On Thursday of last week, when I got home from work, I surveyed the view from my backyard. And I needed to vent. Yes, I did. So, as I sat and watched our dogs run and tumble through the grass, I vented in a text message to two of my oldest and dearest friends. A little later when Darin arrived home from work, he had to vent, so while the two of us stood outside and scrutinized our backyard landscape from our screened-in patio, he vented. Yes, he did. And I vented again, with him.
The next morning, as I glanced out my kitchen window and observed a picturesque line of fog, softly nestled within the lovely mountainous landscape that has been my view for the past five and a half years, my pleasure straightaway gave way to annoyance. And I needed to vent a little more. I considered making a Facebook post but venting on social media is not something I do, so I resisted the temptation. Still, I just had to give in to my vexation and urge to vent, so I texted my mom and vented to her. A few minutes later, I texted another friend to vent some more.
Here's my text to that friend, along with the pictures I attached, in the order I attached them:
Hey, Sharon. I'm off today, and I wanted to send you a couple of pics. You know that Bible verse that says, "In everything give thanks; for this is God's will concerning you in Christ Jesus?" (I may have a few words mixed up, but you get the point.) Well, I'm being exercised in it!
As soon as I sent the text, while still looking at the second picture I had attached (the one right above), I typed this statement:
"I guess I can just train my eyes to look up!"
Immediately, as I hit the send button, I knew the spiritual truth the Holy Spirit wanted me to consider from the statement I'd just declared.
Yes, Holy Spirit. I hear you.
Despite my negative, need-to-grumble-to-someone-to-anyone mindset, I'm listening.
When Darin and I moved to Alabama in 2019, one of the top three selling points of the home we purchased was the beautiful backyard view. Not knowing too much about Alabama before we relocated here (other than the fanatical obsession with college football), I was surprised to discover how hilly and mountainous parts of this state are. And one of those lovely ranges would be a part of my new home's scenery. It was a gift.
Though our house sits on a very busy, often noisy, road on which many drivers ignore the speed limit, the tranquil landscape on the backside of our home is a pleasant contrast. For myself, one of life's sweet pleasures, since living here, has been lingering mornings on my screened porch. With steaming coffee in hand, and Bible open on my lap, I soak up my little Gatlinburg view (the way I often refer to it).
After becoming somewhat nomadic when we left our home in Tennesse in 2010 and moved our family to Ecuador for ministry (resulting in living in 7 homes/apartments over 9 years, which included our three years in North Carolina), I longed for a home of our own, a place on which we could make our mark, a house that looked and felt like us, a roof under which we could put down some roots and stay for a while. Since I'm a self-described homebody, who craves more the simple pleasures, comforts, and stability of home than life's grand adventures, being able to buy this home after a lengthy season of uncertainty and waiting was a sweet gift from God.
If I've said or thought it once, I've said or thought it hundreds of times, "Thank you, Father, for the blessing of this home."
I sincerely love my home.
That's why presently, evidenced by the pictures above and the previous confession of my vexation and venting, I'm not happy—not happy at all—that an unignorable reality has made its way into my blessing of a space. Not happy—not happy at all—that something unsightly (how I see it, though I'm sure the owners see it differently) has moved in and overtly obstructed a large part of my idyllic view. Not happy—not happy at all—that this unwelcomed structure is now my new normal. And no one asked for my opinion.
Isn't this so much like life?
Life is unpredictable. It often does not go as we think it should, or pray it will. One minute, all seems well, and the next it's just not. One day you're at peace as you consider what's in front of you, and the next it's all been turned topsy-turvy. One moment you sigh with contentment, as the horizon looks ideal from where you stand. Then, without consideration of your feelings or preferred view, a less-than-desirable reality levels the metaphorical green trees, and takes up residence, with a fixed foundation that declares, "I'm here to stay. Deal with it."
For disciples of Christ, such times truly exercise us in the principles of Christianity. They test whether the words of the Bible, breathed by God, are truths to be lived by or suggestions we merely listen to. They measure whether we will look up and view our circumstances in the supernatural, or straight-on, choosing to fixate only on what the natural eye sees. They prove whether we will let God's Word determine our thoughts and responses while dealing with what we do not like, or whether what we do not like becomes the chief dictator of our minds and reactions.
The authentic Christian existence is always about whether or not we will submit to a higher way, a holier way—our Teacher's way—of thinking, being, and doing, regardless of what He allows into our reality. And since it's not natural to submit—not natural to be a different way than how our flesh feels like being—we must "train [ourselves] in godliness" (I Timothy 4:8). We must train our eyes to look up, "fixing our eyes on Jesus, the pioneer and perfecter of faith" (Hebrews 12:2), the epitome of a life completely surrendered to the Father's words and ways. We must coach ourselves to think differently, see differently, and respond differently, in alignment with Scripture and the Spirit's whispers, instead of what feels natural, right, or justified within the circumstances that don't go the way we want them to go in this temporary life.
So, fellow sojourner, as I sit at my kitchen table to the sounds of pounding hammers and sights of unwanted construction, I know what the Father is saying to me at this hour, and always: To keep telling myself, to keep training myself, within the much larger and more serious undesirable facts of life (the known ones of the present and the unknowns of the future), to keep looking up. To Never Stop Looking Up. To keep shifting my gaze (from the realities that sadden, frustrate, worry, and anger me, and tempt me continually to vent and complain to another) to the Lord Most High, whose beauty, majesty, power, and unchanging presence can never be obstructed by any undesirable circumstance of this life. No matter how big, no matter how invasive, no matter how overwhelming. As long my gaze stays upward.
When I do—always when I do—my disposition shifts, though circumstances remain unchanged. Governing sadness, anxiety, irritation, and anger are replaced by hope, peace, rest, and joy.
I may never grow to like the firm-footed realities that emerge or learn to love the unwelcome invasions, but as I "lift up my eyes unto the hills," (Psalm 121:1) just like the various writers of the Book of Psalms did, I will behold His transforming, eternal glory. And neither my faith nor worship will wane because of any intrusive, unwanted obstruction constructed in this earthly, temporary life.
For this, I wholeheartedly give thanks.
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