Wait, Wait ‘Till the Moon is Full…

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(Photo by Aron Visuals on Unsplash)

There are times in life where I tend to get impatient with God. I think we all experience this at times. In my case, I have gone through a transition in my business that I would describe as a divine intervention in my life. To say that the transition was exciting and terrifying at the same time would be pretty accurate. But, it was also comforting to know that Father God was right there with me in that transition.

That was almost nine months ago and all the dreams of progress – and yes – success have been put on hold. All of my expectations of where the Lord was taking me and my business have seemingly been put on pause. But, I still have a prevailing sense of peace in the midst of my wondering what is going on with this pause in progress.

Just to be clear this post is not about my responsibility to make things happen when given an opportunity. I get that and am working on the plan. It’s about Waiting. It’s about God’s perfect timing.

This morning as I was on my prayer walk. This children’s story – that was a staple bedtime story for all three of my kids – popped into my mind. And, I realized that to The Father, we are like the little Raccoon that Margaret Wise Brown so expertly illustrated. I realized that His promises made nine months ago were still good and to rest in His Peace as His timing came to fullness. For me to Wait, Wait ‘Till your Destiny is Full…

“If you want to go out in the woods,

and see the night

and know an Owl

and how dark is the dark

and see the Moon

and how big is the night

and listen to the Whip Poor Will

and stay up all night

and sleep all day

and see that the Moon isn’t a Rabbit

and what color is the night

and see a bird fall out of his nest

and fly away in the moonlight

and find another little Racoon to play with

Off you go, for…

 

The Moon is Full

Trust His timing in all things. Rest in His Peace for you and your family. His timing is Perfect and His Promises are forever. Do not fret, eventually, the Moon will be Full and your Destiny complete.

 

 

Gravity

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(Photo by Ben O’Sullivan on Unsplash)

 

My life changed the day I pulled myself into the Library. It was a place I never wanted to visit. Life was a daily grind of launching and landing. The struggle to keep the lack of gravity from dominating my life. Just like everyone else I knew. The struggle was very real. The day began with releasing the belts that held me in my bed so that I could sleep without worrying about floating to the ceiling or out the window and out into space. 

Then breakfast. Tubes of “Cap’n Crunch” squirted into my hungry mouth, trying to ignore the longing to have a plain old bowl of “Cap’n Crunch” in a bowl with milk and the satisfying sensation of the actual Crunch. Still, I wondered at the very existence of that thought. No one ever experienced that. This was life on Earth. A weightless existence. We all made the best of it. 

Every day, began the same. The effort to get from point A to point B. Home to work and back again. Everyone’s strategy was different, and much of it depended on how much money you had saved up. How wealthy you were dictated how much ease you were able to experience as you went about business every day. 

The most basic was the cable poles that lined the streets. First I would open the front door of my apartment and hold onto the door frame. Concentration is everything when attempting to move from point to point. And, yes after a bit you gain a certain amount of expertise in this. You either learn to move or you eventually give up and hide in your home and never come out. Thousands of people in our city give up every day. The insane asylums are overflowing with those that give up. But, I digress. Back to the door frame. 

Using my arms like the elastic bands of a slingshot I launch myself at the pole outside the apartment building. There I can grab the cable that winds its way through the city until I reach my office. The hard part is when you encounter people going the other direction. Yes, certain cables are designated for one-way traffic. But, many people let their frustrations get the better of them and they ignore those rules and just grab the first cable they come to. 

Then there are those that can afford a propulsion backpack. As I am pulling myself along on the cable I can look up and see the wealthy powering their way to work effortlessly and in their cocoon of privacy afforded by their backpack. 

Then there are the EMTs in their helicopters rescuing those that lost their grip on the cable. Or those daredevils that use the ancient launchers from the tops of their homes or apartments. A dangerous proposition as you actually need to have a computer app that will calculate exactly what kind of power to use on the launcher and at what angle and elevation to set it to reach your destination. It definitely requires a daredevil mindset to use those. These daredevils keep the EMTs busy. And, we lose a few every week as their launchers malfunction and send their users into orbit and out into space.

As I pulled myself along on the cable a sense of desperate hopelessness rose up in my heart. Why was living this way? Why was there a sense of something better nagging at the back of my mind? Wasn’t life always this way? 

Then I saw him.

About a mile ahead I saw a man walking down the sidewalk all by himself with a big grin and a to-go coffee cup. And, he didn’t have a hold on the cable. He was just walking as if his feet we stuck to the ground. I had heard that there were a few companies working on shoes that would stick to the sidewalks. But, the costs were thought to be too prohibitive as most thought the sidewalks would need to be electrified so that the shoes could be magnetized…or whatever it would take to make that work.

I was dumbstruck. How was that possible? That man was unaffected by the lack of gravity. Then he was gone. He WALKED around the corner. Unfortunately, I had stopped on the cable and received a quite nasty push from the woman behind me. So I continued on my way to my office. 

But, I never made it to the office. I saw a building I had never really noticed until this morning. “Public Library”, the dingy unlit sign proclaimed on the outside of the red brick building. There was that nagging at the back of my mind. Something that said that there was something new, something containing hope. Something tells me that life wasn’t meant to be hopeless and the same-old-same-old. My heart screamed to follow the nagging. So I launched myself towards the two large oddly barbershop poles on either side of the doors of the Library. 

I managed to grab the pole to the right of the double doors. Each door was made of solid dark stained oak and had large smiling faces carved into each door. The faces looked like the face of that mythological character Santa Claus that my father used to tell me about as a child. All those old stories about Santa and a man from the dark times named Jesus. I forgot about those stories. Probably hadn’t thought of them in years. Years and years of struggle to stay on the ground and not drift off into space. Just a life of survival and the mind-numbing hopelessness of the sameness that kept going like a bad dream.

As I opened the door a warm blast of air escaped and washed over my face, and light streamed out the growing gap between the two doors as I pulled with as much leverage as I could gain from the pole. Until I finally stood next to the door.

I was standing.

There before me were rows and rows of shelves filled with books and people standing around reading books…not held down by anything. 

I walked into the library and came face to face with the Librarian. 

“Hello, Derek. Welcome to the Library. I am here to answer your questions and to lead you into all understanding into the land of Gravity. Out of the darkness and into the light. Out of the hopeless and into the New Creation. My name is Jesus. 

You have been called out of a world that has lost its anchor. I am the anchor. I am the Way, The Truth and the Life. There are weight and gravity in the Kindom and a future. Life without Me is without gravity and lost. Most of the people outside those doors are stuck in their ignorance and have no idea they are lost and drifting off into nothingness. 

You have been called to take the message of gravity to those lost and clueless about their lostness. It won’t be easy as those lost can’t see the hope. Indeed, most won’t even see you. They can’t see beyond their hopelessness. There is a kind of comfort to being lost. Especially when you don’t know you are lost. 

Welcome to the New Creation. Welcome to Gravity.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

Holy Tsunami! “Chapter One”

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Photo by Tim Marshall on Unsplash

Alisdair leaned into the wind and attempted to squeeze his lean six foot three runner’s body behind the umbrella purchased at the airport. The heavy drizzle coming in off of the North Sea quickly soaked his San Francisco Forty Niner’s ball cap and the fleece lined gray hooded sweatshirt that added bulk to his wiry frame. And as hard as he tried the umbrella wouldn’t find a correct angle to buffer the twenty-knot wind driving the drizzle horizontally into his face. At any moment the umbrella would buckle… and that would fit. Just another dreary moment in a life filled with dreary problems. Fatalistic sapphire blue eyes flashed out from a weather-beaten, old too early, leathery unsmiling face, framed by a high and tight haircut long overdue for a trim. The weather felt like one more opportunity for Murphy to kick him in the stomach. Not to mention the cost of the cab ride from Aberdeen Airport to this godforsaken corner of Scotland. “I left this place just for this reason!” Alisdair thought to himself. Standing next to the Foot Dee war memorial, he stared at the drab grey stone building — at the end of a long line of identical drab grey stone Fittie tract homes — where the family Solicitor Henry Drummond had instructed he meet to discuss the particulars of his inheritance.

 

The driving drizzle made getting bearings difficult, just opening his eyes was painfully difficult. Having done the homework expected of any Recon Marine, Alisdair knew this was a historic district – Fittie or Foot Dee – but, wow this was way out of the way. There behind the monument to the soldiers and sailors of the Allied Forces in World War II flowed the River Dee. Next to the monument was a parking lot for a fancy four-star restaurant half filled with patron’s cars. To the left the restaurant itself and an interesting round tower of a building overlooking the river. The only thing Alisdair couldn’t prepare for was this blasted wind and rain.

 

The sun was out there somewhere behind the wind, rain, and clouds, but it was quickly giving way to the darkening sky and wet slippery shadows as dusk approached. Even with the rain pelting him and soaking the sweatshirt, Alisdair stood and allowed the ambiance of the moment to settle into his mind. “Always get your bearings, no matter where you are dude!” The voice of Master Gunny Jingo echoed across his thoughts.

 

Those thoughts were interrupted by the approach of a vehicle moving to park near the monument. The lights of the sedan shimmering on the wet Aberdeen street while the swooshing sound of the tires caused Alisdair to back towards the monument to allow the vehicle into the parking lot. The movement sparked an urgent desire to be out of the rain.

 

“Best be getting on with this before you get soaked ‘Dair.” Alasdair used the shortened name given him in the Marines and walked across the street to the wrought iron gate just a few feet from the front door of his intended destination. “No lights on…” Alisdair thought, “I hope I got the time correct. Of course, that would be the rule, not the exception. After everything that has happened over the last couple of years, should I expect anything less?” Alisdair stood motionless before the front door and hesitated to knock. Then noticed that the door was open just enough to be noticed. “Not good!” Alisdair froze and the alarms went off, and his body went into adrenaline mode. Sensory feelers from his training went out and muscles tensed. Training is essential to reducing crisis to the smallest components, and this moved Alisdair’s hands and feet as he slowly pushed the door open to allow what light was outside to illuminate what it could of the house. Here in the lee of the wind and rain formed by the house itself, he could hear the water cascading off of the roof and into the small paved yard. Nothing was coming from the inside of the house. It was warm as if someone had been there, but there were no lights, even from the upstairs that rose just off of the front door. Off to the right a living area, nicely appointed with knickknacks and comfortable, lived-in furniture was illuminated by the last light of the approaching dusk.

 

Alisdair stood silent — allowing his eyes to adjust to the darker interior — and tensed for anything that could materialize out of the darkened home. The silence broken only by the talking and frantic running of those that had just parked only a few dozen meters away and now we’re attempting to get to their destination – and out of the drizzling rain – as quickly as possible.

 

Finally – gaining a measure of confidence – Alisdair stepped down the hall towards the back of the house making as little noise as a Recon Marine could make. Towards the back of the home, there was the kitchen, small by American standards, but well organized and extremely clean. Except for the kitchen table tipped on its side and the broken wooden kitchen chair strewn about the floor. And, there in the tile floor of the Back Bay window was an open floor safe. And, to the right of the bay window another door. Only this one was wide open with the rain creating a large running puddle inside the house.

 

Alisdair stepped quickly through the puddle, out the door, and into the small back yard. There were the typical backyard toys. Obviously, there were small children that lived here. A shed was tucked into the northwest side of the yard. And, sticking out of the shed a movement, which looked like a human head rolling back and forth on the rain-soaked ground. Instantly Alisdair ran to the man and found the solicitor Henry Drummond coming out of unconsciousness.

 

Alisdair sat the man up in the shed – he was soaked and bleeding from a nasty wound on top of his head.

 

“Mr. Drummond, what happened? I came to our meeting and found your door open….” Alisdair grabbed an old moving blanket off of the small work shelf in the shed to wrap around the shivering unresponsive man. As the blanket settled around Mr. Drummond’s shoulders, he looked up as if finally hearing Alisdair’s voice.

 

“I – I really don’t know… remember getting your fathers will out of the safe and now here I sit cold and shivery and everything’s spinning around. Is that really you Mr. Robertson? I’d hate to wake up to such a painful reality.” Mr. Drummond lifted his hand to feel the lump on his head and looked up at Alisdair. “Help me into the house. Obviously, I have been robbed. It is time to see what kind of damage has been done.”

 

A noise came from the back door, and Alisdair looked up to see the horrified look of a wife and two middle school kids standing in the open back door. “Henry!” The wife screamed and ran to the shed followed by the two kids. She stopped just short of the scene and looked at Alisdair with suspicion. “And, who might you be?” The wife demanded, not looking at Mr. Drummond.

 

“Stop Gwen, this is the Mr. Robertson that I wanted to have for supper. He’s Arthur Robertson’s eldest. The one that left and went to the States. Augh! Help me up off of the shed floor will you, Alisdair? I need a stiff one and some pain killers for this killer of a headache.” Alisdair picked Henry Drummond up off the floor keeping the man wrapped like a burrito in the blanket.

 

“Henry, that blanket is all full of Sophie’s old hairs from the day we had to put ‘er down. You’ll get them all over the house.” The two kids were slowly backing into the house and now I could see that the lights were on. One of the kids – a boy about thirteen years old – was in a hall closet rummaging in a stack of towels. The other – a girl about eleven – was bent over picking up the remains of the wooden chair used to crack Mr. Drummond over the noggin.

 

“Wendy” Mr. Drummond started when we were near the kitchen. “Please, dear, put those pieces back where you found them. The police are going to want to examine the kitchen. We can’t disturb things here until they are finished. Gwen, did you call them yet?” Mr. Drummond moved very slowly, with quite a bit of shuffling, blanket hugging determination towards the living room. And, it became evident where the man was heading. There near an extremely comfortable leather recliner stood a liquor cabinet. Mr. Drummond reached into the cabinet and came out with a bottle of single malt scotch.

 

Turning to Alisdair and Gwen – who was talking on her cell phone – and held out the bottle as if to say, “I’m going to anesthetize my noggin! Anyone care to join me?”

 

“I’ll have some,” Alisdair replied somewhat curious to see which of the distilleries the bottle came from.

 

Gwen entered the room and grabbed a tumbler for herself and reached into the cabinet for what looked like a bottle of Pappy Van Winkle’s whiskey. Then turned to her husband and said, “The police will be here in about twenty minutes.” She turned to Alisdair and remarked. “One of the perks of living out here in the historical Fittie area.” The sarcasm and bitterness causing shivering Mr. Drummond to wince as he handed Alisdair his tumbler.

 

“I am afraid, Alisdair… can I call you Alisdair… …somehow using formalities at a time like this just seems a bit off kilter. If you catch my drift.” Henry plopped, moving blanket and all into his recliner managing to not spill a drop of his drink. Obviously, a much-practiced move.

 

“Of course Mr. Drummond.” Alisdair moved to a small sofa opposite the fireplace, and Gwen sat in a small overstuffed chair on the other side of the fireplace. “Except that my friends – and I think this kind of thing makes us friends – call me ‘Dair. It’s a Marine thing. Marines are all about shortening things, jobs, and names, anything that can be shortened actually.”

 

“I doubt that is a propensity that is unique to the United States Marines ‘Dair. I did my stint in the Royal Navy. And, I am proud to say that short cuts were my specialty. However, they are not all that helpful in the legal trade. There are just no short cuts when it comes to the law I am afraid. And, to get back to what I was about to say when our names got in the way, whoever broke our kitchen chair over my head it seems has made off with what I needed to share with you tonight.” Henry looked at Gwen, “Did you look inside the safe?”

 

Gwen put her glass down on the small table next to her chair. “No, you told us all to stay out of there Henry. Do you want me to go look…Oh, forget it…I’ll be right back!” Gwen jumped up and quickly headed to the kitchen.

 

“Yes, they cleaned us out, Henry!” Gwen announced as she returned to the living room. “Who would do such a thing? How would anyone even know about our safe? And, Henry what was in there that anyone would want to steal? You did take my mother’s necklace back to the bank safety box like you said you would, correct?” She asked with an “I’m going to add another lump on top of your noggin if you haven’t” look.

 

Alisdair was sitting quietly sipping his scotch watching the husband and wife deal with the trauma of the evening when the Police finally showed up and began investigating the scene, and their forensics team was closely dogged by the two children Eric and Wendy. The evening wore on quickly as the Police work and the Scotch seemed to compact time into a disappearing moment. By the time the police left the night was fully fallen and Gwen had had Straw Hat Pizza – from just down the Esplanade – delivered. And, of course, Gwen would take no excuses or put-offs and Alisdair found himself sleeping in Eric’s room while Eric got to sleep on the short couch in the living room. Tomorrow was looking to be an interesting day.

 

 

 

Patches

Patchwork Quilt

Maggie, a very talented seamstress, woke early and was struggling to go back to sleep. Trying to get comfortable, thoughts about life and lack of business ran rampant through her mind. “Lord,” Maggie prayed. “How will I ever pay my bills? All I know is sewing, I wouldn’t know what else to do.”

Resigned to being awake, Maggie sat up and stared at the blinds, the grey lines growing lighter as the sun began it’s slow pounce on the day. Then another light appeared, growing slowly until it became evident that there was someone in the room. There stood a man, or what looked like a man, radiating warmth and light. His smile was joyful, causing Maggie to smile back.

“Your prayers are being answered”, he announced. “You have a new assignment, or a sewing job if you care to think of it that way.” Sitting down on the end of the bed, he held out a small stack of patches. “The Lord has chosen you to sew these patches into a quilt. More are coming. Be confident as He has confidence in you.” With that he stood up, smiled,and was gone.

Her alarm clock showing 6:37 a.m., Maggie crawled out of the sheets, sat in the middle of her bed and looked at the patches. Each one was different and was neatly stacked, one upon the other. They were all sizes, and made of all kinds of fabrics, and as she sat back and placed the pile on her lap, a wonderful fragrance arose from them.

As Maggie lifted the first patch to look closely at the pattern, she found herself standing outside at a place she had visited long ago as a college student. She was at the Mountain of Patrick in Ireland. She could smell the earth and the grass, and the land itself seemed to be moving under her feet. It was intoxicating!  But when she put down the patch, she was suddenly back on her bed.

Intrigued, Maggie picked up the next patch and was standing on a beach, with the gentle fragrance of flowers highlighting a small thatched church. Next, she was standing in a Hopi Pueblo looking out over a ceremonial Kiva, a heat mirage distorting the canyon below. Then she was standing on the steps of a mist-enshrouded pagoda, looking over a mountain-side terrace layered with rice fields.

Back on her bed, pushing aside her many questions about the patches, Maggie quickly dressed, and sat down at her sewing machine; the desire to create had taken over. As she sewed, each patch evoked images in Maggie’s mind of a myriad of sacred places. She knew instinctively in her heart how each patch related to the others. A passion rose up within her as she began to see God’s heart for each of these specific locations. Each patch representing a tribe or tongue, and their redemptive colors, patterns, and purposes.

Maggie worked carefully using different colors and thicknesses of thread to connect the patches.  Every so often the doorbell would announce a messenger bringing another fragrant package of patches.  Each messenger carried a joyful presence, and an encouraging word. Late on the second day, there came a large package of batting. The material felt like a blend of very high quality silk and cotton, but softer and lighter, feeling like a caress against her skin.

After three intense days, Maggie finished the quilting.  Her home was flooded with ancient aromas, the essence of thousands of lands and forgotten cultures. The quilt was beautiful, thick, and very large. She drew it around herself and was instantly filled with peace.

As Maggie rested in the quilt, the first messenger once again quietly appeared, kneeling before her. He reached out and touched the quilt saying, “This is the mantle of the Spirit of Unity. It is a picture of the Bride, a birthing blanket for creative miracles. Your destiny is to share this quilt and bring the impartation of unity to the Bride.” Then he was gone, leaving Maggie to wonder about God’s purpose in picking her to sew the Quilt.

Suddenly, Maggie’s thoughts were interrupted by the doorbell, and there stood an old customer with an armload of work.