Grasping the Moment

All thy works shall praise thee, O Lord; and thy saints shall bless thee. KJV Psalms 145:10

I paused for traffic on this golden day, and watched in wonder as a swarm of leaves showered over me in a sudden frolic. Once dead upon the ground they held little fascination, yet in flight they spilled themselves in utter abandon, giving the moment a sudden delight. Just for me. They held their place for a season of green but now, they danced with the wind in a blaze of color for this one brief bit of time, just for me, and were gone.

There are these rich days of autumn in which the sun breaks through and lights up a few glorious hours of our year in which one tree in fifty suddenly grips our sight with special beauty. It bids us stop and just behold the color yellow rippling through a blue sky in a demonstration only nature can provide. And there, on the ground, lay a perfectly reflective puddle of yellow flakes anchored to a blackened trunk; mute testimony that says this is no illusion.

And just when I think I have seen the perfect tree with the most vivid hue, another bids me on to come and drink in an even more impressive scene. Now, orange and green blend in marbled splendor and surpass the dead of yellow. I cannot but dread that I am not able to take it all in; that there are more and better views just around the corner. And then I must cope with a sun that will not stand still, though I command and command, and in a few brief turns of time changes everything.

That sun, the same early morning companion I witnessed setting the eastern sky afire in red just a few days hence, refused to do my bidding then. I searched in vain for someone to come to my precipice and share in the sky splitting display that came but once in time. I needed a witness to verify the absolute glory of it all, but it would not wait, impatient to get about its task, and so the moment was gone, the masterpiece dissolving like some passing mist.

I witnessed, too, this week, a father bending over his two sons with tender but manly embrace. He spoke words of blessing tinged with words of challenge; instruction that gave their little lives direction and purpose; rails of steel laid with unmistakable affection into the hearts and minds of two young boys that would not fail to guide them hence and return them safe again. I looked at young eyes that were open to receive these assurances of grace with a trust affirmed by love and deep respect. The beauty of that moment held me transfixed until it, too, passed by.

This same day bore witness to the magic of two, new born babies who pulled at deep passions within a mother’s breast. Not just ‘a’ mother, but all mothers who happened on the scene. For some brief days, these little ones have the power to command and compel complete attention and cause many to stand in line for just a chance to hold them. What fascination to see such quiet and mute forms evoke such tender joy. It is the cry to grasp this moment of time that passes all too quickly, echoing memories of children grown and gone before.

I want to cling to all these moments for their raw beauty, but they pass before me as live drama defying all efforts to freeze them in place. I am forced to live in awe of the now and practice gratitude for these passing moments of beauty and grace. May God give me eyes to see all such passing scenes of splendor that touch my sleeves each day and enough joy in my heart that is sufficient to pay the proper obeisance.

comparisons

“See, I have engraved you on the palms of my hands; your walls are ever before me.”- Isaiah 49:16 NIV

We are in the midst of interviewing new families enrolling students for next year. It is one of the joys of my job to sit and get to know so many interesting people, each with their own unique story to tell. I glance over their applications and can form a mini-judgment before I even see them. Then we meet, and I usually have to discard those expectations as I see someone totally different walk through the door. Even my first impressions upon meeting are often thoroughly shaken by listening to their life stories unfold.

I am learning again and again not to judge a book by its cover. How often it is that I see someone I think worthy to admire, yea, even envy, in terms of their personal polish, achievement, position, marriage, and wealth. And then I learn of great personal burdens they bear or great pain they have experienced. There goes that picture perfect family. I have come to wonder if there is such a thing. Just when I think I have met the Ozzie and Harriet ideal,* someone loses a job or a close loved one, is struck with a debilitating illness, or faces other untold catastrophes. I have seen just about everything so far here at CFC.

Apart from learning caution in making judgments, what do I take from this? For one thing, I surely do not ever dare envy anyone ever again. I have lived a relatively simple and obscure life up to this point. Very few have ever been able to pronounce my name let alone be impressed by it. Financial security was never a “given.” Our first couch came after 4 years of marriage, cost $10, and had a good sized cigarette burn hole in the middle. We never had to worry about our children’s eligibility for “gifted” classes, but all made us proud, eventually. Both of us contend that the other got the worst of the bargain in marrying into families of class and status. I have never been voted “most popular,” “mister personality,” “most handsome,” or “most valuable player” of any group, class, or team. I was always picked last in sports and had a lock on right field when I could get it. I felt trapped in dead-end jobs most of my life where recognition was a finite and rare commodity. Yet, I now know that I have been blessed beyond all measure and would not trade this hum-drum life with anyone.

When tempted to compare lives, I look around and see that none of the precious fences of status, accomplishment, privilege, or wealth have ever been able to keep out random agony or tragedy. The first high school classmate of mine to die was a relatively ordinary girl who had metamorphasized into a college homecoming queen. Stalked by a madman, she was shot five times at close range as she sat with friends in the student union. My boyhood friend parlayed a piece of fairly worthless property into a million dollar windfall, surely the envy of many who did not know him. Stricken with cancer, he took his own life within weeks of the sale. And if ever I really get to feeling sorry for myself, I think of my cousin, Eugene Nordmoe, whose young life was ended by a Japanese bullet before he ever got off the landing craft at Iwo Jima.

These are the extreme cases, but nevertheless, they are potent reminders of how precious and blessed is my mundane and average existence. Discussing the highs and lows of the life of Chistopher Reeves this last week with one of our 7th graders, I posed the question: “Which would you rather be: someone who was stage-beautiful, a celebrated film star, rich, well married, but paralyzed at 43 and dead by 52? Or to be a completely unknown, relatively poor person living an ordinary life well into old age?” She chose the latter. I could have saved myself a lot of morose introspection had I come to that conclusion at her age.

Spring Break

The Spirit of God hath made me, and the breath of the Almighty hath given me life. - Job 33:4

So what did you do with your Spring Break, Mr. Moe? The gift of several days free time is an awesome gift that brings with it awesome responsibility. I cannot help but judge myself for how well I spend such free time. I have wasted enough of it to know that doing so leaves me feeling empty, spent, angry, and cheated all at the same time. “Dost thou love life? Then do not squander time, for that is the stuff life is made of,” so says the old American sage, Ben Franklin.

Some of my time was commandeered by forces outside of my control. There were daily visits to the hospital as my mom struggled through some surgery. I dare not bear resentment over the constraints of obligations bearing upon my time for no man is an island unto himself. Only the totally self-consumed are so and condemn themselves to shriveling souls that hoard their time like secret gold. And so, there were still duties to perform which tested whether or not I viewed my time as strictly my own. Any and all vacations should start there: a living gift placed upon the altar and precious all the more when it is given back in whole or part. There is nothing like gratitude to awaken the senses.

With the remainder (and there was plenty), I purposely set about to give refreshment to body, soul, and spirit for each have needs unique unto their own. For the body, I elected replanting a number of dead shrubs about the house and mulching them accordingly. Not very glamorous, I admit, yet there is a certain amount of satisfaction from turning the earth, restoring nature, and pure common labor. It did please others and could have been considered one of the above obligations, yet my body felt refreshed from working it so, and I rejoiced for having the strength to accomplish these mundane tasks. Later in the week, I broke free of all obligations and hiked up the Rich Mountain Loop Trail above Cades Cove. My lungs and legs strained under the load of pack and winter fat as I slowly climbed the miles up to a lofty campsite. My spirit was refreshed as well by luxuriously lunching while laying in a bed of leaves with my face to the warming sun. No expensive restaurant was ever so rich as that hillside spot in a quiet wood. And then to sit around a dying fire while the moon rose to bathe our little company in its magic light was pure joy.

For the soul, my wife and I indulged ourselves in some hours of kid-in-the-candy-shop pure fun at the Friends of the Library Book Sale. It was the last day and books were going for $5 a box. We poured over hundreds and hundreds of books rejoicing each time we found a “keeper.” We finally left with five boxfuls feeling like lottery winners. The joy continues as we have been able to delve into our new treasures and feed upon stories taking us to far places and times and consider whole new worlds of ideas.

It is hard to tell where the soul ends and the spirit begins. Some would laugh and say it foolish to think them different. Of little matter, I guess, but the Easter Season enriched my break as indeed it always used to before our calendar keepers turned so secular. A special Maundy Thursday service left us reeling from the beauty of such sweet sacrifice. And this, followed by the smashing power of the resurrection. Rich!

There were other things too, a couple of movies, catching up on correspondence and bills, a couple of lazy morning breakfasts, some family dinner parties, several good bike rides, three birthdays, sadly a couple of funerals, a car washing, the stopping of a leaky faucet, and lunch with some friends. In the end, no regrets; no looking back on wasted days. I take it as the proof of loving life; most satisfactory.

Thanksgiving

The Lord will accomplish what concerns me. – Ps. 138:8

Or will He? Upon the verse above hangs so much of the emotional momentum of the human heart. David imbeds this line in a Psalm filled with praise and thanksgiving to the Lord. And as we enter the Thanksgiving season, we will be challenged to bend our knee to our God and, through the eyes of faith, say, “The Lord will accomplish what concerns me.” It is the essence of thanksgiving to be content with the grace meted out to each of us.

It is of great concern to the teachers of our day who see angry children in their classroom. Some have good cause to be when their parents drag them through divisive and horrible relationships, when they are victims of indifference forced to raise themselves in loveless homes, or worse yet, when they become innocent subjects of predatory adults. Such anger may be understandable but is, nevertheless, quite deadly to all concerned, especially the bearer. Anger is the antithesis of thankfulness and ulcerates a steady poison of bitterness to the soul. It is an emotion that we were never built to bear.

Most of the people I meet and the children we teach have little real reason to be angry. That is no matter, however, because the human heart is capable of magnifying even the most simple of offenses into mounds of resentment. You can do it, and so can I. For children, it is even easier. One child may wrestle with the sudden loss of a parent while another can be tempted into great bitterness because a living parent denies them their own TV. From there, it is a simple step to blame God for the curse of hateful or impoverished parents. I was tempted to anger against God for my appearance as a young man. After all, He made me.

Do we have some angry children at CFC? No doubt, for the same reason you and I struggle with resentment at the misfortunes we encounter in our lives. All children go through times and seasons of anger ranging from a brief pout to raging shouting matches. Not a pretty sight. What is of significant concern is the slow, simmering anger that resides just below the surface over substantial periods of time.

What can be done? First of all, we need to look within. We cannot expect spirits of gratefulness from our children if we still cling to our own resentments. Forgiveness for others and a quiet acceptance of our own place in God’s economy is essential in removing the speck in the eye of our child. Second, we need patient and loving relationships that will enable us to unlock the hearts of our children. It is inherently embarrassing for us all to admit the things we hold against God. Third, I would hope that we could model a heart that is composed and quieted like a weaned child resting against his mother (Ps. 131:2). How powerful are the stories of repentance and rest which we have experienced in giving over our own episodes of anger unto the Lord. Fourth, I would advocate a continual besieging of that stronghold until it is broken; not with threats or punishments, but with a quiet declaration that we know that the issues of the heart are of the utmost priority.

I think the most common parental error is that of inaction out of fear. Do we dare open that box of our child’s fears and resentments? What will we find? When our children turned “of age”, we made it a practice of asking them if there were moments, actions, or practices in our household and parenting which they remembered with particular clarity colored by feelings of injustice. We were genuinely fearful of what we would discover. To our relief, no one recounted any even though we, as parents, could have suggested a few. Perhaps it is time we all ask ourselves if we have undeclared grievances against God and if we truly believe that the Lord will accomplish what concerns us. Freedom to praise depends on it.