him how to be a gracious victor. And sometimes I makes sure he loses, because being a gracious failure is equally important. He’s going to face both triumph and setback in life. Best to teach him about both now, when he’s young.
This time, though, I was going to leave the end result to him. He would win or lose on his own, and it all came down to one pitch.
So.
Tie game, two outs, last inning. A homerun (in our backyard, homeruns are anything that passes the maple tree in the air) wins. Anything else, and he’d have to wait until the next evening to try again. Mother and sister were on the porch, watching and cheering. He took his stance, glared, and tapped on the rock we used for home plate.
I had already started my windup when he called time. Rather than take another practice swing or spit, he raised his hands in the air, looked to the heavens, and said, “In the name of Jayzus, lemme hit a homer!”
Laughter from the porch. I wrinkled my brow. Said, “What are you doing?”
“Heard it on the radio,” he told me. “Preacher said God gives me anythin’ if I ask in the name of Jayzus.”
Oh. Jayzus = Jesus. Okay then.
He stepped back in, tapped the bat on the rock. Glared. I threw. He hit.
Over the maple tree. Homerun.
That’s how it started.
Since then, the name of Jayzus has been bandied about quite often in our house. I heard it the next evening when my son lost the Lego spaceship he’d built—“In the name of Jayzus, come back to me!” Heard it again a few hours later—“In the name of Jayzus, save me from the bathtub!”
And then this morning—“In the name of Jayzus, let me at a Pop-Tart and not eggs!”
Comical, yes. And I suppose it’s even more comical that in all those instances, things worked out just the way he wanted. He did find his Lego spaceship. And since he’d stayed indoors all day because it was about a million degrees outside, we allowed him to forgo his bath. And we were out of eggs this morning, out of everything really. Except for Pop-Tarts.
My son thinks he has quite a thing going on here. He believes he’s just stumbled on the secret to life, that he’s won some sort of supernatural lottery. You should see him strutting around.
Me, I say nothing. Sometimes it’s best to let these things play out on their own. Sticking my Daddy Nose into it, telling him he’s really kind of wrong about the whole thing, won’t work. The big things in life tend to be the ones you have to learn on your own.
Besides, I really don’t think I’m qualified to add any wisdom. Not with this. Because I pretty much do the same thing.
I use God as a rabbit’s foot. I tend to keep him around in my pocket and pull Him out whenever there’s trouble. Not so much when I lose a Lego spaceship, but definitely when I want something bad to go away. Or when I want something good to get a little closer.
Or just when I want.
Truth is, I’m no better than my son.
Maybe what’s best is that I talk to him about this after all. Just be honest and say that yes, he’s doing something wrong, but so am I. And maybe we can figure out this thing together.
Because God wants us all to love Him for who He is, not for what He can give.
What I was doing when the Rapture didn’t happen
May 23, 2011 by Billy Coffey · 10 Comments
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Saturday, May 22, 5:50 pm.
I could tell you the reason why I’m presently walking the widow Pence’s dog has nothing at all to do with Harold Camping’s promise that the Rapture is mere minutes away, but I’d be lying. The truth is that I’m doing this precisely because we’re all going to die.
You’ve heard of Harold Camping, yes? Me neither. Not until this week, when the Drudge Report got hold of his story. Seems Mr. Camping, who runs some sort of religious broadcasting network in California, fancies himself a bit of a math whiz. He’s crunched the numbers and decided that according to the Bible, Saturday is the beginning of the end. Better hang on folks, he says, because this ain’t gonna be pretty.
This is what I’m thinking about while walking widow Pence’s dog—Buttercup is her name, a white poodle who looks like the business end of the mop I use on the wood floors in the house. She’s a happy dog, unlike her grouchy owner.
The problem with Buttercup in general and the widow Pence in particular began a few Saturdays ago. Ms. Pence had moved into the house down the road and minded her own business. There was no neighborliness about her. Rumor on the street was that she chased away a few neighborhood kids whose kickball had strayed into her front yard. That seemed to be the sum total of her social interaction.
She’s a non-waver too, which does not help her case. Neighbors wave to one another. It’s common courtesy. Ms. Pence was not interested in waving, much less saying hello. She walked Buttercup nightly around the block, their heads both high and pompous and their eyes fixed straight ahead.
So, Saturday a few weeks ago.
Busy day, lots to do, the first of which was to pile a load of trash and brush onto the back of my redneck hoopty truck and haul it all to the dump. I pulled out of the driveway and turned left—why it was left and not right I do not know, I can only assume God decided to teach me something—past the widow Pence’s house.
I assumed the white mass in the middle of the road was a bit of discarded trash whipped there by the wind, but then it moved. Wagged, actually.
Buttercup.
She did not move, merely sat right there where she was and looked at me. I stopped ten feet in front of her, the hoopty’s engine growing, impatient, as if asking me what was going on and hurry up already because we had a lot to do that day.
I put the truck into neutral and gunned the engine, thinking that would be enough to scare her out of the middle of the road. No such luck. Tried the horn. Same result. She just sat there with her tongue out, which was likely because she was hot but I nonetheless took for mockery.
I couldn’t pull around her to either side; a boat and a car were blocking the way. So there I sat, my Saturday and my pride in peril because some little pansy dog wouldn’t get out of my way.
I stuck my head out the window. Said, “Hey dummy, get outta my way.”
Nothing.
So I tried louder, “I’m gonna squish you into a fluffy white pancake.”
At which point Buttercup sauntered toward her front yard. Not because of me, mind you. Because of the widow Pence. Who had been standing there watching and listening the whole time.
“You have some nerve, young man,” she said. “How dare you speak that way?”
What followed was not among my brighter moments. In deference to space and time, I’ll skip over that. Suffice it to say that by the time I pulled away, the widow Pence and I did not like each other. At all.
And that’s how it stood between us until this week, when I read about Mr. Harold Camping’s math skills. The truth is that I fully expect this world to chug on as it always has in the next ten minutes. If Jesus doesn’t know when the end is going to come, I doubt some guy with a pencil and a piece of paper does.
But still, the end will come. Sometime.
We don’t know when or where, but it’ll happen for each of us. We’d better be ready. Say the things we need to say, do the things we need to go. Love and make amends.
Which is why I walked over to the widow Pence’s house and apologized. Why I talked her into letting me take Buttercup for a walk. And why she is at this moment two steps in front of me on the leash, no doubt relishing in the snickers I’m getting from the other people on the street.
But that’s okay. Because if my end doesn’t come in the next few minutes, it will eventually. At least I’ll have one less thing on my mind when I go.
The last Christmas present
January 20, 2011 by Billy Coffey · 35 Comments
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There was one last gift under the tree when we took the decorations down. I remember my wife and I looking at one another when we saw it. It was a small look followed by an even smaller one and punctuated by a shake of my head. We ended up putting it aside away from the children’s eyes. It now sits beneath the small table in front of our living room window. I suppose that’s where it’ll stay, at least for now.
It’s a box of chocolates. His favorite, from what I understand. The maroon wrapping paper is neatly folded over it. On the front is a tag. Written on it in the somewhat shaky hand of a child just getting her printing muscles sharpened is his name and the names of my two children.
The chocolates were supposed to have been delivered the last day of school before Christmas vacation. The man was a teacher’s aide, and a good one. He helped my wife during a few classes a day. She said he was a hard worker and good with the students. He helped in my daughter’s class as well, most recently on a science experiment that focused on constructing something that would keep an egg from breaking when dropped ten feet.
It snowed the night before that last day of school though, giving my kids an early Christmas present in the form of a snow day. I remember the kids were upset about that. My wife calmed them by saying they’d be able to give him his present the day they went back. It would be like stretching Christmas out and into the new year. They liked that idea.
Looking back, I wish it hadn’t snowed that day. I wish my kids would have gone to school. They would have gotten to give him his present. It may have been a nice goodbye.
Word came a few days after Christmas that he had quit to find a better job elsewhere. It was sad, but understandable. It’s tough making it these days. No one’s going to blame you for trying to find a better life.
Then, a few days later, came the news reports. First the television, then the paper.
He’d been arrested for allegedly molesting a child.
The school was quick to inform us the incident happened at the man’s home and seemed to be isolated. Neither of those facts offered much comfort. It seemed as though every time I walked into the living room, the first thing I’d see was that present.
It wasn’t a hard decision to keep the news from our children. They were still under the impression that he’d quit, and that was an impression we would leave in place. Unfortunately, other parents thought differently. On the first day back to school, one of my daughter’s classmates told her the man was in jail. Thankfully, she didn’t say why. That omission didn’t matter much to my daughter. Knowing someone you like very much is in jail is enough to break your heart. Why that person is there is irrelevant.
The Christian thing would be to pile the family in the truck and deliver it to his home. The news said he’s out on bail now and awaiting trial. I would imagine he would appreciate even a small gift of chocolates right about now. Whether he’s guilty or not, I’m sure he’s lonely.
That’s what Jesus would do.
Jesus might drive on over to that man’s house, give him a hug, and say I love you, but I can’t. I’m not Jesus. I’m just a dad who can’t stop thinking his family bought a Christmas present for someone who may be a child molester.
My mind keeps returning to the science experiment he and my daughter worked on. The one with the egg. Her team ended up using a concoction of toilet paper, cardboard, and marshmallows to catch the egg when it dropped. They won first place. Theirs was the only entry that kept the egg from breaking.
I wonder if he thought about that. I wonder if he realized eggs are like kids. Easily broken. That’s why you have to protect them. Why you have to love them and cherish them and do your best to keep the world away from them. Because the innocence they possess is the purest thing there is, and because they don’t have to be like you to enter the kingdom of heaven, you have to be like them.
I suppose he didn’t think of that. I wish he would have.
So I ask you, dear reader: What would you do with my box of chocolates?
So Much More
April 23, 2009 by Billy Coffey · 41 Comments
I’m standing in the local Starbucks, getting the stink-eye from the cashier. She doesn’t like me, this woman. She told me so. “I can’t stand people like you,” she had mumbled under her breath a few moments before.
“Please?” I try once more, looking at my cup. “You mean you don’t have any?”
“I’m trying to save the planet here, sir,” she answers. “We’re all in the circle of life. What happens to the earth happens to us, you know.”
Circle of life? I think. What is this, The Lion King?
“I thought you were just making me some coffee.”
“Well, I did,” she answers, scooting the cup toward me.
I’m beaten. I know this. Knew it the first time I asked her. And I deserved it, too. This is what I get for driving to Starbucks for a four dollar cup of coffee when I could have just made my own at home. But some days are just made for a venti caramel macchiato, regardless of the consequences.
My mistake was going out the door ignorant of the fact that it was Earth Day. Had I realized that, I would have definitely stayed at home. Because Earth Day is when many of the normally sane people you meet during the day turn crazy. Much like the lady behind the register at Starbucks.
And this whole thing began well enough. She smiled asked what I’d like, and I’d smiled and gave her my order. She smiled and made my coffee, and I smiled and said thank you.
But then I couldn’t find a sleeve to put over my cup.
“Excuse me,” I said. “You wouldn’t happen to have any sleeves laying around back there, would you?”
I failed to make the connection. “Why?” I asked.
“Because it’s better for the Earth.”
“It’s better for the Earth if I drink my coffee without a sleeve?”
“We’re trying to reduce our carbon footprint, sir. I’m sure you understand.”
“Sure,” I answered. “Absolutely.”
So. It was either find a sleeve or stand there and wait for it to cool down.
“Ma’am,” I said. “You sure you don’t have a sleeve around here? This is pretty hot.”
“Sir, we’re really asking that you try and make due. It’s a little sacrifice to make for what we’ve done to our planet. I mean, let’s face it. The world would be better off without us around polluting it. A lot of our customers are bringing their own sleeves now.”
So now I have to bring my own sleeves to Starbucks? I already have to bring my own bags to the grocery store. Keep this up, and I’ll have to buy an even bigger SUV to haul everything around. What’ll they say then?
With little options available, I waited.
“Happy Earth Day, by the way,” she said, wiping down the counter in front of me. “I love Earth Day. It’s so…spiritual.”
“It is?” I asked her.
“Sure. You don’t think so?”
I tried picking up the cup again, then let go when I heard the sizzle on my fingers. “I guess it’s good. Important, maybe. But not spiritual.”
“But we’re all made to be spiritual creatures.”
“Yes.”
“Then you should feel a spiritual connection with Earth.”
“Why?”
At which point came the “We are Earth” comment.
So here we are, her and I, together yet separated. And by more than a simple counter. By the way we see our world.
I agree with her in this way: we are all made to be spiritual creatures. Whether we choose to believe so or not. But her thoughts ended there. Mine went further.
More than merely spiritual, we are special. Part earth, yes. Also part divine. Blessed with a spark of God that we may either kindle into a burning inferno or a tiny ember. Put here so that we may know and love Him, that we may know and love others, and that we may be good stewards of his world.
I love Earth. Love its mountains and its seas. Love clean air and clear water. I reduce and reuse and recycle. Not to show my love for Mother Nature. To show my love for Father God.
This lady in front of me is wrong. We’re not a little lower than the earth.
We’re a little lower than the angels.
I touch my cup one more time. No sizzle.
“You’re right,” I tell her as I leave. “We are Earth. But we are also so much more.”
How You Wear Your Hat
March 10, 2009 by Billy Coffey · 12 Comments
(My thanks to Tina Dee for spotlighting me on Bustles and Spurs. If you’d like to read her post, go here.)
Now, about that hat…
I come from a long line of hat-wearers, which has little to do with the fact that all the men in my family are…uh…follically challenged. My grandfather wore a hat every day of his life. Never went out the door without one. So, too, does my father, who carries on the tradition with an array of ball caps that pronounces his allegiance to everything from the University of Virginia football team to Callaway golf clubs.
Ball caps have become my choice of head garment as well, and I own many. But I have always wanted a fedora like my grandfather’s. He loved his hat. Always made a point to lambaste me for thinking my Yankee hat was the proper equivalent to his, too. “Comparing your hat to mine,” he would say, “is like comparing Tom Cruise to Gary Cooper.”
Point taken.
When my favorite ball cap recently began to show a little excess wear, I thought it might finally be time to buy a proper hat.
Then, after the UPS man dropped it on the porch and I tried it on, I had another thought:
Maybe it’s not.
Not because I didn’t like it (I did), and not because my wife did not give her approval (she did). No, it was because of the peculiar sensation I was getting that even though I was a fedora guy on the inside, maybe I wasn’t ready to be one on the outside.
Yes, I am thirty-six. And yes, peer pressure shouldn’t matter so much anymore. Yet here I am nearly twenty years out of high school, and I have yet to rid myself of the overwhelming need to fit in. Walking around all day hearing chuckles and a chorus of “Hey Indiana”? Not fitting in.
***
I kept the hat. I suppose I could say that I did so because I loved it and decided that meant more than what anyone else would say. That would be partly true. The other part of the truth was that returning the hat would require filling out paperwork, a trip to the UPS store, and more time than I could spare. Sad, I know. But true. Which left only one other option: I could keep the hat on the shelf in my closet, hidden away from the world, and bring it out only within the safe confines of my family.
But that didn’t sound right. I am a great pretender. Adept at not revealing those aspects of myself that run contrary to the perceived norm. The real me is masqueraded daily in elaborate costumes designed to both hide and reveal depending upon my immediate surroundings. I am rarely me in public. Not wholly, anyway.
And I’m not just talking about my love for fedoras. My desire to not cause waves, to go with the flow, extends to other things. Things like my faith.
How many times have I sat with a group of friends laughing at jokes I should not be laughing at? And how many times have I been silent when I should have spoken, and spoken when I should have been silent? How many times should I have said “I’ll pray for you” rather than “It’ll be okay”? How many opportunities have I missed to point the way to Christ?
When judgment comes and the sheep are separated, how many of the condemned will shout my name and say, “Why didn’t you tell me?”
I was about to put my hat where I often put my faith. On a shelf in the closet of my life. Visible only among those close to me, where it’s safe.
Those parts of us that we hide for fear of chuckles and snorts, whether as incongruous a the love for a hat or as serious as the faith we hold true, are us. Who we are. To live any other way is to live a lie. And I for one was tired of the costumes.
***
I’ve worn both my hat and my faith the same way since: out in the open, for all to see. I’m wearing them now as a matter of fact, sitting beneath the shade of an oak at work. People pass. They smile and wave and say to those with them, “Now that’s a hat.” People like my hat. And I’m glad they do.
It’s a good start, I think. But I hope it won’t end there. Maybe soon they’ll smile and wave and say to those with them, “Now that’s a Christian.”
To Stand and Sing
March 3, 2009 by Billy Coffey · 15 Comments
We had a cowboy at church last Sunday. Four rows up and two rows over from me. Tall and slender, wearing faded blue jeans and a crisp, striped shirt. His mustache resembled the sort that one would grow while stranded on a desert island, and his weathered Stetson sat in the chair next to him.
I’d never seen him before, though that didn’t necessarily mean he was a visitor. Our church is a pretty big one, and our congregation is generally in the hundreds. Good in a way, not so good in others.
The service began with the obligatory hymn and prayer, after which the choir took its place and the minister of music took the microphone.
“I know there are a lot of people here who are struggling financially in these times,” she said. “It’s easy to feel as though God has somehow abandoned you, and it’s hard to reach out to someone for help. So as we sing these next few songs, I’d like to ask that anyone who is being burdened by life take a seat and pray. If you’re around someone who sits, take a moment to place a hand upon them. Pray with them and for them. Let them know they’re not alone.”
A few sat. Many more wanted to, I think, but didn’t. Pride can be a stubborn thing, even in church.
The cowboy, I noticed, sat halfway through the first verse. It was a sudden motion, one not done with much reservation, as if the hidden weight of his life refused to let him stand any longer. He was still for a moment, bent over as if something on the back of the chair in front of him demanded his attention.
Then he buried his face in his hands and wept.
Cowboys didn’t cry. I had known that since childhood. There was a poster thumbtacked to my bedroom wall that had the Cowboy Code on it. Cowboys never cry was number four, right after cowboys always eat their supper.
Yet there he was, using his calloused hands to wipe his fragile tears. His mouth moved slowly, almost imperceptibly, as he uttered his prayer. The concerned hands of his neighbors were gently placed on his back one by one as the choir continued to sing.
As the second verse began, the cowboy did something quite unexpected. He stood. Not slowly as if beaten, but purposefully with intent. He straightened his shirt, wiped his tears one more time, and took a deep breath.
And then he sang.
Not merely with lungs and voice, but with faith and hope. He sang words of God’s love and provision, of His undying devotion and saving grace. It was an act of protest against the decaying affect of his circumstances and the doubt they caused.
He sang. And there was prayer in his melody.
We think of courage as a virtue reserved for only a select few. Soldiers who defend us. Policemen who protect us. Firemen who rescue us. And while their actions are indeed courageous, I’d dare say they are no more so than the courage displayed by a cowboy in a church pew.
Because there are times when the simple act of facing the day takes courage. When trials and disappointments pin us down and dare us to resist and we are faced with this choice: submit or overcome.
What will we do when confronted by loss, whether of dreams or jobs or loved ones? When the winters of our lives blow and howl, will we surrender to its rages or seek shelter in warmth of God?
Will we cover our own wounds and let them fester, or will we let Christ bind them?
Will we sit and mourn, or will we stand and sing?
Like Drinking From A Fire Hydrant
February 22, 2009 by Billy Coffey · 2 Comments
My family and I are gathered on an outcropping of rocks high in the mountains, wondering at the stars. An unusually warm winter’s night has given us the luxury of this little excursion, and we’ve been rewarded with the sort of natural scene that sucks in your breath and makes you exhale in a long, slow whistle.
Planets dance above our heads, stars glimmer, and each of us take turns wishing upon the occasional meteorite. Orion stands guard at his post near the horizon, his belt cinched and shining. The Big Dipper looks as if it’s pouring the Milky Way upon our heads. The heavens are arrayed in a perfect sort of chaos, as if God has sneezed a miracle.
My son gazes up and wonders of rocket ships and aliens. My daughter? Angels and celestial playgrounds. My wife is wondering why we don’t come up here more often, because we should.
And me? I’m thinking about a dog I met last summer.
Late July. No rain for weeks. The air was so hot and humid that it made you walk with your back hunched.
Standing at the bottom of a hill in town, minding my own business, there came a sudden and steady stream of water toward me. Then more. And more. Surrounding my feet, inching up my shoes to almost the ankle.
A walk up the hill confirmed the source of this minor miracle—four firemen had cracked a hydrant. “Testing things out,” one told me.
As I stood there and kept them company, a neighborhood dog ambles up so I could scratch its head. Tail wagging and tongue drooping, he sniffed and snorted and paced, as if confused by the dichotomy of an abundance of water and the lack of means to acquire it. The firemen, lost in the duties, paid little attention to the dog. I, however, did.
I knew what the dog was going to do.
More sniffing and wagging and pacing. Then, in a desperate attempt to satisfy his thirst, the dog stuck his tongue into the gushing water.
Why he didn’t simply head to the bottom of the hill and drink there, I don’t know. Some dogs just aren’t that smart. Much like people. I do know, however, that he got more than a mere sip. Water gushed into his mouth and over his face with such force and weight that it nearly drowned him. Good thing there were firemen close by.
That’s what I’m thinking as I look up at these stars.
“The heavens declare the glory of God,” said David. Funny word, that “glory.” Translated from the Hebrew, it comes closer to “weight.” The heavens declare the weight of God.
Now, in this remote place with the heavens above me, I am much like that dog. Longing and thirsty and maybe not so smart. And drowning. Not in the weight of water, but in the weight of God.
Never let it be said that God hides from us. He is as near as a glance out the window, a walk in the park, or a rock to sit on. He pours Himself out in sunsets and rainstorms, in the blossoming of a flower or the falling snow.
As I sit on that rock with my family, staring until my neck aches and my back knots, I am reintroduced to the God I knew before I knew God. My childhood God. The One I spent time with before I knew what the words colored red in my Bible said and meant.
I am fortunate enough to sit in church every Sunday and listen to someone expound upon those words. Fortunate, too, that I can sit with my Bible and have those words speak to me.
But I’ve never lost sight of that other sermon, the one given to believer and doubter alike. We drink from God’s fire hydrant every day, drowned in the inescapable weight of His power and creativity and love.
Always a Story
February 10, 2009 by Billy Coffey · 21 Comments
My post last week about an incident at the mall garnered some interesting reactions, at least to me. I figured a lot of you would wonder what in the world was going on with this poor woman who refused to let me hold the door for her. And a lot of you did. But just as many wondered how I could have possibly kept hold of myself. How could I have not either burst out laughing when she fell or given her the good cussing she maybe deserved?
Truth is, I might have been calm and cool on the outside she she tripped and went splat!, but I was jumping up and down and cheering on the inside. I’m not proud of that, mind you, but I can’t deny it either.
But what kept that told-ya-so mentality from bubbling up to the surface was a story a friend of mine named John shared one day. One I’d like to share with you.
A brilliant man, John. He has two PhDs, is about to get his first book published, and is currently the head of the Christian Counseling program at Liberty University. He was also the best Sunday school teacher I ever had.
John told me that one night while he was in college, he had dinner at a local restaurant with one of his psychology professors. Their waitress was a young, twenty-something lady named Anna, who seemed to have a bit of a personality problem and could have used a refresher course in customer relations.
She was rude and offensive and vulgar. She forgot up their order twice and, when she finally got it right, rewarded John and his professor by unceremoniously dropping their plates on the table with a loud thud and walking away. They nearly died of thirst because she never returned to offer more drinks. And when she finally resurfaced forty minutes later, she greeted them with a curt “Ya’ll done?”
With a “Yes, ma’am” from the professor, she scribbled their bill onto a receipt, pushed it to the middle of the table, and walked away. Two specials, two drinks, two cups of coffee—fifteen dollars and forty cents.
“I have the tip,” the professor said. He took a ten out of his wallet and placed it between the salt and pepper shakers.
John flinched. Ten dollars? This had to be a mistake. He was going to give Anna a ten dollar tip? For what? Yelling and cussing and throwing food at them? A dollar and a half would have been plenty, the accustomed 10 percent. And that was for good service. But this wise and learned man was going to give her almost ten times that?
“Excuse me, Professor,” John said. “You just sat a ten down.”
“Yes, I did,” the professor answered.
“Are you sure you want to do that?”
“Yes.”
“May I ask why?”
“Maybe,” the professor said. “Later.”
The two walked up to the cash register, paid for their meal, and left. Just as they were getting into the professor’s car, though, the door to the restaurant opened and out ran Anna. Crying.
“I’m so sorry,” she said through her tears. “I know I was awful to the two of you. I’ve just had such a bad day. My kid’s got the flu, I just found out my mother has cancer, and my husband left me two days ago. I just can’t take it anymore. And then I saw your tip just sitting there, and I…I just had to thank you. You don’t know what this means.”
The professor smiled. “It’s quite all right, Miss,” he said. “Things may look bad now, but I promise you they’ll get better. You just need a little faith.”
She nodded and smiled back, then turned around to go back inside. John stared at his professor, who watched as the doors closed around her.
“Remember this, John,” he said. “We are all working our way through our own story. We pass people by every day of our lives. We talk to them, nod and say hello, and we have no idea the sorts of struggles they are enduring or what pains they bear. We are all hurting in our own unique way. We have all been wounded by something. Never forget that.”
John hasn’t. And since the day I heard that story, I haven’t either. Because we all may share one world, but we each live in our own. One made bright or dim by our own faith or doubt, joy or despair.
Author of Snow Day and Paper Angels (November 2011), both by FaithWords. 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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