Passing of the Torch

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My heart flutters a little as I walk up the steps, raise my hand to ring the bell--and the giant door opens and he is standing there.

"Good--good morning, sir."

He is not the man I remember... not that I expected him to be. The ravages of illness do that to you. His face is white and lined, the eyes show pain, though a strange light still shines behind it all. I tear my eyes away. It is not polite to stare at your elders.

"Ah, Briana. Come in." 

He has waited there for me. I know, though he does not say so. Does he also anticipate this meeting? 

I step through the door; he closes it softly behind. My feet sink into the carpeting. He insists that I precede him down the hall, though I rather would not. His steps are slow, painful. I drop into a chair, more so that he will rest than for any other reason. He takes the one opposite.

We speak of small things, of teaching and of moving and of life. Of horses. He tells me how he always wanted to learn to ride. (There are more sides to this man than I ever dreamed.)

In time I hand him the letter I wrote last week. The letter that tries (unsuccessfully) to put into words what I have learned from him. It is long. Maybe too long. I watch as he reads it. Ever the consummate teacher, he comments on a word here, a phrase there. I smile. As he gets further in, the comments slow. 

"You were considering. . . ? Many people are. They just don't know what it's called."

"Ah yes. It was all God."

"Mmm. Yes."

He nods. Brushes something from his eye. Folds the letter and puts it back in the envelope. I let a smile flicker quickly across my face. We go on to speak of other small things. 

An hour passes and I must go. It is too long to stay. Yet I know what I have come here for. And as we rise and go to the door, I know it is now.

"May I pray with you." It is a statement, not a question, and I nod, bow my head. We clasp hands and the coldness of his hand is warm. His prayer is a blessing--a benediction. As his life has been, and is.

I remain with head bowed after we say Amen. Then I lift my eyes and meet his. The light--the fire--still burns there. It will continue till life itself is gone. But I know it has passed to me as well.

"We will meet again. May it be soon." 

The torch is in my arms. From this day forward, I carry it on. 

Salt and Light

"You are the salt of the earth; but if the salt loses its flavor, how shall it be seasoned? It is then good for nothing but to be thrown out and trampled underfoot by men.

"You are the light of the world. A city that is set on a hill cannot be hidden." (Matt. 5:14-15)

The salt, the light--their essence comes from deep inside. The light is lit by someone else; the salt distilled by another. Only the impurities allowed in, the loss of a wick or of oil, keep them from fulfilling their tasks.

May nothing else slip in to taint my heart; may nothing separate me from the Source of my light!

Evening Star

Dusk.

Sun slowly glides behind distant mountains. Thunderheads glow orange, then pink, then only the edges are highlighted gold.

Tires whir on the road. A car passes. Another. Blinker clicks and I glide to the left. A moment later, back to the right. Signs flash by. The highway twists and turns.

Sometimes I could believe the walls around my heart are real. Like tonight. I can almost feel them sliding up from where they've been hidden all day. The scattered tears dry on my cheeks and the glass doors close inside; the locks click into place. I brush a hand across my face. Keep my eyes on the winding road.

Dusk gives way to dark.

Half-moon appears in the sky, as if by magic. Evening star hangs low ahead.

Why do you come here? I ask it silently. Why do you bother?

Yet I know the answer. It comes for the same reason I return. Perhaps it, too, longs to stay in the safety of some far-away mountain. Perhaps it, too, aches with loneliness after a glimpse of what it no longer has.

But we are called here by One greater than ourselves. And so we come. We shine. And we wait for the morning.

On Strength

Alaska mountains

Strength is a funny thing. Some people wear it like chain mail, but it wraps round others like a cloak--a bit mysterious, but soft and warm. It hides some people and reveals others. It's a blaze that scalds and a hearth-fire that warms. In some people, it wounds; in others, it protects.

It's not always bad, but neither is it always good. And the wrong type of strong people are scary. They are not safe. But the good type are trustworthy and protective. Astonishingly so.

The difference lies in the root (as it always does). In why.

Some strength says, "I will never be hurt."
Some says, "I choose to allow myself to hurt . . . and rise again."

Some strength says, "I will never let anyone close to me."
Some says, "I will give--and love--and care deeply . . . even when you'll never return it."

Some strength says, "I am all I need."
Some says, "I will ask for help."

Some strength says "I."
Some says "Him."

Because to be truly strong, to be soft yet strong, this is the greatest kind of strength. And the greatest kind of strength can only be gained from the One who is truly Strong.

Oh my friends, as you go into this world today, this dark and broken and angry world, have that true strength. Don't go weak, but don't put on that chain-mail strength. Just don't. It's not worth it. It's not worth the pain to yourself, or to others.

Take His cloak instead.

If Truth Never Triumphed

There's been a shooting today, in the city I've known as home for the past eight years.

"Domestic terrorism"... "ISIS"..."violence"...

These words were never supposed to exist. Period.

We cry, "Why this little city? Why this little town? Why those children? Why these husbands? Those mothers?"

And we cannot know the answer. Because evil has no answer but the selfish core of selfishness. Evil is its own entity. And deep inside, the most hardened of us still know that it is a foreign entity. Evil is not supposed to be. 

This hatred of evil, this hatred of pain, this burning anger at things that are just wrong, this is one of the strongest indicators that we were made for another world.

But here, and now, truth, integrity, love...they battle today. And more often than not, they lose. In little ways, and in big.

Truth forever on the scaffold,
Wrong forever on the throne.

And so I have a question for you today--and a question for me. Why do we choose truth? Why do we choose integrity? Why do we choose love?

Do we choose it because we think life will be better when it triumphs?

What if it never overcame? (not, that is, that we could ever see...)

What if it never won? (not that our children, or great-great-great grandchildren, could ever enjoy...)

Would we still choose it now?

IRL: Absentia

Trail at a nearby state park

Well, I'm here now.

And mostly unpacked.

Actually pretty much all unpacked.

And dealing with a serious case of writers' block. In case you couldn't tell. ;)

Getting ready for school, visiting friends (and having friends visit), working out a routine for the hundred-and-ten things you suddenly have to do when you're living by yourself, and generally trying to be an adult--it's all filling up my days.

But I am slowly but surely getting some ideas for blog posts. So hopefully I will be back sooner rather than later. :)