Ever Gently

I honestly can't remember what sort of conversation we were having when he did it. It could have been serious; it could have been a series of puns. He could have been telling an eloquent story or giving a profound reflection. Our meetings naturally contain all four. And more. That's how conversations go—like life, really.

But he was the only one I know who would have responded to the bumbling buzzing of the Japanese beetle above our heads by reaching up an eager hand to catch it. Others' hands would have tried to slap the great green thing in the air or to bat at it fearfully or to aid their fleeing bodies by clearing the way for a frenzied retreat from anywhere near the beetle's clumsy path. But his hand went straight up towards it, and he smiled in delight as it landed on his finger. He brought it down slowly, peering at it joyfully as it fumbled around, burying its head drunkenly into the hairs on his wrist. We admired its delicate beauty; its shell had stripes of a color its beholder called "iridescent green"—for iridescent and green it was! Shimmering in the dapples of sunlight that reached our little table as we conversed outside the coffee shop, this emerald bug held our enamored gazes for some time. 

And then, with a slightly mischievous grin (and, I think, an, "I wonder..."), he did it. With his free hand, he dipped a finger into his coffee and brought a single drop up and over to the beetle. The tiny black forelegs reached up and grasped at the dark droplet, and I watched in amazement as it slurped up the coffee and began to clean its face as if it was trying to get every last bit of the drink into its mouth. He gave it one more drop, which was gone even faster. We laughed, and he gave it some water. And then it settled down on his hand. He spoke to it kindly, told it it was time to go. It flattened its antennae just as a dog would flatten its ears as if to say, "No, not yet—please. I don't yet want to go." We laughed at it some more and kept talking. He said, "If you slow down, you see wonders." He was right. That little guy was a wonder. It was beautiful.

After a while, he nudged the beetle off of his finger onto a plant near our table. It sat there contentedly for a few minutes before lifting its great body into the air again and continuing its clumsy course.

I didn't really know what to say after that. As my professor grinned at the beetle fumbling along his finger, one thought flooded my mind: Isn't this just what Jesus would be doing if I was sitting here with Him? 

I would bet the disciples' jaws dropped many times as they watched their Master interact with His creation. Maybe right in the middle of a painful conversation, He would reach up and let a beetle alight on His hand. Maybe He answered some of their questions by simply fingering the leaves of a tree. Maybe while they were walking along a dusty path, bickering and biting about the greatest in the kingdom or some other "important" matter, He was kneeling at the edge of the road, watching a rabbit nibble or a lizard disappear under a rock.  And if they had been paying attention, they would have realized that the simple delight He was having could have been theirs. 

In watching my professor as he gently cared for the beetle, his smile surely the same smile that crossed the face of the Carpenter countless times all those years ago, a few more thoughts also flitted through my head. One was that this was a picture of how we were meant all along to interact with God's creation. It's there, isn't it, for us to delight in? For us to care for? For us to slow down and enjoy and see at every point our Maker's fingerprints, to give Him glory for it all? I mean, that's what He does with it. Jesus says He pays attention to the sparrows. He clothes the blades of grass. Why else do you think He crafts sculptures in the clouds or sends a sunrise to light up a bustling, distracted city? We may not be taking the time to enjoy it, but He is—every time. 

I don't know about you, but when I actually slow my mind down enough to take in my Master's handiwork, I realize that it's singing. It's enraptured, endlessly, in a melody about the pure love, the relentless joy, and the perfect gentleness of the One who gave it life and holds it all together. He is so gentle with it, isn't He? I mean, if He's able to stitch together a dragonfly's wings, fashion the beautiful details of the microscopic world, direct the path of a molecule of water in an ocean wave, care for the birds and the beasts, and, gosh, cherish us...My hands aren't that strong, but I break things when I try to hold them sometimes. Yet His...With perfect gentleness—perfect because His strength is channeled towards tenderness—He holds His world and smiles at it.

And you know what that means? It means that's how He's holding us, too.

That beetle was completely safe and completely loved in my professor’s hands. It was happy. It got some coffee. It didn't want to leave. 

Do we realize that we are safe? Safe in the hands of the One whose tender touch and sweet breath continually give us life? 

Do we realize that we are loved? That His love is the sort that isn't phased by the list of frustrations we have with ourselves, that isn't disheartened when we trip and fall in the mud, that can't be disappointed, that can't be changed, that can't be decreased, that can't end? 

I know—really, I do—how hard it is to feel like this is true sometimes. But it is. And, frankly, we can't do anything about it.

When I started writing this post, I intended to leave you with this last part in the form of a question. I was wondering, myself, whether the perspective I was about to frame was a good one. I can't do that now. I've convinced myself otherwise. There can be no other way.

So instead of a question, dear heart, I give you an instruction, an exhortation, an encouragement: Deal gently with yourself. Your Maker isn't eyeing your list of frustrations. He's not paying attention to the disqualifications you've laid out for Him to see. He's not even hampered by the mold in your corners, the stuff you were trying to make sure He didn't see. He's not wondering if you'll stumble again on your way into His arms. He doesn't care if you flunked that class in high school or don't see yourself as able to participate in that beauty pageant. The pimples and the problems—and even the certificated successes—don't bother Him. He just wants you. 

You see, as much as we try to convince ourselves otherwise, His heart only has one disposition toward us. It's what the Hebrew writers called ḥesed, what the English translators render over and over again "steadfast love." It's covenant love, love sealed by blood, love that doesn’t quit. We mess up. We have the ability, I guess, to gather a list of all the things that make us dirty. But if He's not making that list, then we shouldn't either. If He has not condemned us, then we don't get to condemn ourselves. If He's decided to keep holding our cells together, to keep breathing into our lungs, then maybe we'd better stop cringing at the ways we think we've failed. Maybe we ought to let Him lift our chins and grasp our hands—and just accept His invitation to dance.

His call, as I see it in every flickering leaf and humming breeze, is to deal as gently with ourselves as my professor dealt with that beetle—for that, creation cries, is the same gentleness with which He is ever dealing with us.

Life Lessons from Pedro the Wise

Allow me to introduce you, most cordially, to the individual whose intense focus and exemplary perspective on life we will be here admiring in this most concise treatise. He is undeniably adored by all members of his large social group (except, perhaps, the mailman). Though outside these circles of relationship he is, admittedly, unknown, I do believe we all have a great deal to learn from his polished life philosophy and his enduring thoughts on many other matters, particularly the subject of joy.

His name, my dear friends, is Pedro. His wisdom, as I am sure you can see, is quickly evident in his regal features. Kindness and joy emanate from his dark eyes, and you would greatly cherish his quick kisses and almost endlessly wagging tail if you were to meet him in person. In addition to the brilliance in perspective which you will soon witness, his other skills include running, climbing mountains, serving as the house Sergeant, catching spiders, and even, it has been reported by his owners, engaging in intercessory prayer. Maybe not. But his paws have been said to smell like potato chips, so that's pretty cool.

Anyways. You will find below five basic principles of our esteemed friend's philosophy. These are, of course, summaries of his thought, gathered from my own observations of his daily habits. This, I am sure, you will appreciate, as the grammar of his actual speeches and writings is quite—er—complex...Yeah... So, as you relish the warm feelings surely ignited by this elaborate introduction (or, more likely, roll your eyes at my wordiness and relish the warm feelings actually brought about by Pedro's picture), join with me in a refreshing dive into his beautiful wisdom.

1. Food is always exciting. Also, walks are always exciting. And so is being pet. And riding in the car. And food. Did I mention food? Food is always exciting.

This was the first thing I noticed about Pedro. Every dog seems to have about the same perspective, but it was Pedro whose undying excitement made me think I had something to learn. You see, it doesn't matter how many times you ask him; he's always excited to do his favorite things. And his favorite things don't seem to be the things he gets to do on occasion. They're the simple things he just relentlessly enjoys every day. He loves breakfast and dinner and his daily walk—and he'll love them just as much tomorrow as he did today and has done every day before that. He finds unending pleasure in what we might call the monotony of daily life.

Two questions from here. The first: What if we did this? What if we chose to take joy in the humdrum of the hoedown—the little, professedly boring parts of the dance of life? What if we decided to really enjoy our oatmeal in the morning and our meanderings through the grocery store and our coffee and that day-end satisfaction of finishing our work? Can we slow down enough to delight in the everyday, monotonous habits of life? Part of me thinks that that's where much of life is found. Jesus seemed to find it there, anyway. He enjoyed the Transfiguration, I'm sure, but He also found apparently relentless satisfaction in another meal, another healing, another conversation, another day.

And that leads me to my second question: Do we realize that God does this? I'm serious. He still paints a sunrise every morning even if none of us happens to be awake to see it. He put tiny spots on ladybugs and wove together all sorts of cells to make us—intricate details that seem to delight Him over and over again. He never tires of creating day after day, of taking care of one more sparrow, or of picking us up after another fall. He delights in the monotony of life. He delights in life. We get so bogged down in worry and fear and all sorts of other things that we miss what I think seems to be the rhythm of all the rest of His creation and of His own heart: joy. Maybe Pedro—or that bird chirping outside your window—can encourage you to discover the beauty in the monotony, the humor in the habits, the joy in daily life.

2. I can pee on that bush. And that other bush. And that pole. And the fire hydrant. And, just for the heck of it, on that grass too. And, don't worry, I still have more for that other bush.

Honestly, I think there is a lot we can learn from this one. But here's what I'd like to pull from it, mostly because it's something I wrestle with often. It comes in another question (okay, a series of questions): How confident are we about leaving our "scent" on other people? How "okay" are we with letting people taste the real "us" and be impacted by that? How ready are we to purposefully leave a lasting touch on those with whom we come in contact—or even to admit that our presence will probably do that whether we realize it or not?

Sometimes, I struggle with the idea that my presence has an impact. I'll wish that I could walk about without being heard, watch and learn without being seen, or exist without touching anyone. I used to wish I didn't exist at all. The idea that my presence affects those around me has been known to irritate me immensely. 

But I'm learning something—not just from Pedro but from the truly freeing love of my church community and of Christ. Yes, our presence always has an effect. That's inevitable. And, beautifully, it is in this leaving of a "scent" that some of the most surprising glimpses of true humanity and also sublime connections between humanity and divinity happen. You see, when our presence touches others, they see our humanity. When we are touched by others, we see theirs. And when this happens among Christians, we see Jesus. 

Paul puts it this way: "But thanks be to God, who in Christ always leads us in triumphal procession, and through us spreads the fragrance of the knowledge of him everywhere. For we are the aroma of Christ to God among those who are being saved and among those who are perishing, to one a fragrance from death to death, to the other a fragrance from life to life" (II Corinthians 2:14-16a, ESV).

Maybe we should be a bit more bold about spreading this fragrance, passing on this aroma everywhere we go, regardless of how it's received. Pedro has no fear of peeing on every bush. He makes every place his territory. And he makes a special point to leave his scent in places where other dogs had done the same; he covers over their mark with his own and repeatedly claims the spot as his. 

Perhaps, like Pedro, we should be in the business of fearlessly letting our presence have an impact. We should be ready to be used by Christ to touch His people, excited to share with our very selves His fragrance over and over again—especially to those who are burdened by the lies of so many other scents from false authorities. We can remind by our scent who really owns the block. Let's not fear to let our lights shine before men.

3. Walks are, of course, never about the destination. Every bush is important.

That's life, friends. With Christ, our destination is sure. So let's not worry about it. Let's be more concerned with the journey, more intent on valuing each person we meet. We'll get home when it's time.

4. 'Tis important to always watch the house. You never know what the mailman—or those mischievous doves—might be up to.

Paul has told us to be alert and to put on the armor of God in its entirety. John told us to test the spirits. Jesus told us to keep watch. The Christian life is a battle; we've got to pay attention. We must be careful about what we let into our house (our mind, our heart, our body). And just as Pedro must listen to his owners when they tell him the "intruder" is actually a friend or that the doves are perfectly allowed to peruse the yard, we must be attentive and obedient to the leading of the Holy Spirit. He knows what's what. Let's stop our barking if He's trying to let in a friend.

5. Daddy is my favorite. 

Pedro seems to love pretty much everyone (save that poor mailman), but there's something pretty special about his reaction to his daddy. He just gets so excited to be with his master. He'll go with him anywhere, and he'll only let his eyes close if his daddy's the one saying, "Nighty night."

I think the connection here is pretty obvious. We should love everyone—but our Abba should be our favorite. Our Heavenly Father should be our first love. He, after all, is the One who'll lead us to green pastures and quiet waters, and it is His gentle voice that allows us to rest.

In summary? Pedro's advice is this: Lighten up a bit. Enjoy the breakfasts and dinners and walks. Don't be afraid to leave your scent on the bushes. Watch your house. And, most of all, make Abba your favorite.