Flash Page 10

  I slept off the dreadful experience (or detoxed?—whatever), and when morning came, Tom brought me coffee and handed me my shoes. “Let’s get Grayson off to school and then go for a little walk.” By now Meghan was in college, and it was easy to get one kid out the door with a sack lunch. This was good: I needed easy.

  The air had just a hint of fall in it, and a slight breeze rustled the dry grasses in the field as we took each other’s hand and slipped outside. Neither of us needed to say anything grand, which is one of the very best things about being together since forever.

  We let ourselves through the gate and walked into the pasture, our steps instinctively taking us to one of Flash’s trails. About twelve inches in width, the path was perfectly groomed by his set of hooves and just wide enough for single file. Tom dropped back behind me, our fingers releasing.

  The trail meandered toward the barn along the fence line for fifty yards or so before dividing into two. One of the branches led on to the barn, while the other angled off across the field. We chose the one angling off and followed it around to where it intersected with another of Flash’s trails. Taking a right, we headed through the back pasture toward the woods, our feet still following the furrow that was carved through the grass and tall weeds.

  “I’ll bet this place looks crazy from the air!” I shielded my eyes from the morning sun and looked eastward across the field. It was crisscrossed with his paths in some kind of pattern only a donkey could make sense of. Each corner of the field was connected by a trail, with intersecting, veering lines going this way and that. None was straight, but each was like a gently undulating, dry riverbed created by his moseying walking style.

  “Hard to believe he can do enough plodding to keep these so well maintained,” Tom said, admiring Flash’s work ethic. “Look, this one goes from the woods to the barn, with exits in case he changes his mind!” The main arteries were well worn and deep, but even the secondary paths looked oft used.

  We glanced up just in time to see Flash emerge from the woods, where he loved to sleep at night. True to form, he used the most direct trail route to reach us. We watched his hooves plod, plod, plod toward us and saw that they dragged a bit of dirt with each knock-kneed step.

  Flash came to a stop by Tom, nosing his pockets for a treat. Tom produced a Tic Tac and palmed it for Flash’s soft, thick tongue to grab, and we laughed when he drooled at its mintyness. We listened to him crunch it, the sound echoing in that big old head. Then I sighed and looked at Tom, not wanting to talk about that job but knowing we probably should. I wanted to quit this whole thing, so I said as much.

  “Rachel, we aren’t going to take that project, so stop worrying about it. We’ll be fine. We’ve always said ‘Not all business is good business,’ and this is a perfect example. Something else will take its place. You’ll see.”

  Tom threw an arm around Flash’s neck and gave his friend a good knuckle rub on his fuzzy forehead. The donkey turned his head into Tom’s chest and vigorously rubbed up and down, leaving a dusty print on his dark shirt. Looking over Flash’s ears at me, Tom continued. “Besides, not to be corny or anything, but I think we just need to keep plodding on.”

  “Oh, ha-ha-ha,” I laughed, holding my stomach in feigned mirth. “Aren’t you clever!”

  “No, I’m serious.” Tom’s smile became earnest. “We need to remember that we’re in this for the long haul, and that the journey is just as important as the destination. Look at how far we’ve come and how many good things have happened along the way. Look at our kids, and how we’re living here now, fighting for something worthwhile. Look at the fact that we’re standing in a pasture with a donkey on a weekday morning, while the rest of the world is sitting in traffic to get to their desk jobs. We are doing something we love. Yeah, we’ve had our insane moments, but I wouldn’t trade anything for where we are right now.”

  I looked around at all those trails, made one sedate step at a time, by a donkey who never really seemed to pay attention to where he was headed, and I considered what Tom had said. Maybe he had a point.

  Plod, plod, plod. That was exactly what we were doing. Progress was so slow. It didn’t appear like we were heading anywhere. Success was nowhere on the horizon, and our tempo seemed to drag. But at least we were moving. We weren’t sitting still. We were taking steps, forming habits, creating lanes. And all those lanes were intersecting, weaving, making way for life to happen. It didn’t all rest on one job. Hmmm.

  We were walking now, single file again. Tom, me, Flash. You never really like to be the one right in front of Flash because he has no concept of personal space. He puts his nose right up by your back and playfully nibbles at your clothing as you move along. He really needs to work on that.

  Just as I arched my back in anticipation of his nudge, I heard hooves pause behind me. I turned in time to watch Flash lower his nose to the ground. We’d walked directly through his favorite roll spot, where he loves to bathe himself in dirt. It’s a wide circle, worn clean of grass and weeds, right down to the soft, loose soil beneath.

  Flash’s roll spots—hidden jewels in a pasture comprised largely of Texas blackland soil (much too clumpy) and limestone rock (not enough dust)—are well chosen for their quality of sandy dirt, and he enjoys the ritual of bathing in them like you can’t imagine.

  Now trancelike, with half-closed eyes and flattened ears, he circled several times, his muzzle leaving a groove in the fine sand. His front legs seemed to buckle, and with a deep exhale he lowered himself to the ground and kicked up a giant plume of dust with his back feet as he rolled over.

  Belly up, he rolled from side to side in violent motions punctuated by gas and groans. He rubbed his back into the ground with relish and finally came to a stop with legs splayed out, tail rapidly sweeping the dirt. One more roll. He heaved a happy sigh and looked up at us over his dust mustache. I was ready to hear him say, “Thanks for waiting, guys. That felt great.”

  Flash threw his front feet forward and pulled himself up, covered in dirt from ears to rump, just the way he likes it. The layer of dust would help repel the flies and mosquitoes and protect him from the sun—important quality-of-life issues for creatures who, for obvious reasons, would have difficulty applying sunscreen or insect spray by themselves.

  We continued on our way, finally stopping at the water spigot near the barn, where Beau was waiting for us. He’d opted not to walk with his rival, but he didn’t seem to mind that we had done so. “I’ll take you guys to the house,” his expression said as he wagged the tip of his tail at us.

  With his shoulder to Flash, his body language clearly excluded the donkey from the conversation. The two tag-teamed our walks, passing us off like batons, with Flash taking the pasture zone and Beau in charge of the yard. However awkward, it seemed to work for them.

  Tom topped off the bucket beneath the faucet while the sun warmed the four of us. I had never considered Flash to be a trailblazer, even though we’d seen him run with horses and romance a beautiful mare. He certainly had experienced some big, shining moments. But his characteristic gait was s.l.o.w. He didn’t hurry, and he seemed to step methodically. He rarely even looked up as he ambled.

  And it dawned on me then that there was something important in his trails. They were daily efforts that created structure and made pathways for others to follow. And maybe just as noteworthy, they intertwined to create an intricate pattern that didn’t always make sense from up close, but could easily be seen from another perspective.

  I did a mental flyover, imagining my life as Flash’s. (I would definitely do something about the buckteeth and big-ear situation.) I looked down at my own pathways to see if I could find any patterns—any definitive trails that I could identify.

  At first glance it looked just like Flash’s haphazard pasture lines, but as I pulled my lens back further, I began to see how all those threads were interconnecting, moving, and weaving. Like an unfinished tapestry, with unraveled edges, but with the beginnings of something
beautiful taking shape.

  I saw how the path of my childhood as that awkward missionary kid had led to young adulthood and Bible college. And how the path of Bible college had led to meeting my husband and thinking we would be courageous humanitarians in some far-off corner of the globe. As twentysomethings, we just knew we would change the world with our zeal and dedication. Jesus and us and the gospel! But somehow life and kids and work had changed those plans, and the trail took an unexpected turn.

  For so many years we felt that our path was “less than” those of more dedicated servants, who gave it all to follow higher callings. While we lived in suburbia and enjoyed the everyday luxuries of running water, flushing toilets, and Walmart, they were putting their lives on the line in grass huts somewhere. Are we doing enough? Are we sellouts? Are we selfish to pursue a dream that uses our creative gifts? We kept treading. Diapers, Sunday school, work, offering plate.

  Faith had often been presented as an either-or proposition: Either you are a 100 percent willing vessel or a halfhearted church attendee. A minister or a pew sitter. A doer or a spectator. An on-fire zealot or a pallid Christian. There wasn’t much middle ground to speak of. It took years of plodding to realize that there was, after all, a place for us, and it was not in a manufactured state of guilt, but in a grace-filled space within His care.

  Faith, we learned, is not an occupation, but a lifestyle. It is a matter of the heart that encompasses everything. Step by faltering step, we had made a trail from the woods to the barn, from hyperactive duty to genuine worship. Circling around and coming back. From work . . . to grace . . . to offering.

  Making dinner, taking kids to piano lessons, changing the oil. Finding that God is in our work and our play and our family. In our hockey games and Bible studies, our bedtime prayers and errands. He is in our sketches and paintbrushes and dreams. He is in our showing up each day and lacing up our shoes and being fully present in whatever situations we find ourselves. He is in our very breaths.

  Walking, stepping, plodding. Doing the next thing.

  From the weight of thinking we needed to have all the answers in our zealous youth, to the darkness of having none—not a single one—in our moments of despair. Like when we lost Collin. Or when we had to choose which bills to pay. Getting lost, and feeling our way.

  And one day, waking up to embrace the freedom of the mystery. Savoring the not knowing. Resting in faith. Being in awe of a God who sees and knows, and who waits. It all happens in such incremental moments, as you work out your life into some kind of reflection of Him in your everyday world. You are making trails, even when you don’t know quite where you are heading.

  And all the tangled knots, the hard places of your journey, become dots on the map. They are interspersed with the stretches of plains, the mountains, and the joyous milestones, all of it coursing into a magnificent pattern borne of slow steps and determined feet.

  Each marker holds its story. “Remember that time?” you say, and you laugh or fade off into quiet reverie, retracing your steps and shaking your head. You see how each place you mark makes way for a new trail to be blazed. Yes, some of the trails peter out, and you have to back up and start over. Some of them are easier than others. And some don’t make any sense at all, at least from your perspective. The point is, you are moving. Not standing still. You are putting one foot in front of the other, and as you do, somehow . . . God is there.

  Step, step, plod, step.

  He puts people in your path—like Priscilla, who entered my life with a phone call inquiring about a nursery mural, and who never left. With her endless encouragement and generous friendship, she changed my course forever. “Want to see a movie?” she’d ask, and it was like a lifeline when I was most lonely.

  And Bridgette. Our Southern belle neighbor, who was ever growing on me with her “Well hi, y’all”s and her delicious gumbo that sometimes arrived outside our front door along with a kind note. She still called Flash THAT NAME, but it bothered me less and less these days.

  Trail markers, northern stars.

  Psalm 32:8 says, “I will guide you along the best pathway for your life. I will advise you and watch over you.” How incredible to know that His hand is leading and His eye is watching over us. And Proverbs 16:9 states, “We can make our plans, but the LORD determines our steps.”

  As I waited for Flash’s bucket to fill, I remembered the time I was at Chick-fil-A with Grayson on a particularly stressful day. We’d just left a dentist appointment that took forever and cost some exorbitant sum, and I was in a hurry to get back to work to make up lost time. I swung into the drive-through lane and placed our order for life-sustaining chicken nuggets, waffle fries, and sweet tea. The young lady on the other side of the intercom was incredibly polite, and I was even more impressed with her when we reached the window. She took my money, gave us our food, told me it was a pleasure to serve us . . . all while employing such intentional eye contact with me that I made particular note of it to Grayson.

  “See, now that is how teenagers should interact with adults. Making eye contact is so important! I hope you’ll remember to do that, Gray. You’ll go far in life if you do.” Hey, you can’t let a teachable moment go to waste.

  As I handed Grayson his food, I happened to catch a glimpse of myself in the rearview mirror. What? Suddenly I knew exactly why the girl at the window had looked at me so intently. The left lens of my sunglasses had fallen out—I’d been talking to her with only one tinted lens!

  “Good grief, Grayson! How long have I been driving around like this?” I demanded of my son, whose mouth was already stuffed with waffle fries. I pointed at my missing lens and glared at him. Through his chipmunk cheeks, he mumbled something about not being able to see that side of my head from the passenger seat. Glancing over, he nearly choked as he spit out the fries and howled in laughter. Not a shred of compassion, that kid.

  How could I not have noticed that I was missing a lens? How could I not “see” something so conspicuous? I realized later that I was just too close to the situation—literally. (It didn’t help that I was distracted and worried at the time.) But my mismatched lenses were only too obvious to someone looking from another perspective. Looking out from my broken viewpoint didn’t reveal the truth; it was only from a distance that reality was clearly seen.

  I wondered, how often do we fail to see the big picture? How often do we look at present circumstances and make decisions based on what we see and feel today? We forget that it’s in the walking, in the daily tasks, that the work of grace gets done. Sometimes we just have to step back in order to see it.

  Flash’s coarse hair along the cross on his back already felt hot in the morning sun. He plunged his lips into the cool water and drank deeply from the full black bucket. His sturdy neck rippled with each swallow, his nostrils opening wide, then closing. He finally brought his head up, water dribbling from the corners of his mouth, and looked at me. Through long eyelashes, his darkly rimmed eyes held my gaze. He blinked and brought his wet nose up to my face to sniff my cheek.

  In that moment, I was filled with gratitude for this homeless donkey and for all his crazy trails. And I thanked God for all the times during my journey that I’d begged for rescue, for change, for intervention—and God in His inscrutable wisdom had left me just where I was.

  Because it was in the waiting, and the wondering, and the plodding that I had to do the most trusting. And found the most grace.

  You can’t always see the destination, but perseverance will take you there.

  He is with you each step of the way.

  Always.

  Be a trailblazer.

  Persistence makes pathways for grace to follow.

  Can I get you a cup of coffee? No? How about some lemonade? It’s sugar-free.” Bridgette ushered me into her ultrastylish home office for a design meeting, but first, her Southern hospitality took over. She adjusted the round glasses on her nose and smiled. “You just set right here and let me get you something.” B
ridgette said “here,” like “heeah,” which always made me smile.

  “No, thank you. I’m fine.” I declined the refreshment and sat down. My Midwestern sensibilities and Norwegian roots required me to refuse all first and second offers, on account of that’s how we do it. It goes against our stoic grain to put anyone out. We don’t want to be a bother. Really, we don’t. We couldn’t.

  Unless, of course, they make a third offer.

  Then we can consider it.

  “Water, then? It’s no trouble,” Bridgette insisted. “But the lemonade is delicious, and I’ve already got it made.” The pitcher was hovering over the glass, Bridgette’s eyes on me, awaiting my response. I was no match for this “steel magnolia” and gave in.

  “Well, since you’ve already made it . . .” Gracious acceptance was my only recourse in this situation. She poured it over ice (again, too much trouble, but she already had ice out) and set the glass down on a coaster in front of me.

  “How about some cheese and crackers?” I could see that Bridgette was going to make this difficult.

  “Oh thank you, but, no. I just had a late lunch and couldn’t eat a bite.” I held my hand up in polite refusal. But she was already bringing a small tray with an array of cheeses, a selection of crackers, and clusters of grapes.

  “You’ve simply got to try this Brie,” Bridgette said. I noticed that it was topped with some kind of raspberry marmalade, oozing down the sides in a decadent display of epicurean goodness. This lady didn’t play fair.

  “Oh my. That’s too pretty to eat. I might need to just Instagram it instead.” I could feel my mouth watering. Raspberries are my favorite. Also any kind of cheese.