Wet

"You look like you just came in off a fishing boat," Christian greeted me when I came in to work on Monday morning. Drew seconded his comment. "Yeah, what happened to your hair?"

You really want to know?

Well, once upon a blustery March Monday morning, I locked Rosie in her kennel and shut the garage door and headed down the driveway, windshield wipers staging a formidable defense against the sheets of water cascading down from the dark sky. Large branches cluttered the road from the night's storm, and the wind still hadn't died down. I was glad I had, at the last minute, changed from my fleece jacket to my heavier wind-and-rain resistant coat.

It was my last Monday to head to work at Le Panier, and perhaps I was thinking about that, or praying for my family vacationing in California. I'm not sure; when my windshield wipers tangled into a screeching knot, skidding across my windshield, all other thoughts were terminated. Putting the wipers into the "off" position was a reflex; what did not come so easily was determining what to do next. I could not keep driving without windshield wipers. I was on the Preston-Fall City Road, which has no shoulder to pull off on and which, at 5:35 in the morning, is very dark. I knew the green bridge turn off was just around the corner, and there was no one behind me, so I was able to slowly make my way to the green bridge and pull off on the side of the road.

First Thankful: Besides having a scrap of shoulder for my bedraggled car, the green bridge location also boasted a street light. This was very handy for my next task, which was untangling the offending wipers. I had to apply a bit of force, as they were crossed in a most unnatural way, and when they were finally separate, I saw that one wiper blade was all but unattached from the arm. Bear in mind that I saw all this through blinding rain, which was either being driven into my eyes or my backside by a ferocious wind, depending on which side of the car I was standing on.

So, I finally achieved the goal of separating the wipers from each other and the loose parts from the car. I was left with one apparently functioning wiper and one bear wiper arm with a hook on the end. I opened the car door to put in the key and see how this set up would would work. One flick of the wiper switch showed me that it would not work very well at all. The hooked arm skittered over the windshield and grabbed onto the working wiper, resulting in a shuddering tangle. Back out in the rain, I once again separated the wipers. Then I got back in the car to think.

I could not drive like this. Maybe if it was light rain, or if there was daylight. But not in a downpour in the dark. I needed to get to work. I prayed for wisdom and provision. Then I thought of the Grigases and the Millers, two families from church who lived (Second Thankful) just around the corner from where I sat in my crippled car. Could Glenn or Larry help me fix my wipers, or could they loan me a car, or would they have another creative idea? Perhaps, and I knew they would both be very happy to help me . . . but it was 5:40 in the morning.

I considered the facts again, and perhaps a third time. Then I decided to inch down the road and drive past their houses to see if any lights were on. The Grigas home had a porch light on, but the interior was midnight black. The Miller home had a light on in the entryway, and perhaps a sliver of light coming from a room in the second story.

No, I couldn't do it. I circled around the cul-de-sac and parked under a street light so I could get out (in the torrent) and examine the situation again. Further examination yielded no new information. But I couldn't knock on the door. I picked up my cell phone and thought about texting Dad. Maybe he was even awake. But what could he do from down in California?

I drove down to the end of the street where the Millers lived again, past their house, turned around, past their house again . . . and I turned into the driveway. (If this had been a true crime-watch neighborhood, someone would surely have reported very suspicious behavior by now.) I drove up to the garage. I turned off the car. I got out into the rain and pulled my hood up once again against the downpour. I climbed the steps to the front door and stood in the shelter of the roof, thinking about the body of Christ.

What does it mean to be brothers and sisters, to bear one another's burdens, to love one another? I know the true church is not limited to Sunday mornings or office hours, to holding hymnbooks together or passing the offering plate nicely. We are supposed to be a family. And I also know that sometimes it is easier to give than to receive. I like to be self-sufficient; it is hard to be humble and acknowledge need. I prayed and pondered on the porch, then reached for the doorbell. I held my finger over the orange glow, arrested by one last image of the quiet, unsuspecting family sleeping within. Then, with the word "receive" pulsing in my brain, I pushed the button.

A chorus of barks sailed into the silent morning, and I waited on the porch, finding suddenly that I was fighting back tears. The eyes of Larry Miller appeared in the window at the top of the door, large and curious and alarmed. By the time he opened the door, his face had returned to normal and he greeted me kindly. "Why, you're here early this morning, Julie!" (But, Third Thankful: he was dressed and obviously had already been up.) I tried to explain my predicament, but found myself with lips stiff from the cold and emotion rising high, and wondering what exactly I thought Larry could do about it all anyway. He apparently extracted some meaning from my gestures, bedraggled appearance, and tangle of words, and went to get a coat. Meanwhile, his daughter Jana tumbled down the stairs with sleepy hair and pajamas. "What's happening? What's happening?" she asked.

"It's okay, Jana," I said, wondering if I believed myself. "I just had some trouble with my windshield wipers."

"Oh. Well, I needed to be up anyway!" she said. Larry was ready with his coat; we entered the deluge, pulling up our hoods. Larry examined the wiper blade I had removed and agreed with me that a piece was missing, and then he had an idea. "As a quick fix, let's try just pulling this arm straight out from the windshield," he said. So I got in the car to turn on the wipers and see how it worked. It seemed to be alright.

"Do you think it will stay up?" I asked. He thought it would be okay. So I thanked him, not profusely enough, and turned my little car around, letting a few tears fall now. Fourth Thankful: a lesson on humility. Fifth Thankful: the working wiper was on the driver's side. My bus had already left the park and ride, with me still twenty minutes away, so I headed straight for the Seattle. My strangely dancing wipers did fine; the naked, hooked arm remained extended, away from the dutifully swishing wiper. I was so glad to park the car and battle the wind and finally arrive at the welcoming, familiar bakery. With the teasing, caring comments from Christian and Drew and the cozy warmth radiating from the busy ovens, the uncertainty and fear faded and the whole thing became a good story. (Though it was a few more hours before my underwear dried out.)

However, I realized midway through the morning that while I may have achieved the immediate goal of getting to work, I was not yet finished with the problem. So after a long day at work and a few errands (yarrow flowers for Heidi, soap and note pads for hostess gifts, city hall errand for Dad), I stopped at O'Reilly Auto Parts, where I had (only two weeks ago) purchased new wiper blades. I took my disconnected blade into the shop to see if it would be possible to exchange it. Sixth Thankful: the salesman I talked to came out (just as it started to pelt down huge drops again) and looked at my car. He said the wiper blade was actually not damaged, but when he looked at the arm, he found that it was loose. He didn't know if it just needed to be tightened or if there was a more substantial problem, and he recommended taking my car in to the shop.

So I mused about this on my way to Fall City, all of my musings of course mixed with prayer, when it dawned on me: my auto repair shop is in Fall City, and I would be arriving there about 5:00, which I figured was probably half an hour before closing. I could stop and at least find out what was necessary. I found a place to park at Model Garage and went in, waiting in line behind a woman talking about smoke billowing into her car from the engine compartment. Dennis came out and asked how he could help me. I explained my problem, and he said, "Where's it at? Let's take a look at it." I had parked in front of one of the garage doors, which proved to be very handy when it started pouring down buckets of rain just as we reached the car. "Let's pull it inside!" Dennis suggested, raising the door and motioning me in. I had long since given up any idea of looking like anything other than a drowned rat, but it was more comfortable in the garage. With a few jovial comments and an easy touch, Dennis found the right wrench, tightened the arm, and snapped the blade into place. I tested the wipers and found their systematic dance to be wonderfully beautiful and graceful. Seventh Thankful: "You're set to go!" Dennis said. I thanked him dearly, and backed out into the drenching rain.

The library was my last stop; I returned a book there and just as I was diving back into my seat to escape the driving wetness, my phone rang. It was mama, wondering if perhaps I was eating dinner (wouldn't that be nice!) or if maybe I could chat. So, although I had been taking delight all day in composing the written version of the story (since there would be no one at home to listen to the tale), of course I poured it all out to her eager ears.

Once at home, I took care of the egg- and dog-gathering and entered my castle for the night. I built a huge and roaring fire, raced around putting away everything from the day, put the towels in the dryer, started rice, answered Larry's phone call to see how my wipers were doing, showered and layered flannel pajamas, cozy robe, and fluffy slippers on my chilled bones, stir-fried veggies, piled a plate with rice, veggies, and peanut sauce, and settled in front of the ferocious fire to watch "Miss Potter" while I ate dinner. Then, savoring the sense of safeness, at home in front of the fire, I wrote in my journal to my dear Father, making note of his great faithfulness in case I should ever need such a reminder for another rainy day.

Hope

"The Zookeeper's Wife" (a book set in Warsaw during World War II) and "Jakob the Liar" (a movie which takes place during the same time, also in Poland) have set me thinking about Hope.

What do we hope in? Jakob fabricated lies about the advancement of the Russians and the allies to provide his comrades in the Jewish ghetto with the life-giving commodity of hope, without which they were literally dying. His words gave his friends the courage to pursue matrimony, put aside thoughts of suicide, and to walk with a spring in their step.

I take great joy in the good things of this life on earth (marriage and children and the continuation of life; interaction with creation; music and art and creativity), and even on a "bad" day, I can find much to delight in and be grateful for.

But what if my life bore the bleakness of a Jew in a Polish ghetto in the 1943? How secure is my hope? Could it survive if "the earth gave way and the mountains fell into the heart of the sea?"

Faith is being SURE of what I hope for. Romans 8 says we hope for "our adoption as sons, the redemption of our bodies." Hebrews 11 says we hope for "a better country--a heavenly one." Without giving up hope for a little redemption in this life, in this world (I think this is what attracts people to true, eternal redemption--beauty and compassion, discovery and healing HERE), I want to remember that this world is passing away, and our final destination is not what can be seen.

No Need for Karma

Today Karin read me a thank you note she received from a lady who had lost her driver's license at the bakery. Karin mailed the ID back to the woman, and she responded with a note, which went something like this:

"Thank you so much for mailing my license back to me. I didn't really worry about finding it; I hoped some nice person would find it and send it back to me, and that nice person was you! I just mailed off a box of clothes to the children of an unemployed friend, and now the cycle has come around with the good karma returning to me."

So does she find this method of living to be foolproof -- doing good things in order to avoid inconvenience, tragedy, and harm?

Only a few minutes later, Karin came to me again. This time she had sad news: one of our friends and co-workers had just received word that her mother (in far-away Europe) was taken to the hospital over the weekend with what turned out to be brain aneurysms. I joined her in the office so we could share a quiet moment of prayer, beseeching a sovereign and loving God to use this for the increase of His kingdom, and to take care of the hurting hearts involved.

I do not deny the presence of evil and sorrow; it is the natural result of sin. We deserve the punishment. The amazing thing is, God wants to rescue us from this dark world, but it is just that: a rescue. He is the hero; we are not required to first earn His favor. "While we were yet enemies, Christ died for us."

Quite the opposite of the motivation for doing good in the "cycle of karma", we respond to God out of gratefulness. We do good because we love Him and our delight is to please Him. We also accept what comes with gratefulness, knowing He can be trusted: "He who did not spare his own Son, but gave him up for us all, how will he not also along with him graciously give us all things?"

The sovereignty of God is not an easy doctrine to explain or accept. But it does not ask its students to earn their own way or to trust their lives to random happenstance; it is instead abundant and free and disproportionately gracious. "How great is the love the Father has lavished on us! That we should be called the children of God, and that his what we are."

Midnight Confessions

It's not too often that I wander the house at midnight, blinking my darkness-trained eyes against the brightness of lights turned on to find my way. But last night, I couldn't sleep. It doesn't happen often -- I'd be tempted to say never if today wasn't the day after last night. I do have a cold, but I was not uncomfortable last night. Just not sleepy.

I had been reading a Karen Kingsbury novel before bed, and Tanner and Jade, the two main characters, tumbled with me through the tangles of gentle sleep and wakefulness. So I wanted something else when I finally decided to turn on the light and read for a bit, something that would clear my mind of Jade's green eyes and fix it on Jesus. The Bible was an obvious choice, but for some reason I found myself thinking of Augustine's "Confessions", recently recommended by both of our pastors. (Luke read a bit on Sunday night at youth group, and one phrase has stayed with me: "how barren my heart to Thy tillage.") So, in my half-clad state (one of my diagnoses for sleeplessness was overheating, so I had shed my pajama bottoms), I thumped down the stairs and to the living room. On the devotional shelf, all the way to the left, Augustine's "Confessions" awaited me. I took it to bed and filled my mind with questions and praises put to a God bigger than we can comprehend.

After half an hour, still not sleepy but hoping to sleep, I turned out the light and snuggled in again. I prayed to a God who seemed very near, my need for him more desperate than during the well-lit and planned for hours of the day. And I slept.