Fiona and I waited for years for the completion of our home in Singapore, and then several more months to get everything inside it just right. (I spent hours and hours with the interior designer trying to fit everything into our little cubicle of a kitchen.) What if it all crumbled away? What if the physical structure that ostensibly holds the patterns and routines of our lives together gets swept away in a storm, a fire, an act of God? Would the seeds for renewal and regeneration remain in the remnants of destruction?
* * *
The fires in southern California began when we were away in Dallas last weekend. (Fiona's earlier post noted that on our way back, we could see the fires in the air, glowing like menacing embers in the darkness of a subdued and ashen land.) Among US cities, I've never really known what to make of Dallas, although I've now been there three times. San Francisco, Boston, New York City, Washington DC, Seattle, Atlanta and even Los Angeles -- these are cities that I feel I have a grasp on, a sense of what they are, what they stand for, where they came and where they seem to be headed. But Dallas confounds me. It's a city of great shopping, lovely outdoor cafes, and a lively night and music scene. It's a city of old and new wealth. Because of American Airlines, Dallas is one of the most connected cities in the US. It's in the midst of a successful push to establish itself as a city of the arts.
But these are outward descriptions of a place, its skin and clothes. (All those descriptions match almost any major city in the US, and for that matter, Singapore too.) But, as I've intimated in a previous post, the core of a place -- whether it's a home or a city -- is that which remains if the external edifices that indicate its existence get destroyed. What remains? San Francisco has rebuilt itself again and again because it has a resilient core that permeates every cobblestone, every brick in that city. In 1755, an earthquake, a tsunami and huge fire took quick, successive turns at destroying Lisbon, in Portugal. And despite losing more than a third of its population and almost all of its buildings, Lisbon arose again.
For me, Dallas' identity as a city has been obscured by the vitality and strength of the friendships I have there. In a strange way, I've never really gotten to know Dallas because I've never been there as a tourist. I've been there as part of family. Last Sunday morning, over breakfast at Clint's home, we were talking about our working hours:
Clint: I usually finish at 5 and get home before 6. [Note: He wakes up at 5.30 am!!!]
Keith: Yeah, I usually try to finish work by 6.30 pm so I get home at about 7 pm. I tend to work best between 1o to noon in the mornings and 4 to 6 in the afternoon ....
Clint (to his wife, Stephanie, and Fiona): Ah yes, I can attest to that. When we took "Bible in the Western Cultural Tradition" together (an afternoon class), Keith would fall asleep, almost every week, right about 10 minutes after the class started...
Nothing like old friends to remind us that we aren't perfect.
In the past year, I've thought a great deal about the things which anchor our lives and give us value and the convictions to make tough decisions. I described these as "emotional and spiritual ballasts" in a conversation with Clint last week. Seeing the fires rage in southern California, I know that bereft of these anchors, these ballasts, we would lose our way if the stuff of our lives were to dissolve, to go up in flames. And even though most of us won't encounter a devastating fire or tsunami, we will face a dark wood at some time or other in our lives. No one has said it better than Dante Aligheri, in the timeless opening lines of his Divine Comedy:
Nel mezzo del cammin di nostra vita
mi ritrovai per una selva oscura
che la diritta via era smarrita.
Midway upon the journey of our life
I found myself within a forest dark,
For the straightforward pathway had been lost.
But these are outward descriptions of a place, its skin and clothes. (All those descriptions match almost any major city in the US, and for that matter, Singapore too.) But, as I've intimated in a previous post, the core of a place -- whether it's a home or a city -- is that which remains if the external edifices that indicate its existence get destroyed. What remains? San Francisco has rebuilt itself again and again because it has a resilient core that permeates every cobblestone, every brick in that city. In 1755, an earthquake, a tsunami and huge fire took quick, successive turns at destroying Lisbon, in Portugal. And despite losing more than a third of its population and almost all of its buildings, Lisbon arose again.
For me, Dallas' identity as a city has been obscured by the vitality and strength of the friendships I have there. In a strange way, I've never really gotten to know Dallas because I've never been there as a tourist. I've been there as part of family. Last Sunday morning, over breakfast at Clint's home, we were talking about our working hours:
Clint: I usually finish at 5 and get home before 6. [Note: He wakes up at 5.30 am!!!]
Keith: Yeah, I usually try to finish work by 6.30 pm so I get home at about 7 pm. I tend to work best between 1o to noon in the mornings and 4 to 6 in the afternoon ....
Clint (to his wife, Stephanie, and Fiona): Ah yes, I can attest to that. When we took "Bible in the Western Cultural Tradition" together (an afternoon class), Keith would fall asleep, almost every week, right about 10 minutes after the class started...
Nothing like old friends to remind us that we aren't perfect.
In the past year, I've thought a great deal about the things which anchor our lives and give us value and the convictions to make tough decisions. I described these as "emotional and spiritual ballasts" in a conversation with Clint last week. Seeing the fires rage in southern California, I know that bereft of these anchors, these ballasts, we would lose our way if the stuff of our lives were to dissolve, to go up in flames. And even though most of us won't encounter a devastating fire or tsunami, we will face a dark wood at some time or other in our lives. No one has said it better than Dante Aligheri, in the timeless opening lines of his Divine Comedy:
Nel mezzo del cammin di nostra vita
mi ritrovai per una selva oscura
che la diritta via era smarrita.
Midway upon the journey of our life
I found myself within a forest dark,
For the straightforward pathway had been lost.
(Longfellow translation)
We will probably not encounter fire. We will probably not encounter storms or tsunamis. But we will stumble. We will perhaps lose our way, our sense of ourselves and the things that we truly value. We will wonder, and agonize, over our significance, our choices, the pathways we've taken in our lives, the lost opportunities and the impossible lives that perhaps could have been. And we will lose our way.
And these are the times when we will need the ballasts and anchors of our lives to help us find our way out. My friends, my family and my spirituality have guided me through the upheavals I've felt over the years. And every time I've found myself losing my way, I can trust someone else to guide me out of the "forest dark". For 14 years, Clint has patiently listened to my hangups and angst; I trust his wisdom and stability, and I am grateful that he still listens. (Seungki, Glenn, Pete, Jamie D, Phil C. -- know that each of you have also helped me to clarify my thoughts, to see reality, and God, more clearly than I could. Thank you.)
But the fires, and Dante, have also reminded me that it is my family that anchors my sense of home and place. On some mornings, Emma will come toddling into our bedroom and plunk herself between Fiona and me. Then, Josh will invariably follow a few minutes later, and try to squeeze onto our mattress. It can get annoying, especially when it's still early and dark out. But some mornings, when I look at my beautiful children, and my beautiful, wonderful wife -- who will always be a bigger, better, less selfish and more gracious person than I could ever be -- I remember that I've long prayed that God would grow, in our home, a small piece of heaven here on earth. And when I see my family, all squeezed in the same mattress, huddled under our comforter, with Emma saying "Herrooo" or something like that into my cellphone and Joshua trying to run his toy race cars on my legs, I think: God has already answered that prayer.
We will probably not encounter fire. We will probably not encounter storms or tsunamis. But we will stumble. We will perhaps lose our way, our sense of ourselves and the things that we truly value. We will wonder, and agonize, over our significance, our choices, the pathways we've taken in our lives, the lost opportunities and the impossible lives that perhaps could have been. And we will lose our way.
And these are the times when we will need the ballasts and anchors of our lives to help us find our way out. My friends, my family and my spirituality have guided me through the upheavals I've felt over the years. And every time I've found myself losing my way, I can trust someone else to guide me out of the "forest dark". For 14 years, Clint has patiently listened to my hangups and angst; I trust his wisdom and stability, and I am grateful that he still listens. (Seungki, Glenn, Pete, Jamie D, Phil C. -- know that each of you have also helped me to clarify my thoughts, to see reality, and God, more clearly than I could. Thank you.)
But the fires, and Dante, have also reminded me that it is my family that anchors my sense of home and place. On some mornings, Emma will come toddling into our bedroom and plunk herself between Fiona and me. Then, Josh will invariably follow a few minutes later, and try to squeeze onto our mattress. It can get annoying, especially when it's still early and dark out. But some mornings, when I look at my beautiful children, and my beautiful, wonderful wife -- who will always be a bigger, better, less selfish and more gracious person than I could ever be -- I remember that I've long prayed that God would grow, in our home, a small piece of heaven here on earth. And when I see my family, all squeezed in the same mattress, huddled under our comforter, with Emma saying "Herrooo" or something like that into my cellphone and Joshua trying to run his toy race cars on my legs, I think: God has already answered that prayer.
Blessed be your name
in a land that is pleantiful
where the streams of abundance flow
blessed be your name
blessed be your name
when I'm found in the dessert place
though I walk through the wilderness
blessed be your name
every blessing you pour out I'll
turn back to praise.
when the darkness closes in Lord,
Still I will say:
Blessed be the name of the Lord
Blessed be your name
Blessed be the name of the Lord
Blessed be your glorious name.
No comments:
Post a Comment