A Calm in the Storm

 I’m not afraid of storms, for I’m learning how to sail my ship. Louisa May Alcott

Friends put out word a few weeks ago that they were scheduled to go away for a wedding and needed someone to take care of their house and dogs. Their usual caretaker had also scheduled time away, so they were desperate; they feared they would have to cancel their trip.

Being retired, I had the time necessary to read their email. Having pulse and respiration, I had a sudden urge to “be of service” (as we say in a number of organizations to which I belong). I found my fingers flying across the keyboard and offered to help if Obiwan Kenobi was otherwise unavailable. I am of an age where my fingers used to do the walking through the yellow pages, so it is not surprising that they decided to do the talking through the internet. I just wish they had spoken to me first. Why?

What do I know about dogs? I know how to take care of houses, of course. I’ve lived in many over the years. “I can open and close windows and doors with the best of ‘em,” says I. But dogs? While I am mildly acquainted with dogmatics from my years in the cloth, the four-legged critters of the canine persuasion are not all that high on my list of competencies (which could fit, in its unabridged entirety, on the inside cover of a match-book). 

Anyway, my friends had a need, and I had time, so I applied for the gig. I dropped by to get acquainted with Katie and Georgia (whom I’d not met previously due to Covid restrictions) and hit it off right off the bat, by which I mean they didn’t tear me from limb to limb. That was a pleasant surprise because, well, I’ll admit I’ve not always had good experiences with dogs, but I’ll spare you the tales of those tails and their scary details for another time.

Meanwhile, I am on day six watching the house and taking care of the dogs and everything is going well. I had hoped to have had some major adventures to report, but the critters are well-behaved and, aside from needing to take some medications for various ailments, they are very low-maintenance. If you put up one of those wildlife cameras so you could keep an eye on us 24/7, you wouldn’t know if you were watching video or looking at stills; it is that calm.

And that’s the point. I have discovered that my imagination is a far more potent opponent than life has ever been. Where I look for and anticipate a catastrophe around every corner and the apocalypse around every bend, very little has ever occurred that has lived up to my mind’s billing. I am my own worst false advertiser! I need to learn how to block the spam that comes into my cranial inbox, but if I did, with what would I fill the void? I must admit that while I don’t care for spam of the inbox and phone-call varieties, I do like the processed meat that goes by my name, but I digress.

No, I have found that whether dealing with work, family, church, politics, or any one of the myriad facets of life we face, things are seldom as bad as we make them out to be. There are those who say, “Plan for the worst and hope for the best,” but it seems they are whistling their way through the graveyard. 

Look ahead; sure. But don’t look so far ahead you trip over the dog beneath your feet. Do what needs to be done today, and have a sense of what needs to be done tomorrow, but don’t fret. After all, one may be high strung, but that doesn’t make them a guitar.

Working with Georgia and Katie, my new canine amigas, I’ve seen how dogs live “in” the moment. They know their needs, and their needs are few. My job was simply to pay attention. When I did that, the storms of anxiety faded and the ship sailed on toward a beautiful sunset, as it always does here in this, our valley. 

Keith Axberg writes on matters concerning life and faith. Author of newly released: Who the Blazes is Jesus? Good News for a Vulgar World (available through Amazon in Print and e-book)

The Ayes of Faith

To you I lift up my eyes, to you enthroned in the heavens. Psalm 123

I was driving home the other day from a Book Club that meets along the Swinomish Channel on the western edge of the Skagit Valley. As I was driving, I glanced to the south and spotted Mount Rainier, which lies about 164 miles away. I didn’t realize it could be spotted from that distance, what with hills, low cloud cover, fog, agricultural haze, smog, smoke from seasonal fires, and other stuff that clogs the view. I’d simply never been able to see through it all to spot that beautiful cone off in the distance. I suppose the fact that my eye is normally on the road in front of me has also prevented me from enjoying all there is to see in the world around me.

It was a clear and gorgeous day, however, so I was able to take in that spectacular vista for a moment before turning my attention back to the road I was traversing. There is something mystical about mountains that impels us to look skyward. “I lift up my eyes to the hills,” says the psalmist in Psalm 121. “I lift up my eyes to you,” he says again here, “enthroned in the heavens …”

The psalmist is a realist. There is a God, and neither he nor any of the rest of us mere mortals is Him or Her. One’s temptation, of course, isn’t to confuse who or what is God, but to think of God living “up there” on a high mountain, like Zeus on Olympus, or far away in heaven – out of sight and out of mind. I worry that my life, like my driving, is so focused on what I’m doing and where I’m going I don’t even bother to turn my head and look to see if God is “there” or not. People and situations are often obstacles to being able to see God clearly, let alone draw near. 

“It’s a jungle out there,” says the Monk theme song, and I agree. I often can’t see the Divine through da vines! I suppose that’s one reason the Almighty decided to climb down off the throne and join us here – up close and personal. 

While there are certainly passages that describe God-the-Warrior, the stories that really capture my imagination are those where God is not the complete Other, but One who steps into the Garden in the cool of the evening to chat with us. “Adam; how was your day? Eve; I love what you’ve done with the place; those orchids are really flourishing, aren’t they?” Or the story of Moses finding God playing hide-and-seek in a fiery bush on one mountain, and a game of peek-a-boo in the cleft of another mountain. Or the story of God whispering softly to Elijah when the prophet was feeling so alone and forsaken. Or the most dramatic story of all – God lying in a feeding trough (manger), totally dependent on the willingness of a young, unwed girl (and her fiance), to take him in and raise him up right.

When Jesus prayed, he spent hours talking to Poppi more than to the Almighty God of Heaven and Earth. He didn’t navigate the halls of heaven and make his way past a host of angelic bureaucrats. He spent his time conversing with God the way you and I might chat with friends and family about matters both profound and mundane.

When I lift up my eyes to the hills, I am profoundly aware there is a universe of which I am not the center. But I know, too, that when I lift up my head, it allows God to look me in the eye and say, “Aye, that’s better.” God’s desire is not to be remote, out of sight, or out of mind, but right here, right now, looking us full-on in the face and nodding, “Aye, I understand.” 

God doesn’t look down, as I see it, but across. I lift up my eyes unto the hills, and suddenly I realize our eyes have become God’s Ayes, for God is now (and always will be) our Poppi here in this, our valley.

Keith Axberg writes on matters concerning life and faith. Author of newly released: Who the Blazes is Jesus? Good News for a Vulgar World (available exclusively through Amazon in Print and e-book)