A Letter to Beth

Dear Beth,

It was last Spring when you said I might write for you. Another year, we’d be tempted to say, and the same. The same fears about the same problems, the same prayers, the same silence. It reminds me of the leak in the Carolina Room, that’s the dining room and my bedroom, you know, with all the windows. My parents aren’t worried about it. After summer fishing, we’ll take a look, they say. I’ve pretty much gotten used to it raining inside the house. Last spring I spread out bowls. Now I just let it come and mop the floor when it’s over. A guest came and asked about all the trees the other day, Aren’t you worried one will fall on the roof? No, they said. We built the house and we can build it again. We can build it again even better. And I can see a sort of excited conspiracy in their eyes as if this was their plan all along. This is an odd way to look at something so important, yet it is like the Lord in a way. 

I know you do not care for some things the Lord has done and you ask yourself why he did them, why he does them. I don’t know, but I’ve been thinking on it. 

One of the big things that led my mother to the Lord was the drowning of a little boy. She was called to the scene as a first responder and did all the things she should do, but he had been in the warm water much too long. At last a helicopter came and she went inside with the unresponsive body as a young paramedic did all he could, but it was no good. She started to shake and cry. He reached out and put his hand on her, in anguish himself. We just keep trying, he said. 

When the emergency room doctor decided it was time to stop trying, Mama joined the family in the waiting room. That was the very worst part of all. The grandmother had to be sedated. The mother viciously blamed the father, who blamed the fourteen-year-old brother who was in pitiful shock that such a thing could even happen under the sun. The hospital chaplain came and added to the awful noise by saying that it was God’s mercy, because the boy could’ve grown up to be a wicked man. God’s mercy, Mama said, was that no one seemed to hear him. 

But that just couldn’t be right, she said to him. He patted her knee. Peace, peace.

How did she not hate the sovereign Lord after that? Well, she went searching for an unseen good, staring long and hard at the unknown God while surrounded on all sides by the awful noise of brazen questions, easy answers and false peace. But yet, she was found by Him. And she found Him good. Faithful in all his words and kind in all his works. Risen, just as he said, and blessed are those who have not seen, yet believe.

But she didn’t find him answering all her questions. How is it that what drew her in could drive others, even us, out? 

I have often forgotten the basic fact of Christianity: that Faith is the evidence of things hoped for, the substance of things not seen. It is rising at dark to walk in the daylight so you might see the dew on the webs you believe were spun. It is enduring the sun’s slow descent in the summer to watch the fireflies dance below Orion. Faith is the rising at dark. It is enduring the sun. It is the sinew in the spider’s silk and the binding in the starry belt: It is obedience. Faith is not ultimately why but yes, sir. It is not lying, not murdering, not stealing. It is loving your neighbor and your neighbors marriage and children and achievements. It is not saying all you think until your heart no longer thinks what you shouldn’t say. It is considering more the dreams and sensitivities of others than your own. It is not taking offense. It is calling your mother who always wants to know why you haven’t called already. It is not feeling sorry for ourselves. It is resting our uncertainties on the ground of all we’ve been told and given already, which is a gracious plenty, isn’t it? 

You know I am not preaching to you. It is just that in lieu of a standing desk I found an old pulpit and I think it’s effecting me. 

Have you noticed a trend of asking questions of (and about) God as if that is evidence of faith and honesty? It might be. But it might be evidence of pride and irreverence too. That tree could fall both ways, as in: did God really say? Raw is the term for baring all feelings and inquiries. I guess in the city that word invokes Whole Foods and expensive honey jars, but on a farm it could be anything. This reminds me of my grandfather who said that when he was a little boy he used to eat dead chickens. This worried me for too long. 

Anyway, the child of God must brace himself to receive questions as well as ask them, and be humbled under them too. Humbled to the point of shutting up. To the point of blind obedience. That’s the kind of thing you find in the kitchens, back yards, tractors and cubicles of the world, laying in hospital beds, bent over bathtubs, slumped over books and standing in the grocery line, and not on social media. 

But maybe I’m just old fashioned. I had a teacher once who wouldn’t let us raise our hands to ask or answer. It seemed like senseless torture at the time, especially as she had us sitting in teams and raising the hand would call down  ‘Disqualified! You and your team!’ I don’t remember now what disqualified meant, but it wasn’t great. Twitter needs that lady. 

In the first book God asks: Where are you? What is this you have done? Why are you angry? Where is your brother? Where have you come from and where are you going? Where is your wife Sarah? Why did she laugh? Is anything too hard for the Lord? Shall I hide from Abraham what I am about to do? What troubles you Hagar? What is your name? Why is it that you ask my name? In the infant story of God and fettered, foolish mankind, I’m weak Eve and passive Adam, jealous Cain, miserable Hagar and confused Abraham. I am mostly impudent, limping Jacob. What you and I aren’t is almighty, the Good Question Asker. 

Beth, in the things you don’t want and can’t love, is He asking you something? But don’t worry— by now I’ve disqualified the whole room well into next year, so you can take your time. 

I came across a mulberry tree today, heavy with fruit. I ate from the low branches. The long dull colored berries are better even than blackberries, sweeter than you could imagine, but they grow high and the wood was so fragile it couldn’t be climbed without breaking a limb. But it was something just to know they were there though out of reach.

Yours, Sarah



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