Constant and Context

Sports cars aren't the only things that turn on a dime.  In algebraic terms, God is the constant and context the variable. Late Thursday night I had settled in comfortably for repose and reading in our garden room and all was right in my world when life turned sharply, altered by a stolen breath. Jerked from my solace by growling and barking outside, I rushed to the doorway and was challenged by two large unfamiliar dogs. My left hand clumsily groped for the garden shovel, found it, and for the moment wielded it like a light saber at the invaders. A shaggy black lab took off, but a grey leopard spotted catahoula faced me down until a couple of blows enticed him to make a hasty exit. To be honest, I felt a bit taller in the moment for having bested the two strays, that is, until I noticed an out of place swatch of white on the grass to my left. To my horror, I realized it was Hemingway, our young Himalayan--the sweetest cat I'll ever know, and the prettiest cat I'll ever hold. I rushed to him, but the verdict was already written and all too painfully evident. With more reaction than thought, I secured his body in the garden room, went inside to grab my Smith & Wesson, loaded all six chambers, and set out into the night seeking revenge. Two hours later, my search by foot and by Jeep ended without result. The two unwelcome visitors may still be running for all I know, or they may have claimed another innocent prey, but I will likely never see them again. Life altered irreversibly in an instant by forces out of my control. 

Sound familiar? Illness that bursts on the scene like a hostile takeover. A relationship crumbles that was once thought to be an impregnable fortress. The sudden storm that takes away a lifetime of earning and effort. Far more than disappointment, hope is dashed on the pavement of reality. How should we react? How may we best respond? I have determined that I will never know the answer to all my questions (that is, until I kneel before the Answer), so I will work, instead, at asking the most productive ones. Rather than positing the all too familiar "why?" I will inquire "what now?" One seems to invite paralysis while the other incites action. I choose the latter, irregardless of the uncertainty that lingers like an early morning fog. I do so, because I choose to adopt the stance I've sung about as long as I can remember:

"Great is Thy faithfulness, 

O God my Father,

There is no shadow of turning with     Thee;

Thou changest not, 

Thy compassions, they fail not

As Thou hast been Thou forever wilt be."