Liquid Sunshine

I was in desperate need of a walk, and the weather suited my mood perfectly. Massive storm clouds roiled and loomed—blue, grey, and black—heralded by October’s chill winds. Looking up at the sky burgeoning with pent-up rain, I found myself unexpectedly recalling an old man’s words: “It’s just Liquid Sunshine.”

On July 29, 2008, a good friend of mine had a stroke. She is my second mother, and a source of wise counsel for numerous individuals. She was always interacting with someone: a conversation over caramel macchiato (with extra caramel), prayer and incite in small or large groups, exchanges over facebook, well-written essays on her blog. The stroke reduced her speech capability to practically nothing. She now struggles with what she calls “blank spaces,” moments when she looses her train of thought and stares off vacantly. As a result she cannot drive a car right now, and can have some difficulty finishing her thought or activity—she does not accept many visits right now, and is not active online.

On October 1^st, my 41 year-old uncle was found dead in the workshop in the back of his truck. An unexpected heart attack. He had undergone a stress test and physical the previous year and was told he was in fairly good health, other than a leaky heart valve. There was no need for any procedures for at least four or five years, since the valve was not too far-gone. The coroner told the family his death was heart-related. He was affianced to a sweet woman; he fought long and hard to convince her to marry him, in the face of her fears after her abusive first marriage. He has one son and four step sons with whom he loved to spend time. He was involved in all of their sports and school activities. My uncle was a “kid magnet” in general: wherever he went, there were bound to be lots of squealing, delighted children, and he never got tired of playing with them. He and his fiancé announced last month that they are expecting a baby: a son, due in March (although the entire family was hoping he would have a really feminine daughter).

In the midst of each of these situations, I found myself recalling an encounter from the previous year. One morning of skies pelting dark rain, I had exited a building and passed an elderly gentleman as he made halting progress toward the entrance to light and warmth. “Lovely weather!” I shouted humorously through the downpour. “Oh, it’s just liquid sunshine” he assured me with a grin, and continued his slow trek.

I’d honestly never thought of it that way before. As a Christian, I believe that “all things work together for the good” of those who love Jesus, but I’m still more of a “glass half-empty” person. My pastor considers these situations to be attacks direct from Satan. But as I went for a walk on the evening of October 1^st, after hearing of my uncle’s death, I looked up at the sky and wondered. Satan had to have God permission to attack Job; he could do nothing God didn’t expressly allow him to do. Would the situation be any different in the case of my friend and each of those who depended on her wisdom? What about in the case of my family and every person who drew upon my uncle’s strength and life? Someone once told me, “God tore Job down to the ground in order to move him sideways six inches” and rebuilt him better than before. Job was restored not only with physical health and even greater economic prosperity—those were merely bonuses; Job’s true restoration lay in his corrected, expanded understanding, and relationship with, God himself. And all this was brought about by God allowing Satan’s attacks. I found myself looking up at the turbulent thunderheads darkening above me as I walked. The wild wind that precedes a storm was gusting through the streets. It would be a fierce rain tonight.

Liquid Sunshine, huh? I’ll take it. Let's get soaked!

The DanceMaster's Pupil

Broken feet cannot dance very well. I learned the steps by standing on a pair that really tried…but broken feet can only teach a broken dance. And the feet learning atop them become broken in the process—perhaps to an even greater degree.

The teaching feet told me they had learned the steps from the DanceMaster and that everything I would ever need to know I could learn from them—I would be wasting the DanceMaster’s time if I sought Him directly.

Eventually, the teaching feet grew too broken to bear my weight, and danced off alone. By then, my own feet were quite broken: each step was a stumble, every twirl became a fall; but I had come to love the dance. For a while I tried to dance on my own—pretending the stumbles and falls were intentional, celebrated elements of my own clever choreography. But my feet grew more broken…and the choreography fell apart. It became evident that if I was ever to dance as well as the teaching feet, I would have to seek out the DanceMaster.

Over the years, I had rather hoped that I might catch a fleeting glimpse of the DanceMaster or encounter Him in passing, but of course that doesn’t happen. As I had never sought Him, I had never found Him. But the minute I purposed to go looking for him, the DanceMaster found me.

He said that He would be delighted to teach me, but He would not instruct me in the dances of the teaching feet—He would not help me to augment those dances and mask my stumbles and falls. If I was determined to pursue those desires, He could not help me. After much thought, I told Him the only two things of which I was certain: I wanted to dance better, and I wanted to learn from Him…if starting over was the only way, I would try it.

The DanceMaster instructed me to stand on His feet. I found myself wondering if this was, in fact, a waste of time: He seemed to be using the same technique as the teaching feet who had left me. But slowly, softly realization dawned—something was different about His instruction. There was a rhythm underlying each step, a nuance that guided and rejoiced in every move of the dance. He called it music. If He was attended by something so beautiful, perhaps the DanceMaster was different after all.

For fully three years I seemed to struggle without improvement. We never worked on more than the most basic steps, and He never let me dance on my own—I was always on His feet. Yet standing on the DanceMaster’s feet was excruciating! His feet were not broken and deformed: standing on them forced my own broken feet to take a different shape, and the pain was almost overwhelming. For those three years, I spent most of our lessons in tears. Repeatedly I begged Him to let me dance on the floor. He always said it wasn’t time yet; He said that I was not yet strong enough to hear the music on my own, and that the floor would hurt my feet more. All that sustained me were the DanceMaster’s frequent reminders of His promise to teach me many new dances when it was time, and the increasing beauty of the music to which we danced.

One day He said, “Look at your feet.”

They were so different!!! My feet were now shaped more like the DanceMaster’s, although they were still a little warped and…how scarred they were!

He said that my feet were no longer broken, but they would continue to cause me some degree of pain for the rest of my life. The DanceMaster gave me permission to dance on the floor now, but said that He would sometimes have me dance on His feet so that He could make my feet straighter. He also said the scars will fade over time, but that new ones will form any time I choose not to dance on His feet in moments when the pain is intense.

“Are you ready?” He asked.

He started teaching me dances. Each step, each dance built upon the one before it. At times He taught me quickly; more often He was slow and deliberate. Perhaps the music sustained me: slow didn’t seem so slow as before, and fast was never too fast. He began showing me solo dances, partner dances, and group dances. Some bore a vague similarity to the dances I had learned from the teaching feet…but these were far more intricate and beautiful. The steps which the DanceMaster taught me were far more complex than anything I could have previously managed with my broken feet. I grew to love combining the steps He had showed into improvised dances I would perform for Him. I’m sure the DanceMaster has seen many dances more artistically and technically correct. But each time I display for Him my affection and gratitude by mirroring back to Him the steps He has taught me, delight suffuses His face and He sings to the music surrounding me.

I was so excited by all I was learning that I began using my practice hours to introduce others to the beautiful steps the DanceMaster was teaching me. Some have grown excited and begun to study under Him as well; group dances are more and more fun! Most have been more or less polite to me and continued with their own dancing, or lack thereof. Some have grown very angry at the suggestion that their lives could possibly be deficient in any way that would necessitate the undertaking of such nonsense. Others have been deeply moved by the steps and the altered state of my feet…for a short while…but upon learning there is pain involved, they have always left in haste; my feet hurt worst after those encounters.

Usually I remember to dance on my Master’s feet when the pain grows unbearable; sometimes He has to remind me. Occasionally I ignore His reminders. I sit staring at my feet as the pain builds and the throbbing envelopes my mind, intentionally tuning out the DanceMaster’s persistent and gentle admonition to rise drifting to me on the music. Once in a while I do this even when my feet are not very painful at all; but hunching over them and thinking about them seems to make the pain grow somehow until I forget that it had not been nearly so sharp to begin with. But without fail—be it minutes, hours, or days later—the music penetrates my self-induced silence and I begin to hear His voice. It is always in those moments when I raise my head to look at Him from across the floor that I am most clearly struck by how tall and straight and strong the Dancemaster is. Gazing at Him from a distance is far more imposing than when I am dancing around Him or held close in His arms. The awe of this realization always spurs my desire to be near Him, in the shadow of His gentleness, and gives me the strength to rise and dance toward Him once more. Somehow, when I sit down, I always forget that while dancing the pain serves only to keep me light on my feet.

Let's Talk

My favourite part of reading books and watching movies is the conversations that result from them. More recently I've become conscious of just how ingorant I am: there is much that influences my behaviours and ideas beyond what I feel comfortable acknowledging. I'm sure you are in the same position.

The goal of this forum is to learn about God, others, and ourselves. There are so many ideas surrounding and influencing our lives about which we are largely clueless; I guess it all renders down to the question of whether we are content living and interacting with others (cousins, neighbors, nieces, grandsons) all the while remaining in that ignorance. If you are happy squinting into a clouded mirror, then please feel free to do so. But if you would love to one day see clearly, face-to-face, then please join me in this search; add your questions and ponderings to the mix!

No one sees clearly: we are human, and therefore fallible. But perhaps simply by agreeing on that point, we can have the joint privilege of being used to bring focus and clarity where we individually had blind spots.