In Training
“He promised never to leave me, never to leave me alone. No never alone. No never alone. He promised never to leave me, never to leave me alone.”
- Martin Luther King Jr.
You probably know that I’m in training. I’m trying to learn to pay attention. In fact, for the last 10-15 years, the idea of paying attention to where God is, what He is doing in the world and inside of me has been a consistent theme. The training is difficult work, much harder than I would have imagined.
In January 2006 I drove from Seattle to Genesee, Idaho, the small town where both my parents grew up. I used to spend part of each summer there with my grandparents, and have probably made that drive over one hundred times. My Great-Uncle Don had passed away, and I wanted to attend his memorial service. Knowing I would have a LOT of time to myself in the car (it’s 300 miles each way), I resolved to try and pay attention.
It was a foggy morning in Seattle, and I drove through heavy mist all along I-90 East, up and down Snoqualmie Pass and all the way to Vantage, on the Columbia River. At times, the fog was so thick that driving required great concentration, and I realized I was driving smack into a metaphor. Sometimes all I could do was trust the white line at the side of the road, because I couldn’t see any further ahead. If the white line bent, I bent with it. Trusting the only thing visible got me where I needed to go, even though I couldn’t see the destination.
I turned onto Highway 26 and went past Royal City and Othello, down the hill past the farming community of Washtucna and started up the other side. That stretch of road has steep rock walls on either side, and it is littered with the faded white graffiti of generations of daring Washtucna High School students. As I hurtled by, one phrase stood out from all the rest: “I LOVE HEATHER.” I wondered. Did Heather ever find out? Had the spray painter ever told her? Maybe they were married now with two kids and a little house on a wheat farm. I remembered the goofy dating things my wife Anne and I wrote in each others’ high school yearbooks which are now part of our family folklore. “I LOVE ANNE.” I probably wouldn’t have had the guts to spray paint it, but it doesn’t make it any less true.
When I arrived in Genesee, I went into the little Community Church which was half-filled with my relatives. George, the pastor, entered just before the service started and I noticed he had muddy shoes and mud up the back of his pants. Funny what you notice. Then I remembered that he and the family had just returned from the little cemetery on the hill outside town, the same one where I had buried each of my grandparents. Each of those had been bittersweet times of loss but also infused with a mysterious sense of God’s presence. That hill is holy ground for me.
Pastor George got a little confused at some point in the service. He used the first part of Psalm 121 as a call to worship. Then one of my distant cousins read the whole of Psalm 121 as one of the readings. Then a little later, George read the entire thing again, forgetting that he was supposed to read a different passage. So we heard Psalm 121 three times. “I lift up my eyes to the hills. Where does my help come from? My help comes from the Lord, Maker of heaven and earth.” Maybe God was making a point. I could stand to hear it again.
Before I drove home, I hurried up to the cemetery on the hill. It was partially covered in snow, like all the other rolling hills in the distance with pink sunset fading on them. At the top of the hill I found Great Uncle Don’s freshly dug grave with the white bouquet of flowers on top of it. He was a good man. I felt the rich brown earth in my fingers. A little ways away I found the graves of all four of my grandparents, though I had to kick through a snow drift to read the markers. I left a few tears of sadness and took with me a great sense of blessing for good people who had come before me.
I headed back through Moscow, Pullman and Colfax onto a now pitch black Highway 26. We don’t see darkness like that in the city. Glancing out my side window I saw a white mass in the blackness. Stars. More stars and constellations than I remember ever seeing in one sky. There wasn’t a farm or light within sight, and no cars coming for miles in either direction so I pulled over, turned out my headlights and got out to stare and listen to the absolute stillness. An amazing gift from the Maker of heaven and earth.
It’s demanding work, this learning to pay attention. Sometimes it takes me a whole day to realize that I’m never alone, no never, never alone.
See you soon,
Pastor Dan
Question for Reflection: Where are you noticing God showing up in your life?
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