Beauty for Ashes

 

     We mostly missed out on the Mt. St. Helens explosion. We lived in Denver in 1980, out of reach of the early darkness and inches of ash the Northwest experienced. But the volcano is only an hour away from Portland, where Reed is working this week, so we spent Sunday at Mt. St. Helens National Park. Most of the sites for tourists are blocked by snow, but the visitor center is still open. One of the displays lets you drag your finger forward through the decades to show how life gradually returned to a landscape scarred by destruction and ashes. I thought of the following verse:

          Isaiah 61:3      To console those who mourn in Zion,
                                  to give them beauty for ashes,
                                  the oil of joy for mourning,
                                  the garment of praise for the spirit of heaviness,
                                  that they may be called trees of righteousness,
                                  the planting of the Lord, that He may be glorified.

     Life did not return with drama like the explosion that destroyed it. Creatures that survived because they live underground, gradually crept out. Plants took root, even if they had to grow new ones to do it. Life returned slowly, one day at a time. It is a good illustration of spiritual life. When we see a loved one living in destruction, we want a Damascus road change. We want it to happen right now, if not yesterday. We want the ashes swept out and sturdy trees of righteousness growing in their place, but that didn't even happen to Paul after the original Damascus road. Paul spent three years being taught by Jesus and ten years serving in the church at Antioch before God called him into missionary service. To endure the imprisonments, beatings, shipwrecks etc. Paul needed deeply rooted faith. What we humans keep forgetting is--God is not in a hurry. Spiritual renewal, like nature's cycle, comes in its appointed time. Barely noticeable, beneath the ashes, God is planting beauty.

    

Oh, What Material!

     A decade ago, I took a poetry class at our local community college. Several of the poems were about my disabled brother and/or mentally ill mother. In the case of the latter, writing is a coping skill that helped me deal with my feelings regarding my mom, while the poems about my brother are more about his feelings than mine, and his abilities, rather than the dis part. My poetry teacher, now our Montana poet laureate, told me, "I'm sorry about your difficult childhood but, oh, what material!" I have been thinking about that as my niece and her family go through this health crisis. I am sorry Amanda has experienced so much pain, nausea and other discomforts of lupus and its treatment. I am sorry my sister and her husband have endured such financial stress and separation. But I am not sorry it is happening. I do not want them to miss out on the blessings that come with the trials because they deepen our walk with Christ.
    We do not really experience, or even desire, the deep, deep love of Jesus when life flows smoothly around us. It is when we are sinking in the storms of desperation that we find Jesus is with us in the depths. He may not prevent or end the storm, but neither will He leave us to face it alone. And for the blessing of that deepening, I would not wish their circumstances changed. The story of their lives is not turning out as they expected, but God is the One writing it and oh, what material.

Faithful

Faithful

In case He forgets to be faithful,

I remind God

of the marriage on the brink

of the health crisis--

growing worse.

Growing more expensive.

I start giving God ideas

for how He can fix things,

because I like to fix things.

"Do you think I am short of money?"

He says.

Then I scroll through the photos on my phone--

the beautiful places we have gone,

our home, our pets, 

the wrecked pickup our son did not die in,

our parents, children,

dozens of pictures of our granddaughter.

Faithful,

Faithful,

                                                                            Faithful. . .

He doesn't forget, I do.