I’ve been thinking about being powerless. Not in the sense that we can’t make changes, adapt or accomplish anything. But more so in the bigger sense of the word.
We can’t control a diagnosis. We can’t control pink slips after a company buyout. We can’t control an oncoming drunk driver. We can’t control the stock market. We can’t control germs. We can’t control the weather. We can’t control violence. Or a thousand other things.
The seeming randomness can make us feel so vulnerable and raw. As Christians, though, we don’t believe in randomness. We believe in a sovereign God. But sometimes we are overcome with the happenings of this world. To pull ourselves out of such a funk, we only need to remember what Peter wrote in 1 Peter 1:3-5:
“Praise be to the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ! In his great mercy he has given us new birth into a living hope through the resurrection of Jesus Christ from the dead, and into an inheritance that can never perish, spoil or fade. This inheritance is kept in heaven for you, who through faith are shielded by God’s power until the coming of the salvation that is ready to be revealed in the last time.”
No matter what we endure here on earth, this isn’t the end for us. Our inheritance (heaven) is kept for us through faith as we are shielded by God’s power. And such an inheritance can never perish, spoil or fade. It can never be ripped from our clutches or stolen under the cover of night. It’s a constant truth that settles our souls when we consider it.
I’m preaching to myself this week. But maybe you needed to hear this too.
During the third-round match of the 2020 US Open tennis tournament this past week, Amanda Anisimova played Maria Sakkari. Neither are huge names in the sport yet, but that appears to be on the verge of changing.
The battle of two talented players who probably haven’t reach their upside yet might be appealing enough to nominal tennis fans, but when viewers learned their backstories via the ESPN broadcast as the matched progressed, it gave fans more to root for.
This time last year, Anisimova’s father died of a heart attack as she was preparing for the US Open. She was just 18 at the time. He’d been a big part of her tennis life, making it even more difficult for her to step back onto the court for the tournament this year. In her second-round match, in which she made a comeback, she said she was thinking about her dad the entire time.
Sakkari is a little older (25) and her story isn’t nearly as dramatic but it’s still compelling. Her mom was a player on the tour (reaching number 45) but didn’t experience the same amount of success (Sakkari is in the top twenty). Sakkari berated herself early in her career when things weren’t going her way on the court, but her mental focus has improved. She went on to win this match against Anisimova in straight sets, primarily because of her newfound focus.
“Show me your habits; I’ll show you your future,” said ESPN broadcaster Tom Rinaldi during the broadcast in reference to Sakkari turning the tide.
Throughout the match, commentators built on both players stories with tidbits of information, showing pictures of Anisimova with her dad and pointing out how Sakkari was able to move on quickly after losing her serve early in the second set — saying that’s not something she would’ve done in the past.
All this background information reaffirmed the power of story. Knowing where somebody has come from and understanding his or her battles makes us care more.
We know this, inherently. It’s the reason we gravitate toward novels, movies and music as we look for common ground that bonds and inspires us.
All the more reason to connect with each other — to go deeper by letting others in. It’s not wise to let everyone in, but if we don’t allow a few into our world, it’s going to be difficult for anybody else to root for us. And we all need that.
While listening to a hiking podcast recently, I heard a thru-hiker (someone who attempts to hike an entire trail) say the following: “I’d rather be more of a lake than a river.” He made this statement after he’d decided to get clean from drugs and alcohol and “to walk toward Jesus.”
When he got to a town in Maine, he got off the trail temporarily and took two jobs. He didn’t commit to either job long-term, nor did he commit to staying in the city. He just found the place to be welcoming, and he liked the idea of storing up some cash for the time being.
As he shared his story, I kept returning to what he said about preferring to be more like a lake than a river. It’s profound.
A lake isn’t in a hurry. Its waves gently lap at the shore, providing one of the most peaceful sounds known to man. Its water is inviting, rather than intimidating. And the local wildlife feel comfortable enough to glide on the surface or just frolic nearby.
A river, on the other hand, is often in a hurry, picking up debris as it goes. It has to get from Point A to Point B. There’s no time for being still. Its surrounding wildlife has to fight against the current if it hopes to not be carried downstream.
The takeaway for the hiker on the podcast, I think, is that he doesn’t want to be forced down trail by the current. He doesn’t want to be rushed without having time for contemplation. He wants to take time to examine, think, smell, hear, listen and touch. Maybe even journal.
Presumably, when you are on the trail, you are always consumed by getting in X number of miles each day, and what you are going to eat when you get there, and how you are going to make your money stretch to the end.
But when you are a lake, you get to stop when you see something. Maybe you are enamored with a bird’s nest that is hanging on a low branch. You can photograph it or examine it from afar as the mother feeds her babies. Or maybe you see a side trail that leads to a beautiful meadow and decide to take it so you can sit among the flowers and enjoy their aroma without having any concern about getting to the next spot on the trail.
Most of life is a river. We’re tied to a clock. We’re expected to meet certain criteria in our work. Our bills come due at the same time every month. Time marches on and pushes us along, no matter whether we want to or not.
That’s the allure of the trail, at least initially. It’s a chance to step out of the current. But from what I hear and read, if hikers aren’t careful, they end up jumping out of one river and into another one. They aren’t tied to a clock any longer, but they are tied to a calendar (you have to finish before winter). They aren’t tied to bills, but they have to be mindful of stretching their money until the end.
So it makes sense that the hiker on the podcast wants to be a lake, at least for now. I don’t know if he is truly seeking Jesus or just the idea of him. But I do know, generally speaking, that it’s difficult to realize that Jesus has been there all along, especially when we are busy rushing from one task to the next, one mile to the next. We need to sit at his feet, not rush to find him.
I’m an advocate of being more like a lake than a river. But then I often end up stepping into the river's current and letting it have its way with me. Yes, bills have to be paid, and I have to make sure to keep up with my responsibilities, but I need to continue to consciously step out of the current and enter the calm, still waters. For as Psalm 23 says, he leads us beside still waters, not rushing waters.
In June, I called a former neighbor named Jim on the anniversary of his son's suicide.
Jim picked up right away, recognizing my number. It's not that we've talked on the phone all that often. But he must have figured something was up.
"I'm calling because I know it's the anniversary of Tom's passing and I wanted to see how you and Karen [his wife] are doing."
"Oh, that's nice of you," Jim said.
For the next fifteen minutes, we got caught up on everything that's happened since I moved out of the neighborhood in 2018.
Not long thereafter, I got a notification on my phone telling me that a friend's mom had passed away a year earlier, so I called him.
"Hey, Tom. My calendar tells me that this is the first anniversary of your mom's passing. I wanted to call and check on you."
"Wow. Wow. That's something else."
Obviously, he was surprised that I had remembered. But I didn't really. I just make it a habit of putting such anniversaries and important dates in my phone so I will remember.
He went on to tell me that he wasn't really a date guy, but that he was very appreciative of me calling. We spent the next ten or fifteen minutes catching up.
Part of me laments the days when we called one another, rather than sending texts, and part of me is thankful for the new technology.
The part of me that laments our hesitancy to call one another believes we are missing out on a closer connection through tone inflection and just the normal give and take of an actual conversation.
But we're all busy and have different schedules, which makes it hard to talk on someone else's timetable. And that's really what this comes down to, isn't it? Often, we are really only willing to talk to each other on the phone when it's convenient ... for us.
I'm guilty, for sure.
The new norm is to text someone to see if he or she is available to talk on the phone, and we've all adapted to that. Most of us have a handful of friends who don't need to abide by that code, but once you get outside that small circle, it's expected.
How did this layer of protection become the new norm? It has to be more than simply that technology allows it. Have we become more reclusive, less willing to interact with each other?
If you are over fifty like I am, then you lived in such a time when technology didn't allow us to screen calls, so we couldn't do it. When the phone rang, we picked it up.
Of course, robocalls weren't a thing. And telemarketers were far and few between. So it was easier to know that you'd be talking to someone you knew if you picked up the phone back then.
If telemarketers were the turning point, did we allow them to condition us to build in a layer of protection so that by the time caller ID came along, screening calls became the norm?
Has all of this led to increased feelings of loneliness? If your two or three closest friends were on a cruise and didn't have cell service and you felt an extreme sense of loneliness or sadness pressing down on you, could you reach out to other friends via the phone, or would you hesitate (or send a text message first)?
I suspect that most of us would hesitate. I certainly would, mostly because I don't know if the other person would see it as an invasion of his or her privacy. That feels pretty bizarre, given the way I used to pick up the phone and call friends every day, and at all hours of the night.
It's made me feel less connected, and frankly, I don't like that feeling. That sense of being disconnected has led to people not understanding the changes I am going through, and I suspect the same could be said from their perspective.
I don't think that's a good thing.
How do we turn the tide? Maybe it starts with just picking up the phone and calling someone.
My parents divorced when I was eight years old. Afterward, my mom, my sister and I moved to a smaller home in a neighborhood I didn’t know all that well.
When a kid befriended me and took me to a "secret fort" inside some bushes a couple of blocks from my new home, it became my hiding place — the place I could crawl into and nobody could see me. I could think, dream, relax, and frankly, hide from the rest of the world whenever I needed to.
The summer before I started high school, my hiding place was behind my former grade school. I hit a tennis ball against the brick wall back there thousands of times in preparation for upcoming tennis team tryouts.
I had no way of knowing I wouldn’t really need to try out. My high school didn’t have a good tennis team. The coach usually just needed willing participants. I’m glad I didn’t know that, though. The work I put in behind that school was worth it. It was long, hard, sweaty work, but it made me better in every way.
Eight or nine years ago, a friend invited me out to central Nebraska for a fishing excursion over Memorial Day weekend. He had just purchased a small cabin in the woods and I loved everything about the place. Well, except for the lack of running water, the lack of electricity, and the outhouse. Don’t get me started on the outhouse.
You could take maybe fifty steps from the cabin and arrive at the fishing hole you see pictured above. The water was always calm. The trees offered ample shade. And we always caught fish, which is as close to a miracle as possible, given our lack of fishing success elsewhere.
My buddy sold that little piece of paradise a couple of years ago, so I’m looking for a new hiding place. But in reality, I expect it to find me, if I keep my eyes open.
Hiding places are free from distraction, free from judgment and free from expectation. You just show up and it begins to refresh you. Then you think about the Creator of such a place and a sense of wonder and connection with Him washes over you.