Wonderstruck (6 page)

God meets Job in the ashes, in the midst of his lament, but God does not leave him there. In the final act, God expresses his displeasure with Job’s friends and their hurtful, half-baked
theology. They must humbly ask Job to make an offering and prayer on their behalf. Then, quite unexpectedly, as quickly as the tides of fortune turned against Job, they recede. God literally gives Job another lease on life; he lives to be 140 years old. Job’s wealth is not only restored but doubled. Job doesn’t only have more sons and daughters; he has the privilege of becoming a much-adored, great-great-grandfather.

For all that is lost and restored, Job never receives an answer to his
why
.

Yet the ancient book that bears his name allows us to press our ears against a soundproof room in the heavens to understand more. Satan, the adversary, approaches God claiming that the only reason for Job’s righteousness and divine affection is because he’s wealthy and prosperous. Satan argues that Job won’t be faithful if stripped of his possessions. With a divine handshake, God permits Satan to strip Job of every material blessing—except his life—and an unparalleled series of catastrophic events is unleashed in Job’s life.

The great irony: We get a divine peek behind the scenes, but Job never hears of the adversary’s role in his ruin. Then again, maybe after Job’s awakening to the presence of God all around him, the Great Who trumping every why, such details become nothing more than useless trivia.
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Sooner or later we all encounter situations that leave us baffled. Whether a single event or a series of circumstances that assault us with shock and awe, we’re left with the unanswerable questions of why? Why me? Why now? Why again? When we ask such questions to the exclusion of all else, we can miss opportunities to encounter God in our midst. Yet the invitation to awaken the wonder all around us remains: even in the affliction, even in the loss, even in the pain, God’s presence remains.

Laying hold of such wonder requires us to shift our question from
why
to
who
:
Who
will walk with me?
Who
is the source of light in my darkness?
Who
always proves faithful? As we begin asking these questions, our focus shifts from downward to upward, from inward to outward. We begin discovering the wonder of the presence of God all around us—and ultimately how he works through us. In the most opaque circumstances of life, even when he feels a million miles away, the knowledge of the presence of God allows us to laugh when everything else says we should be crying.

Do you tend to focus on the
why
or the
who
in the midst of life’s challenges? What would it look like for you to pursue God in those moments when life unravels?

Though I wouldn’t wish calamitous life events—whether Job-sized or more everyday—on myself or anyone else, I can’t help but be wonderstruck by God’s presence and faithfulness throughout my experience. The financial burden caused by the unexpected loss lessened but still remains. The grief of losing
my dear friend sat heavy on my chest for some time; then one day, when I wasn’t looking, it stood up and sauntered away.

Eventually the long-awaited day of seeing the super-specialist arrived. Through another series of tests and an exam, he confirmed that I didn’t have cancer but a rare, mysterious disease that explained some of my symptoms. In the six-hundred-plus-page textbook he penned, this particular disease receives a meager paragraph, less than an inch of attention. A cure isn’t available, but the symptoms can be somewhat managed through medication.
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Maybe that’s why I hadn’t been able to contain the deep, chesty growl of laughter as I lay on the kitchen floor, sensing what was to come. Though the
why
remained unanswered and the problems hadn’t budged, I discovered that the difference between tears and laughter is found in being aware of the presence of God. Even when I lost my footing, God never stumbled. Not a single tear slipped by his sight. Not a single groan escaped his ear. I laughed for joy because in the moments when I felt most vulnerable and lost and alone and angry, God didn’t shy away. In the life storms that caught me unaware, God remained all knowing. In that which took my breath away, God whispered
keep breathing
. In the holy hush of his presence, God met me.

And God will meet you there too.

N
AKED WILLOWS AND WELL-CLOTHED EVERGREENS
cast maroon shadows across the landscape in front of our home. The sky above, the ice below, the narrowest of tree branches—all are enveloped by a divine pinkish hue known as alpenglow. Like a checkered picnic blanket strewn across a patch of grassy earth, cotton-candy-colored snow obscures the uneven ground.

I rub my eyes this early January evening. My vision is clear. I’m not wearing rose-colored glasses. Rather, I’m encountering an optical phenomenon that occurs on rare occasions as the sun pauses below the horizon in the mountains. When rays reflect off particles such as ice, snow, and water in the lower atmosphere, they backscatter in the direction they came from, casting a licorice-red glow across the landscape.

Living in Colorado lends itself to experiencing alpenglow at dusk and daybreak, especially during the winter months. Many years ago I remember riding horses through a similar glowing scene. Cowboy Dan, who wore a bushy handlebar mustache
and round wire spectacles that accentuated his sapphire eyes, asked a handful of my friends if we were interested in riding horses at his ranch in the middle of winter. With more than three feet of snow blanketing the ground, Dan assured me the horses were safe to ride year-round.

Late one afternoon, we traveled to his property, where we found Dan wearing his favorite crusty cowboy hat, stained leather chaps, and long-toed boots, still in the barn saddling the final steed.

“You’ll want this one!” Dan trumpeted. “She has fire in her but not enough to get you in too much trouble.”

I couldn’t tell if Dan was describing the horse or making an unsolicited comment about my personality, but I detected a sly grin on his face as he clasped his hands together to form sure footing to climb into the saddle. Holding the reins, I slipped each foot into the stirrups and, with a gentle nudge, felt the animal lurch forward. My left palm clutched for stability on the saddle’s horn; my right hand held onto the reins. I practiced directing the regal creature in each direction until I began to feel more balanced, more relaxed.

After Cowboy Dan gave the last member of our squadron a boost, he mounted his saddle with a smooth swinging motion. Our horses, predisposed to their own pecking order, lined up behind Dan. The clacking rhythm of hooves on the plowed gravel road complemented the cadence of our bodies rocking back and forth. We stayed on the road a quarter mile before
turning onto a narrow path that led into the forest marking Dan’s private property.

The unblemished snow silenced the hooves. The first shadows of dusk softened the lighting of the landscape. We entered a sacred moment in time, hushing human and animal alike. Pine tree branches bent under the weight of as much snow as they could bear. Whenever a stray stirrup or shoulder brushed against a limb, the icy flakes powdered everything in reach.

The scene of frozen beauty remained untouched except for a lone set of bunny tracks. We glimpsed a world no one else would see. My mind wandered to how many places like this God reserves for himself. From the intricacies of the solar system to the mysteries of the depths of the sea, creation radiates God’s splendor in incalculable moments never perceived by any human eye. From the hidden nocturnal creatures of the desert to tucked-away flora and fauna of the tropics, they exist for God’s pleasure alone. Such awareness stirred in me the longing to join creation’s chorus by bringing God glory. Skirted by creation’s magnificence, a song of worship crested in my soul and lifted ever so gently from my lips. Worship felt like the only response to being immersed in such sacred beauty.

My fingers stiff, my toes numb from the cold, I still wanted to savor every last sip of the surrounding beauty. The trail zigzagged through the forest before vanishing into an unmarred snowy meadow shaded in alpenglow. The last few rays of daylight cast a hue of pink champagne across the landscape. On the far edge of
the open field, the red barn where we’d begun our journey stood radiant against the snow.

“Anyone want to see what their horse can really do?” yelled Cowboy Dan, still leading the lineup.

In unison, we hooted and hollered. I pressed my toes tight into the stirrups, lifting my body above the saddle, before administering a swift kick. The horse began to trot. Another nudge and the stately animal pressed into a full-fledged gallop as if swallowing freedom with each lunge forward. Snow scattered in all directions. Cold air stung my face. My eyes watered. Yet I felt wholly alive, as if I were pressing my fingertips against the heavens. Approaching the barn, I tugged back on the reins and, caught, my, breath. Pausing before dismounting the horse, I realized if I had stayed home or declined the invitation, I would have missed this magnificence.

The snowy field outside our home looks different than the one we raced across years ago. Tracks from the deer and footprints from neighborhood kids who spent all afternoon constructing a crooked snowman crisscross the landscape. But the intoxicating pink hue is almost the same.

Admiring the beauty, I consider how many holy moments I’ve missed in the harriedness of life. Though God laces creation with eternal truths, all too often I pass by them unaware.
Taking a walk in a nearby park on a spring Sabbath afternoon, I follow the path along the riverbank. Towering trees line the path, their leafy branches chattering and clattering. Distracted by the ruckus of my life, I miss the holy conversation: those who savor God’s Word morning, noon, and night will be like a tree planted next to a stream.
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Yet I glide by unaffected.

Looking at our lawn during the summer, I’m reminded of the stubble left behind after our grass is mowed. Within a few days, the trimmings fade like blanched almonds, leaving an abstract pattern on our lawn. The sun-cured grass prevents the young shoots from surviving, so I scurry back and forth across the front yard pocketing the remains in a garbage bag. Each clenched handful produces a soft crunching and scrunching, but in my hurry, I miss the eternal truth in my grasp: the withering grass alludes to the brevity of life—make the most of every God-given day.
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Or those rainy fall days when I’m homebound by what feels like an eternal storm. With each plop and plunk, the raindrops dimple the glassy surface of my windows, obscuring the view. I interpret the loud rooftop pitters and patters as proudly announcing all the things I won’t be able to do today, tomorrow, or the next—until the rain ends. The list makes me feel imprisoned, isolated, ineffective. Like the blurred glass, I can’t see clearly. I misunderstand the sacred message of all those pitter-patters telling me that if I paused long enough, I’d discover the splashing rain was shouting, jumping, beckoning me toward the cleansing
I needed—not only on my rooftop or windows but also in my heart.
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