Part Two: The Lotus Beds

Back in the fall I posted a short story about Jimmy "Moose" Leamington, a baseball player for the Traverse City Plovers in the mid 2020's. This is part 2 of Jimmy's story.

Part Two: The Lotus Beds

It is easy for one to get lost in the fluorescent glow of advertisements and the rush of pedestrians (residents and tourists alike). The nights in Osaka were different from any in the world, more vivid. There was enough nightlife in Dotonbori, Namba, and Shinsaibashi to keep any self-respecting young man occupied for the better part of a decade. The food alone was enough to bankrupt a man. A trip along the canal was almost a necessity and a lifetime’s worth of pictures had been taken from its banks. It was a world so eccentric and alluring to foreigners that nearly 105,000 occupied the city, mostly Chinese and Korean. In a country burgeoning with new promise and new possibility, Osaka burned with passion as the country’s beating heart.

Jimmy Leamington (there was no “Jimmy D.” here) stepped off a plane in March of 2023 into the middle of an unusually cool, rainy day in which the clouds seemed to hang like wet linens over the metropolis. He looked out upon not only a new city or a new country but a new world. The last one lay crumbled in the smoldering ash-heap of corruption back in the states. Every dream he had strived for was in doubt. He, like every other major leaguer, found themselves suddenly out of work. He tried to occupy himself with conditioning and strength training back in Ann Arbor but when the lights grew dim and the sleepless nights dragged on, he found himself asking: what was it all for now?

In mid-December, Stephen Mory, his agent called with an offer. It was the first he had heard from him since a brief and thoroughly pessimistic phone call in early October.

“How do you feel about Japan?” the congenial, if not completely altruistic New Yorker asked sporting a full beard and a sympathetic smile. Mory had to be nearing his mid-fifties but he dressed and spoke with the energy and cockiness of a man who spent his nights in the nightclubs and bars unwilling to give up a life that may or may not have passed him by. He might be self-deluded but he operated with a combination of ruthlessness and dedication on behalf of his clients that one could never feel completely steamrolled. If there was one thing Stephen Mory had, it was sincerity.

Honestly, Jimmy thought, what more can I really ask? There were thousands of guys just like him who found themselves unemployed and listless. If a team wanted to give him a chance, any team, who was he to turn them down? Besides, it was not as if he had a lot to hold him to the states. His parents had moved to Arizona and were living a remarkably comfortable life, communicating sparingly. His sister, with whom he had once been close, was thoroughly occupied in becoming the most sophisticated homemaker that the income of her engineer husband could afford.

In all honesty, his first inclination was to reject it outright. He had never been one to revel in the big cities let alone another country. He was no wanderer. Even his time in Atlanta had been such a whirlwind that the detail remained as hazy as the mid-summer afternoons. Looking back he could hardly remember anything aside from the ballpark, the lights, and of course the teammates. However, nostalgia gave way to reason and he acquiesced to give it a try.

Since the majors’ collapse most of the Japanese leagues had loosened their stipulation of only allowing four foreigners per team. With the glut of professional talent available the allure of greater competition was simply too great. Simultaneously, the rise of Japanese tech companies (especially robotics) was fueling one of the greatest economic bubbles in recent history. Japan was becoming a world power once again and it sought every opportunity to promote its national pastime in the wake of the corporate corruption that brought down American interest in the sport.

There was no slackening of interest from Japanese fans.

Seeking to fill their newly expanded quotient of foreign players, the Orix Buffaloes had sought him out. Likely their interest stemmed from a tightening payroll budget that placed established major leagues firmly out of their price range. Still, Jimmy had established himself as a significant power threat in his six minor league seasons. There was reason to believe that this was simply the next step toward a greater victory for his career.

All these words engrained themselves in the months and weeks prior to his arrival.

Osaka met him like an estranged lover. Yet he found no solace in her embrace. For the first week he found himself firmly residing on the bench in the home dugout. He understood nearly nothing his coaches said despite the cordial translations of his other American teammates. Never before had he felt so inadequate. Even the calisthenics practiced by the other Buffaloes seemed to leave his body in perpetual pain. He had always considered himself remarkably fit for his frame but these simple, repetitive exercises awakened soreness in muscles he was unaware he possessed.

It was this isolation that, for the first time in his life, allowed a sliver of loneliness into his heart. It led him not to the bustling streets ever-ready to drown angst with entertainment and delusion but rather to the sheltered solitude of a botanical garden along the banks of the Yodo River. He came on an off-day with a cool wind slipping in around the seams of his wind-breaker. He slowly walked the pavement still wet with the morning’s mist. Every surface seemed to gleam with a thin film of rain.

Jimmy followed a metal railing that kept safe distance from the steep banks. Below, the lapping water seemed less of a rushing torrent capable of sustaining the vast hydro-electric generators that powered much of the city and more like an extension of a becalmed sea with no current to be witnessed. Here the great river was nearly a quarter of a mile wide and traditional fishing boats could be seen bobbing gently in the distance.

Wonderfully manicured topiaries lined the path to his right. He passed with middling interest at the carefully cultivated hinoki cypress, some of which aged nearly 200 years. An elderly man passed holding the hand of a young girl wearing a red jacket, a brief splash of color illuminating the day. No passing ray of sunshine could have more accurately brought attention to the oppressive grey-ness of the morning. Far out in the bay the sea and the sky seemed to mingle in an indistinguishable embrace. The young girl in the red jacket had loosed herself and could be seen tottering to and fro on the path ahead, pin-balling from one side of the pavement to the other. The elderly man, her grandfather, Jimmy reasoned, made no effort to curtail her despite the proximity to the river. His own steps, sure, steady, and resolute seemed to always bring the girl back to him as gravity affects those compelled by it. The couple disappeared around the bend and only then did Jimmy realize that he had stopped to watch them. He started again in self-conscious haste.

He rounded the curve and approached a cement pier that stretched out into the river. Listless water lapped around the pylons whose surface was encrusted with mollusks of all shapes and sized, their gills drifting with the pressure of each wave like the lolling tongue of a dog with its head out a car window.  The pavement, like much of Osaka, had been redone recently yet still a few hardy grasses managed to poke through the cracks concrete; stalwart souls, Emerson and Thoreau standing against the perpetual onslaught of wind, rain, and crowd. Jimmy sidled up to the railing which was also slick with rain.

Seabirds rose and fell in the eternal sky.

“English?” a voice behind him asked.

Mostly out of confusion he turned but gave no answer.

“Do you speak English?”

“Yeah, yeah, of course”

“Of course? What does that imply?”

“I just mean that yeah I speak English. I wasn’t expecting an inquisition.”

There was a pause. A puff of salty breeze pushed against Jimmy’s back. It tossed loose strands of the woman’s long black hair up into her face, but she made no attempt to brush it away. So much for the example of the sultry shampoo commercials. Truth be told, this newcomer seemed to stare at him a bit too long, a bit too awkwardly. He had always had a hard time with eye contact anyway and now he felt compelled to turn away but could find no appropriate opportunity to do so. Her pervasively brown eyes compelled him.

“There are two types of people who stare aimlessly into the sea on cold, grey days,” she stated, mercifully breaking her gaze to scrutinize the distant shoreline. She thrust her hands into the pockets of the black trench coat she wore.

Pause.

“And they are?” Jimmy followed up impatiently.

“There just are,” she stated as if summarizing simply multiplication tables.

If he had known the relevance of what happened next he would have been a little less impatient, given a little more grace. As it was however, he was thoroughly put off by the strange conversation and erratic behavior and desired desperately to be relieved of this social obligation. Here he stood, noticeably alone on a miserable day. If anyone cried out to be left alone more than he, then let them come.

“I’m Poet,” she said, her hand still firmly implanted in her pockets. She turned to look over her right shoulder.

“I’m sorry?”

“My name, Poet.”

The words hung about him like a cloud of unknowing. There seemed to be something mystical about this young woman like the howl of a wolf or the uneasy tension in the midst of a fight.

“Do you come here often?” she asked, not waiting for an answer, “I like to walk along the coast and look at the flowers on my days off. That’s the best thing about this country,” she continued, “the flowers, it’s like the ground itself is singing or painting a beautiful landscape. There is a place, about half a mile down the path, do you know it? There’s a place where the river forms a tiny little bay and in the spring the whole surface of the water is covered with lotus blossoms. When the wind comes up off the bay all the little lilies flutter about like a field of butterflies. A whole field of butterflies tethered to the water.”

Jimmy found himself undeniably attracted to this woman and her strange demeanor.

“They say some plants can be up to 1,000 years old. Can you imagine that? These simple, beautiful plants just floating there through the course of human history. We will be dead and buried and those flowers will still be blooming in the spring.”

“Well, that’s a pleasant thought,” Jimmy added.

“What?”

“Nothing? I’m James by the way.”

They shook hands. There are moments when reality stills; when the ebb and flow of existence slips away and the tide of time slows to a trickle, lingering like droplets of rain suspended in midair. If he could have captured the tenor and magnitude of this moment for his own simple, transitory existence, he certainly would have sold his soul for it. The gains and successes he had found and would find on the field paled in comparison. History, their own personal stories, wisped stealthily in the shadows as the two future lovers introduced themselves. In the moment, of course, there was no earthshattering revelations; no star-crossed lover’s gaze. There seldom is. In the moment there was simply one American expatriate meeting another, just a baseball player meeting a social media director. In the moment, there was only James Leamington and Poet Bashki.

Humans like to latch on to certain memories, certain colossal events, and forget the mundane. It simply is in our nature. Our brains lack the capability to internalize all that we take in. To keep us from becoming unnecessarily bogged down our minds dump the information we discern to be unimportant. Jimmy couldn’t dial his parent’s phone number or remember his grandfather’s middle name but he could, years later, remember the way that Poet pirouetted, showing off her trim legs as she turned to lead him on. He could have (had he been an artist) sketched the way her hair, wet by the oncoming sprinkle, hung beside her unblemished cheeks.

As she led him on, toward the bay of lotuses, the walked side by side. It began to sprinkle again.

Looking up to the heavens he disdainfully said: “of course.”

“I’d be great if you had an umbrella right?” Poet said pulling out a pocket umbrella and holding it triumphantly above herself, leaving Jimmy decisively out in the rain. “Bummer.”

She gave Jimmy a sideways smirk and offered the umbrella up to him. This act, which Jimmy of course accepted, forced the pair closer together than their burgeoning friendship might allow. Yet she gave no hint of awkwardness or unfamiliarity. This took Jimmy off his guard. He had grown up in a family in which was loving and caring but kept a fair distance when it came to personal space. He could remember few embraces from his mother and even fewer from his father who often worked overseas for much of his formative years.

Still, the unfamiliarity was just that, not unpleasant as he often found himself in social situations. Something about this woman’s presence seemed to act as balm to his current uncertainty.

In Eastern mythology, the lotus symbolizes divine beauty or the expansion of the soul.

When they arrived, the miniature bay lay spread out before them, carpeted by the pale pink flowers with vibrant yellow hearts. They huddled together beneath the canopy of the umbrella caught in the tension between new-found friends and something deeper.  Poet seemed oblivious to this. As he would later come to know, she gave almost no thought to perceived social boundaries. In her was a joyful spirit who talked to every stranger with the awareness of a life-long compatriot. She shared colloquialisms with the enthusiasm of a family friend whose past is littered with stories and anecdotes of pleasant shared memories. She shared too the dark hurts and pains of her all too recent past. Only a few short weeks later, sitting at a high-top table at a sushi bar she tearfully shared the abuse she had experienced at the hands of her mostly absentee father. By then he was coming to know that there was no pretension in her heart; no artificial concept of boundary. He laid his hand lightly upon her arm as she wept loudly without thought or care to the fullness of the restaurant.

She came to her first Buffaloes game just about the time that James’ bat began to heat up. Quickly she filled a place in his heart that he hadn’t known was void. From the batter’s box he could feel without consciously acknowledging it that she was somewhere in the stands. He found success for about two months with the Buffaloes. At first he was only used for a start here and a start there. An injury to their starting third baseman, another former major leaguer by the name of Roberto D’Arcy, allowed James to get his foot in the door. D’Arcy was out about three weeks but by the time he got back James had firmly entrenched himself in the line-up. Even his average, which had always languished just above the lowest acceptable level, had vaulted up near .300. Strikeouts of course remained about constant but it was quickly glossed over by his new manager in light of the success he was brining to himself and the team.

Somewhere in the back of his mind there always remained that placid bay of flowers glinting gaily in the springtime sun.

James’ success evaporated as meteorically as it had begun. First his average dropped precipitously. Next a few poorly timed fielding miscues led opposing teams to some big innings and the Buffaloes to several key losses. The strikeouts piled up. He found himself back on the bench by late June with an average clinging desperately to the Mendoza line. The starting third baseman returned and he found himself relegated to blow out games and pinch hitting as he had proven himself untrustworthy as a defensive replacement. In late July his manager called him into his office and told him, through the team’s long suffering translator, that his services were no longer necessary. The news was not unforeseen and so James reacted with surprising restraint. He felt no great loss or heartache. Perhaps this was due to his inability to really fit in to Japanese culture but more likely it was Poet, who had become an inescapable element of his life; an integral force of nature.

There may be some of you would wish to hear the tale of these two love-struck expatriates through the years, for it was several years. You may desire to hear anecdotes of their love, of birthdays, romantic gestures, and milestones. I must regretfully inform you that while such a tale might bring some satisfaction to our otherwise mundane lives or even joy, today is not the day for such a story, nor am I the man to tell it. A pity, perhaps, for such a story, rife with whimsy and adoration might well warm the heart or rekindle simmering desire.

You must however, take my word, that James and Poet loved each other deeply and truly. They weathered the tempestuous storms that come with a life in baseball and indeed life in general. In truth, it was the inevitability of coming home to Poet that kept James sane after long road trips or disappointing games. Each time he returned home was different. Sometime he found her painting in her office. Other times he took the bus home to find her singing with radio on the balcony like some Disney princess for all the world to hear. She made a point to stay awake until he returned home in the early hours of the morning when he’d find her splayed out on the couch reading with the regal grace of Audrey Hepburn. Never disheveled, she would take him into her arms and envelop him in the buzzing quality that seemed to hang ever around her.

When his Japanese career reached its bitter end there was little debate over a new course of action. With the prospect of the new Continental leagues which were still in their relative infancy and the potential employment they offered, the couple who had now been together for two years sold all their possessions and moved back to the States. For Poet, it had been nearly a decade since she had set foot in her homeland and it now seemed as foreign to her as Japan once had. Jimmy however (back in America he was once again surrounded by former teammates and opponents) found that the return came with such familiarity that it seemed inconceivable that he had ever left.

By now most of the major league veterans who had been hanging their hopes on some sort or professional resurgence had retired and Jimmy found himself firmly atop the minor league home run leaderboard. Thus he was met with some measure of fanfare when he signed with Traverse City. All this seemed to rejuvenate the passion for the game that had driven him for the better part of his life.

For Poet, reintegrating to life in America was less natural. Having given up her job when they left Japan she spent a good five months searching for a comparable job back home. Since Traverse was not exactly a booming metropolis, she was forced to choose between an unenviable commute or finding some way to work from home. She had never spent that much time out of work and it began to take its toll upon her.

She had even sought out an ill-fated reunion with her estranged father. Perhaps it was out of desperation for communal contact or perhaps it was simply sheer morbid curiosity. Either way, she found herself driving half-way across the country to a town in upstate New York to meet a man who had invested nothing into her development or education. She met him at a Denny’s restaurant off the interstate. He offered her pleasantries that went about as deep as her cuticle. He wore a surprisingly trim polo shirt. This shook her. Perhaps she was expecting his attire to reflect the carelessly with which he conducted himself nearly thirty years before. She brought up little of the past and made little eye-contact beyond their initial re-introductions. Instead she kept her gaze firmly downward on the salt and pepper shaker. He asked nothing about her mother. He inquired once about her job, her lifestyle but when she informed him of her current unemployment he quickly dropped the subject. They left on objectively good terms. He headed back to the life he had carved out for himself, one that didn’t contain room for an unintentional daughter. She headed back to the plaintive existence into which she had settled. She hadn’t really known what she had been hoping for. There is no way to reproduce the lost innocence of youth; no way to repay for the nights spent in tears or the memories never created. So she drove home silently through the night only to be met by an obviously empty apartment.

While she maintained her whimsical nature on the surface, she spent many nights fruitlessly job searching and waiting for Jimmy to return home after the games. In truth, she sought refuge in literature. All her life she had maintained a healthy appetite for fiction and a passion for defending it in an age of declining practical literacy. She always maintained the benefits of a well-read student of literature by pointing to the value of experiencing life through another’s eyes and the helpful imaginative process. Now though, her reading manifested itself more as mere escapism than any intellectual discipline. So on many a night she found herself laying half-awake on the couch trapped in any number of fictional worlds when he arrived home.

Just how many nights their paths intertwined as such it is hard to say. Two separate satellites desperately trying to maintain a shared orbit. They talked of marriage as one might talk about having a wart removed, as an expected but unenthusiastic outcome. That is not to say that both were equally disillusioned. Jimmy’s career seemed to be settling into its peak. Instead of trying to catch on either with a major league club or a Japanese one, he now bought into the role of elder statesman and power hitter in the young emerging league. His teammates called him Moose for reasons that he would later fail to recall. Still Moose Leamington was flourishing in his second baseball career.

On the particular night in which our story revolves, Jimmy “Moose” Leamington hit a three run homer in the seventh inning against former Dodger Josh Sucre. The hit was tall and majestic and sailed over the right field fence at the speed of 78 miles per hour. The homer put Traverse City up by two runs. The bullpen, led by a former teammate from his Atlanta days, held on to the lead and they won the day. This event, though not unprecedented obviously occupied his mind as he prepared to go out to dinner with Poet. They met at a pub on Front Street. It was pretty touristy but why not, they liked it and had frequented it often. Poet too, liked to pop in to a used bookstore located nearby.

Poet, for her part, had spent the afternoon walking along the lakefront. She had completely missed the home run (and the game overall) but the exultant cheers from the nearby ballpark let her know with remarkable certainty what the outcome had been. There is no way however, she could have known that it was in fact James who had secured the victory. If she had, perhaps she would have stayed her tongue. Perhaps she would have waited for a more appropriate day and in the waiting who knows what could have happened. We are left only to wonder for when she approached the pub she was aware of only the stirrings of her heart.

“Do you remember the time I ate that bad Mahi-Mahi and got sick for like a week?” she asked as picked her way through a Greek salad. He was enraptured by a think burger. “It basically cleared me out, purged me of everything. I was exhausted for days. That’s how I feel now.”

“Like you’re going to purge?”

“No, this. I’m empty. I’ve been purged.”

“This what?”

“This city. This job. This life. This crappy beer.”

“Us?”

“Us.”

In his mind, Jimmy saw only the batted ball rising in the July air, reaching its zenith and clearing the outfield fence. He felt the pumping of his legs as he eased into his home run trot.

“I’ve been back in the states for what, a year and a half? What do I have to show for it? A crappy job working in publishing? An hour commute to Cadillac? It’s nothing. Or nothing that matters. In Japan everything mattered. The air mattered. The sea mattered. The people mattered.

“The people don’t matter here?” he asked.

She looked up from her salad briefly to make contact faintly with his eyes.

“You know what I mean.”

“Yeah.”

“I feel stuck, dry, thirsty. You can’t even understand that can you? You have what you want, what you are, and that’s all that matters.”

He took a hearty bite of his burger. A dollop of ketchup dripped onto the paper placemat.

“James I love you. I do. But you have what you need. You know what drives you; what makes you tick. I need more. I need the wind in my hair, the brush in my hand, the birdsong in the morning. I’ll just take off. You can keep my stuff. I don’t need it. No, that’s not like some backhanded jab at how much I hate you (I don’t). It’s just… that kind of stuff, the possessions, it’s holding me back. I don’t know from what, but I know that it’s keeping me from something, something that I can achieve or something that I have to find. Yeah. Maybe that’s more of what it is. Finding. The universe has something for me.”

Jimmy’s first thought was this: “don’t we have birds here?” He thought this and knew immediately that it was idiotic, but the thought stuck with him, it became a fireball in his chest that his conscious mind was unable to let go of. He said nothing, not wanting to appear dumb. His silence too was often mistaken for stupidity so he was stuck either way. But as his mother always said “If you don’t have something nice to say don’t say anything at all.” Or was that Bambi?

“So that’s just it?’

“I guess. Do you want me to pay for dinner or something?”

“No. I got it.”

Poet pushed back from the table. Somewhere off in his mind Jimmy heard the roar of the crowd, smelled the peanuts, salsa, and stale beer. He felt the fine, granular dust against his skin. His mouth was dry and he could taste the field.

Somewhere the hushed din of the crowd echoed faintly.

2 Corinthians 9:6-13

The point is this: whoever sows sparingly will also reap sparingly, and whoever sows bountifully will also reap bountifully. Each one must give as he has decided in his heart, not reluctantly or under compulsion, for God loves a cheerful giver. And God is able to make all grace abound to you, so that having all sufficiency in all things at all times, you may abound in every good work. As it is written,

“He has distributed freely, he has given to the poor; his righteousness endures forever.”

He who supplies seed to the sower and bread for food will supply and multiply your seed for sowing and increase the harvest of your righteousness. You will be enriched in every way to be generous in every way, which through us will produce thanksgiving to God. For the ministry of this service is not only supplying the needs of the saints but is also overflowing in many thanksgivings to God. By their approval of this service, they will glorify God because of your submission that comes from your confession of the gospel of Christ, and the generosity of your contribution for them and for all others.

2^nd Corinthians 9:6-13

After a brief moment where he commends Titus, Paul returns to encouraging the Corinthians to contribute to the needs of the Christians in Jerusalem.  In chapter 8 he encouraged them to give whatever their circumstance, to give from a spirit born of God’s will, and to continually seek opportunities to practice giving. Essentially, Paul presented with his readers the reason why they should contribute. In chapter 9 he begins to show them the potential results of their generosity.

To understand the desire to see results from our generosity we must make a distinction between self-interest and selfishness. We rightly condemn selfishness as opposed to the gospel of Christ. We cannot, for instance, seek our own pleasure or comfort at the cost of following Jesus. The call to lay down our lives prevents this. Our pursuit of sanctification involves our continual emptying out of our lives of all sinful pursuits and desires. This does not mean that all self-interest is necessarily selfish. Wayne Grudem writes: “Much self-interest is good and approved by Scripture, as when Jesus commands us to “lay up for yourselves treasures in heaven” or when we seek to grow in sanctification and Christian maturity.” Furthermore, if self-interest in itself was a sin, God Himself would be guilty for He seeks his own (rightly and justly deserved) glory.

We admit that as it is practiced most frequently in our lives, self-interest quickly becomes selfishness. This not need be the case. Our call as Christians is to be transformed into what we were meant to be, not to empty ourselves of all humanity. Our humanity is only fully realized when it is in submission to Christ. Our only chance of experiencing true freedom and understanding the purpose of our existence comes from understanding our place as children of God. When our desires align with the will of God what else would we expect but true joy and fulfillment? When we pray to experience God more what are we asking but the chance to live joyfully?

That said, we must understand that just because we receive a reward for our service does not mean that our service is somehow less dignified or cheapened. We serve because Christ served. Just as Christ was exalted, we too will receive heavenly rewards when we sacrifice ourselves for Him.

God loves a cheerful giver (v7,8)

The first result of our generosity is that we will be loved by God. The stipulation is that we be cheerful in our giving. This of course is not to say that the Lord does not love us if we aren’t giving but is used to emphasize the Lord’s desire that we give without being compelled or guilt-ed into generosity. Just as Paul does not want to exhort too forcefully his recipients into giving to the believers in Jerusalem, the Lord does not want sacrifice that comes from strong-arming rather than the conviction of the Holy Spirit. We should remember Paul’s example when we put the needs of the kingdom before others. We must never attempt to manipulate people into giving (or any other form of sacrifice) but merely present the needs of the kingdom before others and earnestly desire that the Lord work through them and to bring righteousness to them. We can of course emphasize the importance of the need but always we rest in the knowledge that the Lord of the world will accomplish His will one way or another

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For our part, we should, in all things, desire to please the Lord. In our voluntary giving we bring pleasure to the God who willingly gave His son to save the souls of mankind. In this way we emulate Jesus and become more like Him.

If we give, we will be given more ----to keep giving (v6,8,10,11)

There may be no place in Scripture where the lines between self-interest and selfishness become more muddied through misinterpretation than 9:6-11. Many have taken verse six out of its context in Paul’s larger discussion and used it to justify a myriad of morally suspect ministries. Throughout 6-11, Paul uses a series of metaphors to describe generous giving (sowing, reaping, abounding grace, sowing, food, harvest, being enriched). Taken alone, verse six would seem to imply that if the Corinthians gave money they would receive more money in return. This shallow (in my opinion) interpretation has been used to fund various ‘seed’ ministries who promise financial returns for monetary donations. While monetary returns are one possible return upon our generosity, we will see that it is never explicitly stated that we will receive wealth. In addition, the conditions upon which we will reap bountifully matter greatly.

If ‘reaping bountifully’ is our first promised result of generosity, our second comes in verse 8, where God is described as being able to make all grace about to us. This would seem to repeat the promise of verse 6, but it comes with further clarification: God is able to make grace abound to us so that we may abound in every good work. The reward is tied to further giving.

We see this theme further outlined in verses 10 and 11. In this next metaphor, we must look at the pronouns closely. [to clarify, I am using the ESV].

“He [God] who supplies seed to the sower [us; the giver] and bread for food will supply and multiply your [again, us; the giver] seed for sowing and increase the harvest of your righteousness.”

Again the Lord promises to supply and multiply our ‘seed’ for sowing. This verse clearly stipulates that the return upon our investment is intended to be used for further generous offerings. In addition, Paul speaks further on our reward for this generosity. He says that we will reap a harvest of righteousness.

Lastly, Paul asserts that we will be enriched in every way to be generous in every way.

Let’s be clear as to what is happening and being talked about here. Paul is asking the Corinthians to give money to help the believers in Jerusalem. That being said, it is notable what Paul does not say in his entreaty to his readers. He does not say explicitly that they will receive wealth or money as a result of their monetary donations to the believers in Jerusalem. This is notable. Paul deliberately chooses not to speak of reaping righteousness in these terms

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As we can see by looking at each of these metaphors in totality, we see that the result of our generosity is a bountiful harvest but that harvest is tied together with further generosity. This calls to mind Jesus’ parable of the talents where the faithful stewards are rewarded with further rewards. We cannot divorce the promise of blessings without viewing it within its proper context--- to provide further blessings for others. We must guard ourselves against any selfish intent in our hearts. It is not promised here that if we give generously, that we will receive wealth and riches to benefit ourselves. The blessings promised are always intended to be poured out again on others.

So what do we personally receive through this transaction? “and [God will] increase the harvest of your righteousness.” The reward we receive is righteousness. When we begin the ‘giving cycle’ we become more like Christ.

Ultimately, giving brings glory to God (v12,13)

The final result of our generosity is that it ultimately brings glory to God.

“For the ministry of this service is not only supplying the needs of the saints but is also overflowing in many thanksgivings to God. By their approval of this service, they will glorify God because of your submission,”

Our ultimate purpose in life is to bring glory to God. In our generosity, which is, in itself an emulation of the Son, Jesus Christ, we shine a spotlight on the God who both provides for us the means to be generous and the desire to give. Generosity is not an end in itself. Our sanctification is not an end in itself. The ultimate aim of each is to bring glory and honor to God.

2 Corinthians 8:1-8

We want you to know, brothers, about the grace of God that has been given among the churches of Macedonia, for in a severe test of affliction, their abundance of joy and their extreme poverty have overflowed in a wealth of generosity on their part. For they gave according to their means, as I can testify, and beyond their means, of their own accord, begging us earnestly for the favor of taking part in the relief of the saints--- and this, not as we expected, but they gave themselves first to the Lord and then by the will of God to us. Accordingly, we urged Titus that as he had started, so he should complete among you this act of grace. But as you excel in everything--- in faith, in speech, in knowledge, in all earnestness, and in our love for you--- see that you excel in this act of grace also.

I say this not as a command, but to prove by the earnestness of others that your love is also genuine.

2^nd Corinthians 8:1-8

Paul continues his letter to the Corinthians by entering into one of the reasons he wrote to them: to encourage them to contribute financially to the Christians in Jerusalem. He does this by presenting the example of the churches in Macedonia who gave generously toward the same cause. It is not his intent to shame or cajole the Corinthians into generosity (v8) but to spur them on to faith by the example of fellow believers.

In approaching this portion (and later, chapter 9) of Scripture, we are led to examine our own generosity and indeed our motivations for it. We live in a time in which there is both a strong bent towards charity (even among non-believers) but also with a heavy dose of cynicism. Our exposure to opportunities for generosity has increased hundredfold with 24 news cycles, social media, and travel. The scope of needs is, in fact, nearly infinite. At the same time, perhaps due to the proliferation of needs, we have become increasingly skeptical of where our money and time go. While it is wise and prudent to vet where we give our charity, we have also taken our skeptism to unhealthy levels. While charity to non-profit organizations has risen, often local churches are still scraping for funds. It seems that even believers have slaked on their support of the local church. We still feel the need to give but our mistrust and cynicism often leads us away from generosity and closer to greed, procrastination, and bitterness. Into this context we come to Paul’s teachings.

Generosity is demonstrated not only in wealth, but in poverty

Beyond anything else we might take away from this portion of Scripture, the example of the Macedonian church might prove to be the most critical. In his attempt to encourage the Corinthians, Paul shares a few facts about the Christians in Macedonia:

-          They were being tested by affliction

-          They had an abundance of joy

-          They were extremely poor

-          They gave abundantly

The traits that he lists serve as a sort of duality, with each couplet being somewhat contradictory.

1.       They were being tested by affliction. We know from early church history that the fellowship of Christians grew in part from persecution and trade coupled with the evangelistic fervor given at Pentecost. The new Jewish Christians were persecuted by the traditional Jewish religious establishment and thus sought refuge away from Jerusalem. They took Jesus’ command to “Go and make disciples” literally and planted new churches in the cities they came to reside in, cities along Roman trade routes. In these cities, many of whom had synagogues, they met with varying degrees of persecution from first he Jewish authorities and later the Roman government. The early Christians, even away from Jerusalem, met with a level of oppression we might cringe at today.

2.       They had an abundance of joy. This might seem in contrast to the level of affliction they were enduring but it is completely indicative of the type of results that Scripture says we should expect in the lives of the redeemed. James tells us to “consider it pure joy, my brothers and sisters, whenever you face trials of many kinds, because you know that the testing of your faith produces perseverance.” The Macedonian believers seem to have been living out this encouragement to the “T”. Most of us would shamefully admit (if we were honest) that suffering and affliction, let alone persecution, tend not to bring about joy but rather despondency, bitterness, and fear. Rather than being stamped down or “crushed” by persecution, the Spirit of God led these believers to joyful praise. It can lead us today too.

3.       They were extremely poor. Paul states twice the poverty of the Macedonian believers. In the early days of the Church it was not altogether uncommon for the believers to be generally less wealthy but Paul’s assertion of the lack of wealth of the Macedonian believers largely is emphasized to highlight…

4.       They gave abundantly. Being afflicted and poor should have been two strikes against the generosity of the Macedonian Christians but instead they responded with generosity and not just a respectable amount of generosity either, for Paul later states in the next verse: “for they gave according to their means, as I can testify, and beyond their means.”

All of this should give us pause and turn our gaze inwards. The charity of the Macedonian Christians flies in the face of every wisdom that we encounter on a daily basis. Common wisdom indicates that one is able to give to charity when one’s own needs are met financially. Oh, we might not state this outright but peer over our shoulder while we budget our finances or listen in as we contemplate our bank accounts to hear a different story. It seems few of us ever consider ourselves “rich” and instead class ourselves as having “nearly enough.” We live out a “nearly enough” existence, constantly aspiring to gain just a bit more or maligning the injustice done to us by not having “enough”. Too often, the generosity that flows from us (if any at all) comes from ritual, guilt, or duty.

For the Macedonian Christians it was different. Instead of bringing about bitterness or despair, their affliction has produced joy. Instead of bringing about stinginess or even wise frugality, their poverty has produced generosity. Only a life completely surrendered to the Lord is capable of producing such fruit. No amount of half-measures will do. We may (and should) seek to give from a position of generosity, but the only way we can give from a position both joy and generosity is by being filled by the Holy Spirit.

Our generosity should be born of God’s will, not compulsion

Paul goes out of his way to show that the generosity of the Macedonians was not due to any compulsion to himself. Verse 4 shows that they “begged” Paul to give. Verse 5 shows that Paul didn’t expect the outpouring of generosity. When he appeals to the Corinthians, Paul states his theme even clearer: “I say this not as a command, but to prove by the earnestness of others that your love is genuine.”

Our generosity should be born of God’s will rather than any religious compulsion. The Old Testament prophets and psalmists make it very clear that ritual and sacrifice are not merely what God desires.

“For you will not delight in sacrifice, or I would give it; you will not be pleased with a burnt offering. The sacrifices of God are a broken spirit; a broken and contrite heart, O God, you will not despise.”

Instead, the Lord desires generosity born out of genuine compassion and godly desire.

“Jesus looked up and saw the rich putting their gifts into the offering box, and he saw a poor widow put in two small copper coins. And he said, “Truly, I tell you, this poor widow has put in more than all of them. For they all contributed out of their abundance, but she out of her poverty put in all she had to live on.”

It would seem that there is no place for rote formality in our generosity. If that is so, how are we to practice it?

We should seek out opportunities to practice generosity

The last lesson (at least for this essay) that the Macedonian church teaches us is that we should seek out opportunities to practice generosity.

“For they gave according to their means, as I can testify, and beyond their means, of their own accord, begging us earnestly for the favor of taking part in the relief of the saints,”

Though the radical generosity that is to typify the life of the Christian is only attainable through the power of the Holy Spirit, we who submit ourselves (over and over) to Him should seek out opportunities to nurture the gift we receive. We can make no claim on the generosity that flows from us and we should never reduce the overflowing of the Spirit into some ritualistic offering. We need to be constantly in prayer as we contemplate giving. As we slip our “offering” in the collection’s plates we should be searching our own hearts. Do we give out of compulsion? Out of habit? Ritual? Are our actions born out of the joy and generosity or from some sense of obligation?

I don’t mean to imply that habits or challenging ourselves to give is wrong. Indeed, both of these are needed. We practice wisdom when we create healthy habits of giving. If the only time we spend with our families and friends was when we “felt” like it, we would not be very good friends indeed. Due to our still-sinful hearts, we often must enact positive behaviors to nurture the fruits of the Sprit. The trick is however that we must never let those habits grow hollow or outlast their usefulness. They are tools only in our expression of legitimate love for God.

In the same way, we should, as the Macedonians showed, seek out opportunities to challenge ourselves to give. We are still often tempted to act with a worldly way of thinking. This old nature is selfish, conceited, and only concerned with self. Just as we were crucified with Jesus on the cross, we must seek to daily crucify our old selves and put on our new selves. Giving can be a tool to do accomplish this. If we were left to ourselves, we would never overflow with the generosity necessary to rightly honor the Lord through giving, we would never readily sacrifice of ourselves for the benefit of other or the worship of God. We know too well the ebb and flow of emotion (even religious emotion) and know that if we waited only for those moments of supreme religious affection to practice generosity, we would not be living the lives of radical generosity that Jesus intended His followers to lead. Generosity requires sacrifice. There are times that we MUST challenge ourselves to give beyond what we feel capable or driven to give. As in any form of discipline, only through repeated and oftentimes arduous sacrifice do can we experience the fruit of victory. Though we are given the fruits of the Spirit by the Lord and the Lord alone apart from ourselves, we must act upon them, exercise them if you will (to change metaphors) to experience the full life of the Spirit that Christ intends.

What Can We Practice?

1.       Never let hardship or poverty create bitterness or stinginess.

2.       Ask for the fruits of the Spirit, specifically, in this context, joy and generosity.

3.       Never let yourself reduce giving to mere ritual.

a.       Fight against this in any way that you can. Pray as you put your check in the offering plate. Fight as much against calloused giving as you do against selfish hoarding.

4.       Seek out opportunities to give.

a.       Be engaged with our community (Church community and physical community) and look for situations that you could practice your faith through giving.

b.      Challenge yourself by giving beyond your means, giving beyond what seems ‘reasonable’ to you.

5.       Always view any giving as an act of worship to God. 

Beneath The Cedar Stand

In autumn, the forested corridors of northern Michigan transform into blazing canopies flaming with transcendent beauty. Vast swaths of oak and aspen and yellow birch tracts transform into resplendent firework displays of red, orange, and yellow. The insipid greens and browns of summer which bespoke lush, vibrant growth, are gone, a distant memory of Junes long past.

One can take 75 up past Bay City where the scenery transforms quickly from one of urban and suburban sprawl to long stretches of fields and forests. The oak and the beech come first, the pines later as the canopy changes from the deciduous south to the predominantly mixed coniferous north. By the time you reach Grayling, you can pick out the silhouettes of ancient stands of white pine graciously (though not altruistically) spared the logger’s blade.

From there, by taking 72 west, you will find yourself passing through Michigan’s angling mecca. Spoken of in reverential tones are the names Au Sable and Manistee whose rippling waters once trundled flotillas of logs to waiting mills and now are known for their cold water streambeds which provide habitat for rainbow, brook, and brown trout. Each year, millions of sportsmen pay their pilgrimage to these aquatic gods standing waist-deep in 55 degree water; a baptism of sorts. The clockwork rhythm of casting lines becomes the heartbeat of the land.

Sweeping westward, the freeway dwindles as the agrarian landscape gives way to the lush passageway of the Huron-Manistee State Forest as you near Kalkaska, becoming a highway divided by curtains of woodlands rimmed with the dull amber of meadow grasses. On either side, two-tracks of questionable integrity spur off into the dense, shadowy canopy crisscrossing in an indeterminately large web which seems to wind its way across the entire northern Lower Peninsula, an intricate patchwork of largely desolate shadows frequented only by hearty hunters during the season. The road becomes a beautifully monotonous stretch of grass and trees, grass and trees only broken here and there by a desiccated deer carcass or perhaps a solitary passing car. Lit by the rosy dream-light of the fading sun it causes one to ponder the deeper things.

With the bright familiarity of memory, Kendra drove this solitary, picturesque route as her father had before her. Two hours out from her home in Ann Arbor she had stopped for a burger and a large Coke and so now drove contentedly satiated yet with a certain unsettling amount of pressure on her bladder. Stubbornly she drove on ignoring the increasingly violent nagging of her body, focused instead upon the memories with seemed to flood over her.

It was impossible for her to not harken back her memories as a child, to her recollections of visiting the Grayling Fish Hatchery each year. Running (precariously) up and down the chilled raceways watching the multitudes of trout jostling in the water beside she remembered as incredible fun but it must have driven her parents to the edge of sanity as they no doubt foresaw their pigtailed 5 year old tumbling down into the mass of fish. Kendra noted the solemnity with which she inserted the dime her parents had given her into the fish food dispenser and the joy with which she liberally distributed the food into the open air ponds.

She wiped a stray tear from her face at the memory. The cool air dried her cheek.

Though raw, these thoughts seemed to possess and indomitable pull on her.

She gave an involuntary glance at the passenger seat.

The landscape, though a decade foreign, began to take shape and possess an air of familiarity. Like old ghosts they prowled the shadows of her mind demanding her attention. She made a left onto 131 and passed a herd of bison lounging in the shade of an old oak copse amid a field of golden grasses. Here and there a calf trailed gingerly behind its dutiful mother. The old bulls, unconcerned by the frivolity of their offspring (and by the Chrysler 200 passing by at 55 miles an hour) viewed their surroundings stoically with the indifference of a medieval monarch. She remembered tasting a Buffalo burger at a Fourth of July celebration years ago and wondered with certain incredulity about how many bison farms there were in northern Michigan.

In about seven miles she crossed over the Boardman river, one of her father’s favorites and along whose banks she had ridden her first horse at Ranch Rudolph, albeit much further west. This was the South Branch which meandered, predictably, through South Boardman, a town she had never spent any substantial time in but heard about as an anecdotal reference in her father’s many stories, often as an example of northern Michigan absurdity. She watched the parochial goings on of the small town, a mail truck coasting along the dry gravel shoulder, the passing motorist offering a pleasant wave, an elderly man wearing a battered Tiger’s hat opening the door to a restaurant, a newspaper tucked resolutely under one arm. There was a level of small town life that she had always desired. Growing up in the suburbs of Detroit she had known many of the kids in her neighborhood as a child, but as time and economic mobility shaped more and more the demographics, those kids her age had all moved away by the time she was in high school. Her own two boys now would be hard pressed to even point out one of their neighbors let alone go play with them. These days, kids are more acquainted with figures on Netflix or in video games than the couple next door. Kendra couldn’t be too self-righteous though, she, through her own behavior had allowed many of the traits that her boys now possessed. She chose looking at her phone over looking out at a sunset, binge-watching a new sitcom rather than asking deep questions of her friends. In a place like South Boardman she naively imagined that the old-fashioned life still existed; that boys and girls still played baseball and tag and hide and seek until dark. These were foolish thoughts indeed but she chose to believe them because she wanted a town like this to serve as some idyllic model, as a hope that all was not lost despite all evidence to the contrary.

For years her father operated under a similar delusion. He dutifully saved a percentage of his paycheck every month with the intention of purchasing a cottage up north, likely somewhere around Grayling. It was his dream; his obsession. Though never expressed, he too seemed to envy the careless lifestyle of the north. It was only the realization that her college expenses were going to cost far more than expected that drove him to abandon the idea of a northern cottage. She had never taken lightly his sacrifice once she was made aware of it. There was always a part of her that felt guilty that her future had eclipsed his dreams. Yet, she wouldn’t think of hesitating if she had to make the same decision about one of her boys.

About fifteen minutes later she flipped on her blinker and turned down a surprisingly well-kept two-track. The trees had been cut back to clear the way for a run of power lines so there was an open clear-cut area the road disappeared off into the forest. From what she remembered, the logging companies periodically came in and harvested these trees planting new saplings in their stead. She had seen them working once when they had been up over vacation. The huge cutting apparatus had startled her as a child and driven her into her father’s arms. The trees here now had been planted nearly fifteen years ago and were only now beginning to come to resemble an actual forested area. They were, in a way, her trees since they grew parallel to her lifetime. She noted where fire over the years had scarred (yet not burned) their trunks.

Her car bucked and rocked its way over the pock-marked sandy road. She had a passing thought about what she would do if she got stuck. Her cell phone was definitely in roaming and might not even get that great of signal at all. She brushed the thought away however. Not now, she thought, it won’t happen today.

In confidence she drove on into the forest.

There were some muddy puddles from a recent rain that splashed up against her car. She brought her arm inside. Overhanging branches thwapped against her window and antenna causing it to swing back and forth violently. She paid no attention.

This was her cathedral, as close to holy ground as she had in her life. For decades this is where her father had come when he wasn’t at home. This was sacred. Many things had changed over the thirty or forty years since he had first discovered the small, meandering creek that eventually fed into the mighty Manistee. The fishing wasn’t nearly as good, he often complained. People cut away the overhang to make it easier to cast but took away the good hiding spots for the fish. Some people are keeping too many as well. His last lecture from nearly a decade before still rang in her ears as she bounced along the road.

He used to hunt here too before the intruding of agriculture drove the deer elsewhere in their quest for survival. In recent years he had ventured up near Baldwin to see any numbers. In truth, he hardly ever brought home any venison and when he did it was the product of one of his hunting buddies rather than his own. As he aged he seemed much more content taking photos than taking racks. Kendra understood the sentiment.

The creek, though, was what brought him back throughout trout season, the chill of April to the early evenings of September.

She pulled the car, now bedecked with grey muddy splatters into a meadow clearing. Clearly this had been used as distributed camping before and the charred remains of a fire ring bore evidence to this. A few tissues and some burned cans of Miller Light lay strewn about. Several chewing tobacco tins had been nailed into the bark of a gnarled maple. She had always considered it a grievous offense to litter some pristine natural place with human refuse. In her head the two were incongruous. There was purity to the natural world (save the typhoons, hurricanes, and volcanos) that seemed to exist on another plain from the world of crude, wasteful mankind. Thus it was always jarring to see litter cast about it was as if someone had defaced the Mona Lisa or some other incontrovertibly priceless artifact. She exited the car. The slamming of her door seemed to resonate throughout the forest. Birds gave calls of alarm. She wondered if anyone else was camped out here tonight. Surely they were. There was a horse camp not a mile and a half down the road. Still, the campground seemed abandoned as if she were the lone survivor of some pervasive holocaust.

The sun sets quickly in the forest and already the orb had begun to dip below the tree line bathing the meadow in mottled shadows. Yarrow and blue-stem grass waved soothingly in the slight breeze. It was too late to conduct her business today she decided, far too late. It would have to wait for tomorrow and it would wait. She considered walking down to the creek, a mere hundred yards eastward on a forest path but thought better of herself. Instead she made off quickly into the woods to relieve herself. Invigorated by the release, she went for a walk down the road to see what had become of her home-away-from-home. Kendra found that she had to actively work at avoiding the muddy puddles and more than once her foot slipped sloshing a thick paste of mud onto her (relatively) new tennis shoes.

The shadows grew longer and she wished that she had grabbed her sweater out of the car before she had left. Really, though, none of this was planned. She hadn’t intended on even doing it and of course she had proposed no plans to drive up to the camp tonight. This was, by her meticulous standards, a monumental exercise in spontaneity

.

The funny thing about forests is how loud sounds are. The smallest vole or hopping bird becomes amplified down there on the forest floor until it sounds like a bear is lumbering toward you. Even now, as an adult, she couldn’t help think that the sound of leaves rustling and sticks breaking were the work of a herd of deer when in reality it was simply an ovenbird making one last forage before heading back on its annual migration south. That was one of the magical things about the forest, that it is existed inside of some mystical sphere where reason and logic take a back seat to mystery, whimsy, and shadow.

She walked along in the dusky half-light immersed in the unmistakable smells of fall, her feet shuffling across the carpet of decomposing leaves. From the direction of the creek she heard a loud splash and froze instinctively like a dog waiting to spring. For those seconds the world slowed. Each muscle in her legs and arms tensed, coiled like a viper set to strike. Her hearing heightened to its peak, yearning- searching for distress or danger. And into the pregnant anticipatory alertness came … nothing. No further indication of presence, no veiled attack or frantic chase, only the unnatural silence of the night. Slowly the evening creatures rejoined their revelry, the crickets gleefully chirping away the weather report, the jays and crows heartily jarring their territorial disputes, the ever-present (and increasing) drone of mosquitoes, those winged heathen.

She had probably walked three quarters of a mile down the trail and judged the waning daylight with incredulity, not to mention the influence of the October chill, and make the wise decision to return to the car. Her return voyage was met with no further excitement but she did pass another campsite only to see a pair of middle-aged hunters indulging in front of a campfire. They offered a congenial wave, which she returned in kind and reminded her that even in this place, which had always seemed to her so remote; so isolated, that the reality of the world was not across the sea or sky but rather less than a mile away. This did not disturb her as she thought it might. In her mind she had imagined this trip as something sacred, a pilgrimage of sorts where one might ascend to an unseen realm within the clouds. Even with her mythos broken, she found herself relieved to be free of these unrealistic expectations. What good was exaggeration now? Better to stand with feet firmly planted in reality; in truth; in the history of what has been. Light shines clearer that way. Memories become richer.  She walked the rest of the way at ease.

She made it back to her car just as it was becoming difficult to see. It took time for her eyes to adjust. She had never had great night vision and now it took squinting to make out the shape of the meadow. She almost tripped over a weathered fencepost that looked to be older than she was. A variety of grasses grew from its splintered rounded top.

She opened the door whose surface was beginning to cool in the sun’s absence. Under the illumination cast by the car’s interior light she put on her sweater, pulling it over first one shoulder and then the other. She retrieved an old blanket from the trunk which she kept for emergencies. None had ever precipitated the blanket. Thank God. She got in the back seat, pulling the door shut behind her. As the light slowly faded she attempted to make herself comfortable in the seat which was about ¾ as large as her body all the while shifting to allow the blanket, thin with age yet still rough, fibrous, and uncomfortable, to cover her. Nearly in the fetal position she rested her head against the moderate padding on the car door. She closed her eyes and tried to sleep.

Her night was cold and troubled.

It seemed as if she awoke every hour either to shiver beneath the blanket or with a start at some noise on the other side of the door. The proximity of fellow campers offered her little consolation as she fought for warmth alone in the darkness. The nearest campsite might as well be miles away and civilization far across the expanses of space. It was all she could do to not bring her head to the door’s window as if even the safety of the car wouldn’t stop the vile creatures clamoring for her head.

In her half-waking thought she remembered with a chill her childhood fear of Whippoorwills and their haunting, repetitive call. Irrational though it was her fear followed her year after year they camped. Huddled beneath her sleeping bag she trembled and fought to control her breathing. Silly to think that those innocent birds, such benign things, could cause such panic. It was only in the warm, encompassing embrace of her father that she was able to find peace. She longed for those arms to surround her now and block the night-fears that stalked the darkness.

She awoke with the dawn kissing her eyelids, frosting them lightly as if with the morning dew. Rubbing away the blurry vision she uncovered herself. She lay awkwardly contorted in the car’s backseat. For most of the night she had slept fetally but now found that she had spread herself out wildly, arms and legs akimbo. She felt the unmistakable imprint of the fabric upon her face and could not escape its chemical scent of formaldehyde. She was glad to be alone, owing nothing to anyone.

Her phone was off but she suspected it to be around eight. It was still chilly despite the sun and she pulled the blanket over her shoulders as she sat up. She had never been able to sleep in on vacation however exhausted she may be. Even as a child her circadian rhythms trumped the natural relaxing qualities of solitude. She often found herself breakfasting alone while her family slumbered away peacefully. Today she had only two crunchy granola bars which she frugally packed away for later.

She reached up into the front seat and grabbed her bottle of water. Carefully she unscrewed the cap and brought it to her lips. The water was warm but she drank it greedily, having been unaware of just how thirsty she was. She took one swallow, then another relishing the liquid coursing down her throat seemingly filling every parched inch of her body.

She popped open the door and sat soaking in the sun’s nourishing rays, her feet dangling an inch above the still dewy grass. Here and there birds flitted about gathering the dried leavings of summer from atop the meadow grasses. The gregarious twittering of chickadees echoed in the shadowy stand of cedar that lay beyond the creek. Each one satisfied in its place in community, a testament to joyful contentment of creation.

 She sat breathing out warm vapor.

A flash of white into the sky signaled the flight of a flicker. A trio of crows barked aggressively from the skeletal tops of long dead pines, the continuation of some ancient argument perhaps.

She had hoped for a warmer day. There are some things you can’t plan. This, of course, was one of those.

The day grew. The dew burned.

She stood up, letting her feet down upon the firm ground. Tightly packed by the years of abuse she wondered how often her father had stood right here, camped right here, his strong arms swinging the ax sending splinters across the clearing, standing confidently in the his long underwear watching the mist rise off the creek.

He seemed to know every slight twist and curve of the creek as if he had been graced by some Delphic oracle. Each undercut bank was etched in his memory as well as the tale of every trout he had extracted from it. He possessed an uncanny, almost unnatural understanding of the fish and would often call his shot before a cast. Whether by experience, prophecy, or by sheer luck his words often still hung in the air when the fish rose. He was like an Anglo-Saxon hero of old standing as if born of the primal waters themselves, arms held high gripping tightly the taut, bowed shaft of the rod, stripping effortlessly, gracefully with his left hand, fighting, albeit confidently  as the fish desperately sought refuge beneath the bank or a fallen log. It may be that boys and girls dream gods from mortal men, that beneath the veneer of onyx and carnelian there lays dirt and skin and flesh and bone but Kendra’s memories of her father eclipsed mere reverence. Forever he would glimmer with the sheen of childhood impressions. Though she knew him to be a man flawed, broken, and short-tempered she clung even now to the patina of heroism. Memories linger like ghosts and die slow deaths if ever at all.

She opened the driver’s side door, tossed the empty water bottle into the passenger foot well where it bounced about a few times with plastic crinkling noises. She removed from the passenger seat a small wooden box which she had inexplicably buckled in. She held it tenderly as one might hold the hand of a child, trembling and frail.

So as not to disturb the solitude she slowly brought the door to the car without shutting it fully, leaving an inch or so gap.

She walked barefoot and silent through the pines which rimmed the stream, the balls of her feet falling rhythmically on the soft shed needles. The air fell silent as the birds ceded their chatter deferentially. She paused only a moment to pick the safest spot of the bank to descend. She chose a spot obviously frequently used by fishermen for it was warn and the grasses in the area crushed. The creek swung a dogleg slightly north and west. About thirty feet downstream three trees had fallen across the water so long ago that each had become its own ecosystem with an array of mosses, wildflowers, and even small saplings springing from the decomposing bulk. Dragonflies hovered effortlessly, now and then darting off in chase of unseen quarry like elegant matadors.

Her breath stilled as her foot and then calf plunged into the cold, clear water. A veil of fine mist rose.

She struggled to maintain her balance as the current, neither swift nor altogether absent, pushed steadily against her. It was just enough to throw off her equilibrium. She wobbled like a drunkard struggling desperately to imitate sobriety. More than anything, she kept the box firmly within her center of gravity. Dutifully she sought to protect the contents- her father’s ashes, as she bore down waist-deep into the waters which had flowed by him for so many years. She bit her lip as the water rose further, chilling her to the bone.

She trembled.

Her feet sunk into the soft sand which, under the gentle assault of the current, gave little by little burying her further. Gooseflesh covered her skin. She bore him on still further reaching with some difficulty the centermost waters. Here, her feet were met by algae covered stones worn smooth by the creek’s slow, persistent attack. How firm a foundation, she thought. She held him for a moment. She felt she should say something, utter some elegiac word fit for the moment but none came, and her confidence escaped her, carried off downstream perhaps to drift aimlessly through eddies and riffles endlessly progressing toward a formless unknown. Hot tears rose unbidden. She let them fall until they mingled with the clear waters.

Her thoughts imperceptibly turned to a story her father once told her of a fishing trip years before. Beside these banks he sat enjoying the cool shade after a summer’s morning on the river, a beer in one hand, a book in the other, as he so often had. He came away empty handed. He never kept any fish from the creek on principle. It was not so much that he was opposed to it; he went ice fishing and kept all the perch and bluegill he caught there, but rather that he simply shied away from it. He found himself morally unsettled at the thought of killing or eating trout from his creek. There seemed to be some mystical superlative quality swirling beneath those waters. As he sat soaking in the warming sun, a jeep pulled up into the campsite and two twentysomething men got out. They had been fishing somewhere down the river and their rods still stretched precariously out the back. The burlier of the two disappeared into the underbrush to relieve himself; the other exited and pulled a large Ziploc bag from a cooler. Inside were three nice browns, at least ten inches a piece. He walked off towards the creek with a nod of acknowledgement to her father. He watched as the man knelt down facing the water, presumably to refresh the water keeping the deceased fish from spoiling.

“Hey,” the man yelled to his friend urinating in the bushes, “three ain’t even good enough to keep,” and proceeded to dump the lifeless fish back into the creek where they slowly drifted away in pitiable motion.

Her father became incised. The story that followed varied based upon the audience and her father’s enthusiasm. What always remained constant was that something within him exploded, some switch which had hitherto been unexplored flipped. He sprung out of the folding chair and confronted the man, who, for his part, was completely unprepared for what awaited him. The truth of the moment may forever now remain unverified save for that young man, should he ever come to grips with the indignity of the story enough to share, but her father always maintained that he chased the men back to their vehicle through a combination of physical intimidation and a proficient display of vulgarity and watched as they made a speedy exit, bumping and jarring, back to the main road while he stood watching in righteous victory.

All over a few fish.

She felt like she was fighting some epic struggle against the tide by tarrying, as if she were holding mightily against a heavy weight. She delayed no longer. She removed the lid of the simple pine box, held it firmly between her arm and body, and was struck at the plainness of the pale grey-colored ash. She wasn’t sure what she had been expecting but the sight of it struck her with a degree of indifference. Holding her arms slightly aloft, she turned the box allowing a small stream of the contents to spill slowly into the river in a gentle procession in front of her body where it met the current and gave itself away.

“Catch-and-release, dad” she said with a chuckle. It was the only thing she could think to say without choking on her own tears and digressing into deep sobs.

With gentle taps she continued to pour. The ashes sank and swirled as if caught in a surrealist painting. They swept past her body and off forever downstream to eventually to meet the Manistee and Lake Michigan and in time the vast swaths of open ocean. Such is progression. A blue jay cried loudly. A breeze picked up and sent some of the ashes spinning in a tiny cyclone out across the surface of the water, beyond that the creek was becalmed. Strands of her hair drifted in and out of her vision.

The flow slackened. She gave the box a final tap and evacuated the last of the contents which drifted sleepily down in half-speed motion to the waiting water below and then were gone.

She returned the lid to the box and held it shut with her thumb and forefinger. The mist was gone, burned off by the heat of the day. She caught the scent of a distant campfire in the air and imagined the hearty smells of scrambled eggs and sizzling sausage. Looking up to the treetops she saw with amazement the array of tones and pigments in the leaves. Beautiful and full, each tree wore its chic ballgown with haughty pride. Autumn was hard upon the land.

Upstream a fish rose.

2 Corinthians 7:8-11

For even if I made you grieve with my letter, I do not regret it--- though I did regret it, for I see that the letter grieved you, though only for a while. As it is, I rejoice, not because you were grieved, but because you were grieved into repenting. For you felt a godly grief, so that you suffered no loss through us.

For godly grief produces a repentance that leads to salvation without regret, whereas worldly grief produces death. For see what earnestness this godly grief has produced in you, but also what eagerness to clear yourselves, what indignation, what fear, what longing, what zeal, what punishment! At every point you have proved yourselves innocent in the matter.

2 Corinthians 7:8-11

Paul shifts his focus here to comment on his previous letter (likely 1 Corinthians) in which he spoke harshly (though not inaccurately) about the ungodliness in which the Corinthian Christians were partaking. He remarks here that though he did not enjoy grieving them as such, but feels great joy that his rebuke brought about repentance in them. Paul paints a picture of what it looks like to properly rebuke or correct another believer. While that would likely be an interesting topic to mine, I would rather choose to focus on v10 and its implications for our own lives.

For godly grief produces a repentance that leads to salvation without regret, whereas worldly grief produces death. Paul gives us a powerful contrast between godly grief and worldly grief. It is particularly important for us today to understand the role grief plays both positively and negatively.

First, before we can properly address Paul’s statements here we must acknowledge that the Lord does indeed discipline us. “And have you forgotten the exhortation that addresses you as sons? “My son, do not regard lightly the discipline of the Lord, nor be weary when reproved by him. For the Lord disciplines the one he loves, and chastises every son whom he receives. … For the moment all discipline seems painful rather than pleasant, but later it yields the peaceful fruit of righteousness to those who have been trained by it.”

In our current age we have been taught to accept a pacified God who loves too much to offend and cares too much to discipline. This does not reflect any Biblical understanding of the Lord but rather reflects our own shifting attitudes toward humanity and parenting. The Lord does love us. He does care for us, but he cares for us too much to leave us in the throes of our own misguided ways. He often (justly) allows the earthly consequences of our sin to lead us to repentance. He also divinely disciplines us to draw near to him. Ours is a God of both compassion and justice. Sometimes the most compassionate thing He can do for us is to discipline us.

With that established, let us compare the proper godly view of grief with the worldly, improper view of grief.

Godly Grief Leads to Repentance. Worldly Grief leads to depression.

Paul here contrasts godly grief and worldly grief. The main distinction he makes is that godly grief leads to repentance whereas worldly grief leads to death. When confronted with our sin either through the conviction of another human or the convicting of the Holy Spirit we have two choices: either we can accept the righteous rebuke and confess our sin or we can ignore the sin. We cannot however, ignore the grief. If we have indeed been convicted by the Holy Spirit which resides within us, we are left with the knowledge and weight of our own sin. The correct outlet for that weight is to lead us to repentance for “if we confess ours sins, he is faithful and just to forgive us our sins and to cleanse us from all unrighteousness.” This, indeed, is the very purpose of grief.

On the other hand, if we, having been loaded with the guilt and grief, do not bring ourselves to confess and repent of our sin, we set an unmanageable amount of burden upon our shoulder which we cannot and were never intended to bear. Only Christ is capable of carrying the weight of our sin. When we cannot accept the rebuke or when we cannot bring ourselves to ask for forgiveness (perhaps because we consider our sin too grievous to be forgiven) we embark in a condition that can only lead to depression. What other outcome is there if we bear the full weight of our sins ourselves?

We spend far too much of our lives like this, bearing the weight of our past sins and shame. The memories of our sins, which should instead lead us to praise the God willing to forgive them, drags us down into a crippling despair for which there is no escape except repentance.

Godly Grief leads to a right understanding of sin.

Godly grief leads us to understand that our sin, no matter how heinous, can be forgiven and redeemed by the sacrifice of Jesus. It is our relationship Him that allows our lives to even continue. Having been thus forgiven, we can (though it is not easy) live our lives in the newness of freedom in Christ. This is the economy of mercy: we bring the full measure of our sinfulness to the throne of God and Christ takes that measure upon himself. We are then those who have been forgiven much.

Worldly grief leads to a view of sin that is altogether inaccurate. Worldly grief emboldens sin by devaluing the sacrifice of Christ. A worldly grief makes sin too large for the blood of Christ to handle. It is too big for him. We, of course, would never say it this way, but our actions belie our words. When we carry with us the guilt because we believe that it is too much for God to forgive, we are, in essence, saying that Jesus wasn’t enough, that we need something more. When we carry with us the shame of our past lives and past choices, refusing to let them go, we only heap more and more guilt upon us for (as we all know) we still struggle with sin every day.

Godly Grief leads us back to the Lord.

The easiest way to tell if the grief we are feeling is godly or worldly is in the way it affects us. Godly grief will always lead us back to the Lord. Godly grief does not trivialize our sin or shift the blame. What it does however is convict us and remind us that we need to be constantly bringing our sins to the foot of the cross. We are debtors who incur more debt each and every day. We must constantly be returning to Jesus the guilt we cannot bear.

We can tell when we are behaving in an ungodly way when our grief pulls us further away from God. It may be that we feel we must perform some penance to again get in God’s good graces. It may be that we feel we cannot turn to Scripture for a time. It may be an inability to pray. While these emotions are natural and serve to convict us of the depth of our sin, we must never allow them to be carried out. Any inclination we have to turn away from God, even if our thoughts claim it is only for a short time, we must resist though our minds condemn us. Alternatively, we must repent and confess as soon as we feel the tinge of conviction. Whether than confession is to another human or only to the Lord, we must never allow ourselves to go out in the world with unconfessed sin. This can only lead to a further spiral of sinfulness and despair.

In conclusion, here are some tips to help avoid falling into worldly grief. (Note: these are true but not easy).

How can we combat worldly grief?

1.       Repent immediately

a.       Do not allow for ‘penance’ time. Don’t buy in that lie that you need some time away from God before you repent.

b.      Do repent sincerely. Involve others if necessary (easier said than done).

2.       Do not neglect God’s Word

a.       (never, never, never)

b.      Even if the words feel empty and void.

3.       Focus only on how you can love and serve the Lord today, not on how you have failed Him in the past.

a.       Don’t be ruled by regret. For godly grief produces a repentance that leads to salvation without regret

4.       Only view your past failure in the context of God’s great grace (not on the failure of your own strength).

I Don't Deserve That

Let’s play a game, okay?

It’s called “I don’t deserve that.”

My daughter (now three) has never had any serious medical issues.

I don’t deserve that.

Despite my best efforts to poison my body with fats, artificial flavors, and preservatives, I remain healthy enough to run, hike, and keep up with my family.

I don’t deserve that.

I have a wife who inexplicably close to marry me and has put up with far more than her share of my eccentricities, neurosis, and sins.

I don’t deserve that.

A few months ago I was going through a particularly bad period. It wasn’t that life was going badly or that some catastrophic event had struck, but rather I just felt generally down for about three. It was hardest while I was at work. I was in a new job, learning to work with new people, and experiencing push back on the things I was trying to do. On one particularly low day I took out a sheet of black packing labels (they abound aplenty at my job) and started listing all the things I was thankful for. I’ve always heard (and taught) that this is a beneficial and healthy way to approach life. We can only thank the Lord for the things we are aware of. I tried not to limit my thanks to things of great significance.

My list began to look something like this:

-          For my wife for putting up with me

-          For an amazing daughter who I am completely infatuated with

-          For pine trees

-          For the ability to grow prodigious facial hair

-          For the beauty of creation in Northern Michigan

-          That I am part of the Lord’s elect

-          For the lives of X and Y [former students] who remind me how the Lord does work in people’s lives.

It went on.

I don’t deserve any of it.

I still have that list in my desk at work. I’d like to say that I return to it often, but I forget. I forget everything that the Lord has done for me. Instead I get distracted by the concerns of the day. [read: I obsess over the concerns of the day] I get depressed over events in the world. I get beaten down by the sin in my own life.

I know that the Lord has done some amazing things in my life. Paul says that “while we were still sinners, Christ died for us.” This alone should prompt me to reflect and praise the Lord. However, while profound and theologically accurate, this often seems too grandiose; the words too (dare I say it) familiar at this point in my spiritual life. It fades in light of the pressing concerns of the day.

What breaks us of our familiarity is forcing ourselves to come face-to-face with the multitudes of ways in which the Lord has blessed us. We take it for granted. If we’re not careful we can flip the phrase on its head and begin uttering “I don’t deserve this” in anger when things don’t go the way we envision rather than realizing that we deserve absolutely nothing. I know myself. I know my history. I know my present. I know that I deserve none of what the Lord has blessed me with.

Some days we just need to see it.

To see it written down in ink.

The facts.

Everything.

So that we can look up again and say, with surety, “I don’t deserve that.”

And we can praise the giver of the things we don’t deserve.