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 1st, 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 1st, 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!
