Emerging from the Dark Night

It was only a few days into my late July visit to family in New Zealand that I walked our granddaughter to school. After getting her settled in her classroom, I continued down the street to a coffee shop. I know, surprise, surprise. I feel at home in just about any coffee shop in the world. I settled in with my journal and a latté. The last thing I wrote that day was this: I miss His Presence.

From the time I was a little girl, I could sense God’s presence so easily. It wasn’t something I had to conjure up, nor did I have to create time and space in order to feel his presence. I felt it so keenly, not only in those places and spaces where you expect to sense God, but in simply living life. Country roads, pastures, and creeks made up my world and it was there that I connected with God. House and farm chores even brought a sense of God as I went about my tasks. 

My journal entry was written out of a longing to sense his presence again. I’ve come through a fairly long season where he wasn’t present as I remember, and I missed that. I missed Him–that knowingness that he is nearby. I couldn’t sense him. My faith stayed intact, though it was a challenge and I had lots of questions. It was a faith like I had never had before, one in which my faith didn’t have an emotional or feeling side to it. I’m not a terribly expressive kind of person, more middle of the road, but this faith without feeling, without a sense of his presence, was more like abandonment, like God had left me. 

Believing, trusting, praying, worshipping, with a heart numb to his presence did not make the belief, trust, prayer or worship come easy. I wanted it to be different, to go back to what I once knew. My heart was blank, and so many times I just felt like I was going through the motions when it came to prayer, teaching, the Word. It's like telling someone you love them, but not feeling the love. Oh, there were a few times, moments really, when his presence came to me, but it was always short-lived. 

Perhaps I've been in a season that John of the Cross wrote about in the 16th century in his book, Dark Night of the Soul. He writes that the dark night is obscure. It can last for months, or even years. That has been my experience. Though there are a few who record of it lasting for decades, as in Mother Teresa, it is generally a temporary thing. While writing this post, I remembered that I had posted this blog five years ago after reading excerpts from the Dark Night of the Soul. Reading through the post again gave new understanding into this season, one that I don't think I fully grasped at the time I wrote the post. If you take the time to read it, I believe it describes the very places where God did his work in me during this dark season - spiritual greed, spiritual pride, spiritual wrath, spiritual gluttony. Interesting, isn't it, that each one begins with spiritual? 

I wonder if Jesus felt the dark night in the garden of Gethsemane the night before his death. His words, My God, my God, why have you forsaken me, lead me to believe so. I wonder if it was a dark night for Peter after the denial of his friend, Jesus, but more so, his Messiah. What a day when Jesus reaffirmed his love for him on the shores of Galilee! 

While visiting my daughter, I noticed a book lying on her bedside table entitled The Helper, by Catherine Marshall. She had recently read it, telling me the impact it had on her life. At the onset of this journey, I had been influenced by one of Catherine Marshall’s other books, Beyond Ourselves. it seemed ironic that a decade later, here laid another Marshall book at my daughter’s home in New Zealand. If I ever write a book, she would be my model to follow. Her books have brought conviction to those places where God's Spirit is at work in my life, encouragement to draw closer to the Father, and wisdom to know how to live my faith where the rubber hits the road. 

Books feed my intellectual pathway in connecting with God, and so with my longing to feel him again, I began to read The Helper, a book on the Holy Spirit’s presence and work in our lives.

Over the weeks of my visit, the book continued to speak into my heart, but one particular morning (same routine as before), I began to read a chapter entitled, “Something More.” I tuned out the peripheral noise of friends talking over coffee and the explosion of steam in the making of lattés, and leaned in with hope. It didn't take long for the words to tumble into my heart. God's presence was so evident. No doubt it was him. His presence is so tender and warm. He is always a God of loving and gracious conviction, not one of condemnation. 

I resonated with Catherine's prayer at the end of the chapter (in part): 

Lord, I do not want to waste the years left to me on this earth. Nor, do I want to go through life as a spiritual beggar, in rags, subsisting on the leftovers and the crumbs when I can be a child of the King . . . Yet Lord, I know that the gift of the Spirit is not for my joy alone; rather he is given as power for service. You alone can kindle in my heart the deep, fervent desire to be used like that . . . give me your own holy passion. Amen.

Tears immediately welled up, and right there, on August 5, in that coffee shop in Christchurch, NZ, God’s Spirit began to emerge in my heart. Something I hadn’t felt for a long time. Was the dark night over? It had been too long, this dark place in my soul, but the light of his presence began to emerge like the sun rising over the horizon.

I didn’t care that the tears ran down my face amid coffee shop patrons. I began to write feverishly at what I was feeling in my heart: 

Even now, I can feel my spirit being refreshed, renewed, as his Spirit lovingly, gently and graciously comes to me. No wonder my word for the year is “in.” It seemed so little, too small, so insignificant, but I knew it was for me and even there the Spirit was making ready my spirit for His work in my life in 2014. 

It's now late September and the sense of His presence remains - for which I am thankful. Looking back, I realize God was preparing my heart for my ordination a month later.

Long-Distance Grandma

A few years ago, I remember sitting on a plane next to a teenage girl who was going to visit her Grandma in the States. She lived in Europe where her mother was born, but over the years she would visit her father's family who lived in the States. I was curious as to how often she saw her Grandma and how close she was to her. I was encouraged to hear her share how much she loved her Grandma and that she felt very close to her even though she only saw her once a year. 

Our family is scattered from the Midwest to California to New Zealand. I get to see some of them more than others, but I do hope my growing grands can say the same about this Grandma when they are in their teens. I recently made a visit to my Kiwi grands, with an extended stop-over in CA along the way–making the above a reality. 

A 3-day stopover in Pasadena before heading to NZ.
What a joy to spend time with Josh, Kari, Stella, Leo, and Julie.
A fun afternoon at Santa Monica Beach. 

Botanical Gardens in Christchurch with Jamie, Evee, and Iris.

Keeping entertained with G'ma's phone camera in the back seat of the car on a day-trip to Hanmer Springs. 

Walking Evee to and from school, dropping Iris off at Kindy, playground fun,
Saturday mornings at the market, afternoon teas, shopping,
 doing life together. . . taking in all I can in my once a year visit. 

And last, but not least, Papa crashed the All Girls Party, but we didn't mind at all! 

Love being Grandma to Stella and Leo, GrGr to Miles, and Grammy to Evee and Iris!

Five Old Men - A Yosemite Story

Nobody really noticed them. Five old men making their way into the Curry Village Lodge for breakfast. It was the day after our Half Dome hike. Dennis and I were leisurely enjoying our coffee and a pastry. I couldn’t help watching as the men headed to a table just two down from us. One man helped another with his walker as he seated himself at the table. I watched and wondered as they chatted drinking their coffee.

You don’t see many older folk in Yosemite–lots of 20-somethings (so many passed us on the hike up to Half Dome), young families, nature and adventure seekers, but not many elderly.

The five guys fascinated me. Were they old friends? What brought them to Yosemite on this Memorial Day week? As I shared my fascination with Dennis, he finally said, Honey, if anyone could go ask them, you could. My curiosity got the best of me, and I strolled into their conversation.

The younger-looking one of the bunch paused in the conversation, looked up at me, and asked, What can we do for you?

Well, I’ve been watching you and can’t help but wonder what brings you to Yosemite. Are you friends?

They nodded in unison.

Oh, yes, the younger-looking one affirmed. We’ve been coming to Yosemite for years. We’re from the Bay Area and we come up annually around this time of year. I joined these guys back in 1973. Gesturing towards the man at the end of the table, the one with the walker, He’s been coming for 70 years.

Then, he looked across the table at the one with the gentleman’s cap. You’ve been making the reservations. How long has it been since we’ve been coming up on Memorial Day?

Oh, about 20 years, he figured. 

Directing my attention to the one who had been coming for 70 years, May I ask how old you are?

Seventy-eight.

So, you’ve been coming since you were a young boy! He nodded with a grin.

I felt at ease with these five. I think they felt at ease with my questions. I had found a treasure in the valley that was just as meaningful as standing on the top of Half Dome.

So, you've been coming for 20 years? I asked the man who made the reservations.

Well, no, he said. That's when we started coming on Memorial Day. 

Oh, sooo when did you start coming up here together?

I could tell his mind was turning back the hands of time. Some time in the 60’s, I can’t remember exactly.

My mind was calculating. That was almost 50 years ago. How old are these guys? I wondered. Do you mind if I ask how old you all are? 

My presumption was right as the younger-looking one claimed, Well, I’m the kid in the bunch. I'm 72.

He pointed directly across the table. Today’s his birthday.

Oh, wow, how old are you today? I asked.

Seventy-five, he said with a big smile on his face. 

I wished him a happy birthday and then found out the two guys on either side of him were 75 as well.  

Listening to these guys reminisce, thinking about the history they had together, almost moved me to tears.

So, have any of you hiked Half Dome?

Two nodded.

The one with the gent’s hat thought for a second when I asked how old he was when he hiked to the top.

Forty-five, maybe fifty.

Larry, with curly gray hair was the other one. He figured it had been 47 years ago, at the age of 28.

I proudly let them know that Dennis and I had hiked it the day before. The kid in the bunch was brave enough to ask me my age. As soon as I told them, they were all over it. Wow, congratulations! Good for you! That was followed by questions that only those that make it to the top would know to ask.

Are the cables still made of steel?

Yes, I answered.

Did you wear gloves?

You better believe I did. Couldn’t have done it without them.

Larry wanted to know if they still put up railroad ties to give a resting place on the ascent. 

Well, they’re not railroad ties anymore, I said wishing they had been railroad ties. Two-by-fours every 10 feet or so. Couldn’t have made the ascent without them either!

We talked about their plans for the day, if there was snow up in the High Sierras, and someone pointed out that I needed to hear about Larry's backpacking adventure on the John Muir trail when he was in his 20's. 

My curiosity needed to finish up so Dennis and I could get on with our day.

Would you mind if I take a picture of you? I asked. 

They gathered around the oldest, who promptly took off his baseball cap for the picture.

I shared of my delight to meet them, how encouraged I was to see the longevity of shared friendship and camaraderie, and the intentionality of connecting even in the later years of life. I had more than noticed them. Though it was brief, I heard their stories, felt their history, and gave honor and value to five old men who probably know Yosemite like the back of their hand.

I thanked them for their time, then I went back to finish my coffee with Dennis. Then the tears came. A Hungarian friend once told me that even if you meet people for only a moment, like having a conversation with someone on the train or on a flight, then you have enriched their life and they have enriched yours. I found those enriching moments in Yosemite with five old men.