Autumn Changes

It's officially fall and I'm celebrating by writing this while seated next to an amber fire in our fire pit just across the way from our pond. Autumn is my favorite time of year and has been for thirty six years. From the first fall season I spent away from the coast of my childhood I was hooked. I don't remember knowing before then that leaves change colors before turning loose from their branches, and that sitting out of doors at night could ever be enjoyed without swarms of stinging mosquitoes as unwelcome companions. Autumn is a period of transition from summer's blistering heat on the way to winter's barren hibernation; or to state it another way, it's a time of noticeable change. Most of these differences are positive ones for me -- cooler temperatures, fleece blankets, hot chocolate, holiday mode-- but there is another less than appealing emotional side to change. I can't help but consider the way life has altered itself forever over the past few years: A robust neighbor that only a few years ago would be riding his John Deere and tossing fallen limbs into a small trailer, who is now only a memory of his former self, resting quietly in an Alzheimer's unit; my dear mother who made her own transition three years ago from this earthbound existence to her heavenly home; my father-in-law who left us mentally a couple of years ago and physically back in February of this year; four new grandchildren born into the family within the past six years; a different job, a different church, a different body (with aches and limitations I never knew before); the list of vital differences marches on.

It is in these quiet moments of sober reflection that I find great solace in an unchanging God. My heart gravitates all the more toward a Father not in transition Himself, who is perfectly able to carry me through the transitions within myself. What would I do if forced to grapple on my own with the ebb and flow of personal experience? Praise God I'll never know. I am the variable; He is the constant. No doubt I will continue to change as will everything surrounding me, but my heart has found its resting place: "Jesus Christ the same yesterday, and to day, and for ever" (Hebrews 13:8, KJV).

“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.

 

“Great is Thy faithfulness!” “Great is Thy faithfulness!”

  Morning by morning new mercies I see;

All I have needed Thy hand hath provided—

    “Great is Thy faithfulness,” Lord, unto me!

Summer and winter, and springtime and harvest,

Sun, moon and stars in their courses above,

Join with all nature in manifold witness

To Thy great faithfulness, mercy and love.

Pardon for sin and a peace that endureth,

Thine own dear presence to cheer and to guide;

Strength for today and bright hope for tomorrow,

Blessings all mine, with ten thousand beside!

Quiet Resolve

If you ever hear me say, "I'd like to..." or "I wish I could...", just ignore me. I rarely alter anything that I mention out loud. Change, for me, is born of severe resolve, so intense that I've no time for words, only action. I once thought that I refused to speak about my decisions out of fear of failure, or worse, because of uncertainty. Now I know that I go about transformation quietly because of the concentration required and radical demand placed on me by the object or subject of my difference. Maybe this is why Jesus condemns the verbose pray-er in Matthew 6:7; the Master knows that much talk serves as a smokescreen for little fortitude. Beware the language of intention. If I speak, let it be to encourage the change in you. If I'm silent, let it be to summon change in myself. Better to move silently from action plan to action plan in pursuit of a gripping goal, than to enlist a support group of sympathetic dreamers. 

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."