Visible and Invisible Glory

Tonight, after a lovely catch-up chat with Papa on our lovely front porch as we gazed at a lovely sunset, I offhandedly mentioned that I'd like my bike tires inflated. Short back story: Papa gave me my bike on our anniversary six years ago. He took me to church and said there was a surprise for me in the quilting room (a big storage space), and when I looked, there was a bike! It was one of the sweetest and most delightful surprises he's pulled off (the Nook might just beat the bike, though). We enjoyed riding it before the kids were born, and I've managed to ride it a little between pregnancies, but it's been a long time since I've hoisted my wobbly self onto the seat. I've been excited to take a spin this summer.

Anyway, Papa had already done the hard work of digging my long-neglected bike out of the shed last week, and at my words, he jumped up and went straight to the garage. I told him (admittedly half-heartedly) that he didn't have to inflate them now, but he did. And then I looked at the gleaming blue cycle with its oh-so-kickable kickstand and said, "Weeeeell... maybe I'll just ride around the block." Papa waved goodbye.

My ride.

I was about one hundred meters down the sidewalk when I realized that the sunset was reaching my favorite point--just when it last descends behind the horizon. The hues softening the few puffy clouds told me this was a good one, and I started pedaling fast. I was chasing the sunset.

We live a few blocks east of our town's western edge, and I like to walk over sometimes and watch the sunset from a higher point in a residential area that abuts a view of rolling cornfields, farms, and a few copses of trees as far as the eye can see. It's a gorgeous view. However, I had to go farther tonight to see the huge, molten day-gone sun because a new grocery store is now built, set to open next week, past the last row of houses. (I'll definitely do a post on that; it's big news out here.) I hit gravel and veered around the dirt paths that are set to be paved soon until I got to the main road out of town; I could just see the big red ball over the tops of a few trees to the north. I've got to get behind the high school, I thought.

I pedaled furiously down the little slope to the entrance of the high school. The sign flashed the time, 9:03 p.m., as I passed. Not much time. I cut across the grass to get to the library parking lot that connected to the back lot of the school, my jaw hammering with the vibrations of the rough ground. It's been a long, long time since I rode a bike. As I turned past the last corner of the school, I could see the sun, shining with muted ferocity as it sank. In the quiet, I could hear birds nesting, crickets chirping, cicadas calling, even the constant, mechanical buzz of the wind turbine. The wind whispered in the corn. The sight was so beautiful, I couldn't breathe.

 I've felt overwhelmed lately by the lists--all the things I have to do, all the things I should do, all the things I'd like to do, and the very long lists of what I just never do. I'm slowly realizing--I'm a slow learner--that there's no way in God's creation that I can actually get done everything on every list. I go through phases where I convince myself that I'm doing pretty well, that I'm "accomplishing" a lot, whatever that means. And then, when life gets busy, the kids grow and have more needs, I start feeling the pressure, like a boat that's taking on too much water. It's only a matter of time before something gives, before I get swamped. It used to be that I felt like I could "catch up" in the summers--clean out the closets, feel like I could get a fresh start to each school year. That's getting much harder--impossible?--to do.

But in the twilight, watching the sunset, I remembered that all of this life is meaningless. We chase ourselves and our loved ones around and around and die a little more each day, over and over again. The sun sets only to rise, panting. My chest heaved and my quads trembled and my soul stilled as I watched this day die, and thought of this.

But the sunset was so beautiful. Regardless of how temporal this life is, God deigned to give me--give us--this peaceful, marvelous tapestry on one evening out of the thousands, millions He has made. What a generous Giver He is, that as we struggle and as we lie burdened (esp. RAE this night), He showers us with loveliness, even little, seemingly meaningless glory in the heavens as the day ends. This is our toil, and this is yet our song.

Reb. Mary wrote today about how it's not OK, but that's OK, of the subtle temptation to think that doing certain God-pleasing acts (A) leads to certain outcomes (B). In her eloquent post, she writes:

When B does not follow, the cry of a [sinner's] heart should not be (or should not primarily be) for the Better Life: “Why, Lord? What am I doing wrong? Show me how to make it work!” Plead rather for the Better Hope: “Please, Lord. With this gift of your very life’s blood, pour into me the strength to continue pouring myself out. Enlarge my heart, that the life-giving transfusion may not be wasted through selfishly narrowed arteries. Teach me to live daily the difference of that cleansing flood, the difference between hard and hopeless, invisible to all but the eyes of faith. God grant me eyes of faith!” 

I can't see what is before me or our family. Heck, I could barely see the gravel on the shoulder as I pedaled weakly back up the hill into town. I don't know how everything important will get done. I have lots of sweating, and pedaling, and suffering ahead. This is the reality of life. But Christ makes visible what is invisible; He gives what we, the most impoverished, would starve without. I don't have to chase the sunset. He's already given it to me, and given me all the days that are before me, and given me the eternal dawn that waits for me and all believers.