Clouds

I grew up listening to and singing a lot of hymns. On Sunday mornings my dad would often awaken us by playing the Mormon Tabernacle Choir’s ‘Hymns Triumphant’ record on the stereo really loudly. I remember learning to read the hymns in the hymnal, verse by verse, my mom’s finger guiding me word by word, her other hand firmly balancing the book on the edge of the pew in front of us while we stood singing.

And I’ve had a verse from a hymn running through my mind for several days this week:

You fearful saints, fresh courage take;

    the clouds you so much dread

are big with mercy and shall break

    in blessings on your head.

 

It took me a bit to figure out which hymn it’s from (verse 3 of God Moves in a Mysterious Way by William Cowper) and I wonder if it came to mind at first because of the word dread and last week’s passage about how the Egyptians came to dread the Israelites. It feels like there is a lot to dread these days. And I’ve been finding a lot of comfort in these words.

 

I’ve written before about being aware of my fears these days, how it’s been helpful to name them before God. This week is no exception, especially with school beginning and so many unknowns. I’m definitely one of the ‘fearful saints’ and the hymn has reminded me that I’m not alone, and that being afraid doesn’t somehow make me less a beloved child of God. I’m fearful and a saint, claimed by Christ and made holy. And God’s people have faced dreadful things before and been afraid and still beloved.

 

I’m not sure how to ‘fresh courage take,’ but I’m praying for fresh courage. Praying to trust God with all my heart, mind and strength. Remembering that courage is lived out in small actions, in being faithful. Remembering who I am and to whom I belong and remembering that my children and all of you belong to God and are held in God’s loving hands.

 

And as I’ve been singing ‘the clouds . . . are big with mercy,’ I’ve been paying attention to the clouds in the sky while walking with Emma towards school in the morning and while walking Luna at night. There’s been such a variety this week, and as I’ve been reflecting on this today, I’m aware that God’s mercy is full of variety too—uniquely shaped to meet each of us in our particular sufferings and needs.

 

One of my recent favorite books for older kids is The Inquisitor’s Tale by Adam Gidwitz. There are a lot of things I like about it, but one of the things I appreciated most was that what the main characters feared most turned out to be what saved them. I think of that when I think of the last part of this verse ‘the clouds you so much dread . . . shall break in blessings on your head.’ This isn’t a promise that nothing bad will happen or that we won’t suffer, instead it is an affirmation that God is the one who brings life out of death, that God is the one who gives blessings, and that nothing can separate us from God’s love.

Sunsets

I consider myself a bit of a connoisseur of sunsets. I grew up mostly in Holland, Michigan, and my family would often find itself heading out to the beach in the evening to catch the sunset over Lake Michigan. No two sunsets were ever the same and it was strikingly hard to predict ahead of time exactly what a sunset was going to look like. There were times we were sure it was going to be gorgeous, but then it just seemed to fizzle away. And there were other times we weren’t sure if it was worth making the effort to head out to the beach, only to be astounded at the beauty that soon stretched across the sky.

One thing I noticed, however, was that while sunsets were fairly popular and we were by no means the only ones who would pause in the day to take in the beauty, many folks left the beach as soon as the sun slipped behind the horizon. They left as soon as they could no longer see the sun, yet it was often not until the sun had been gone for several minutes that the true brilliance of the reds and oranges striking the clouds lit up the sky. Many people simply left too early.

The past few weeks we’ve been on vacation and we had the opportunity to take in a number of sunsets over Lake Michigan. Some of them were stunningly beautiful, and others simply fizzled. A few we thought were going to be duds rewarded our perseverance and lit up the sky after most other folks had left. One night, as we were leaving, (waiting long enough to be sure that the best had already passed) I turned to my children and passed along what I thought was one of my more profound bits of life wisdom: “Kids…here’s the thing about life: You never can tell when a sunset’s at its peak.” Elizabeth burst out laughing. Apparently she had expected something a bit more profound to follow the words, “Here’s the thing about life…”

I had intended this bit of wisdom to be simply about sunsets. I thought conveying this nugget of evening insight warranted the proclamation, “Here’s the thing about life…” Maybe that was a bit of an overstretch—but of course, it’s true about so much more than sunsets, too. It’s impossible to judge in the moment whether things are going to improve or get worse from here on out. Is this the worst the pandemic is going to get? Is it going to improve from here, or might another wave bring more suffering and uncertainty? What about the political divide in the United States and through much of the world? Is it going to start to heal, or is it only going to fracture even more? Will the economy start to recover, or will there be more lay-offs? Will your health improve or will it take a turn for the worse? Will your family relationships begin to heal or will they be more fractured?

Some of these things we can control or at least affect. Many of them we cannot. But here’s the thing about life—no matter whether we’re on an upswing and things seem to be improving or whether we’re in one of those moments when everything seems to be falling apart, we know how it all turns out. And it turns out Good.

“Then the angel showed me the river of the water of life, as clear as crystal, flowing from the throne of God and of the Lamb down the middle of the great street of the city. On each side of the river stood the tree of life, bearing twelve crops of fruit, yielding its fruit every month. And the leaves of the tree are for the healing of the nations. No longer will there be any curse. The throne of God and of the Lamb will be in the city, and his servants will serve him. They will see his face, and his name will be on their foreheads. There will be no more night. They will not need the light of a lamp or the light of the sun, for the Lord God will give them light. And they will reign for ever and ever.” Revelation 22:1-5 (NIV)