Amy’s Oasis

Freedom.

What do you think of when you hear that word?

Is it being able to do what you want, go where your impulses carry you?

Maybe not, in your head. Probably, whether you realize it or not, in your actions.

Is it being the person you want to be, the control over your own destiny?

Maybe not, in your head. Probably, whether you realize it or not, in your actions.

The directness of your gaze caught me by surprise. There was no judgement there, no friendliness, no interest whatsoever - but still, it was eye contact. I smiled at you, and the corner of your mouth twitched upwards in a delayed, knee-jerk response. You had forgotten that, hadn’t you - that simple and innocent expression of goodwill?

Briefly I wondered if you had ever known, and I wanted to teach you.

Then I realized that forming the clay of your lips into a smile and baking them would only bring the hardness that I saw in your eyes to your face.

In the next instant I was wishing to bring your soul close to mine in the moments when God is showing me a little bit of His glory - to lend you my eyes and my heart.

But then I realized with shame that then you would wonder why there is a part of my smile that is baked hard, and therefore is no smile.

By way of explanation . . .

This was written based on some thoughts I had on one of my many treks through the city and on one woman I met up with in particular. Sometimes I feel that unbelievers are the most honest of all people. When they hurt, they swear. When they don’t feel like smiling, they don’t. Christians, on the other hand, are often driven by this sense of performance, and that is exactly what they become. Performers. Fakes. People with a plastic outer coating. People we have invented ourselves. Yet - we have the gospel! We are a people being molded and shaped by God’s incredible hand of love. Why not just be ourselves and love each other for who we really are, rather than the dummy that we have shaped with our own hands and crawled into? We, of all people, should be the most honest for who we really are, for we have the most grace and the most wonderful God who is forming us into His very image.

I walk along the cracked sidewalk, the dull sound of my shoes hitting pavement and the ryhthm of my body the only safe and familiar thing to me. The laughs of the group of boys using one of their playmates as a push-toy all have a downward note, a spiral of sadness that lingers long after I have continued on my way. I shiver in the gray air, hugging my coat around me, eyeing the drooping leftover Christmas decorations, the dirty red bows, the shredded tinsel.

I’ve seen the old man at the post office before, his wheelchair parked near the entrance. We have a sort of kinship, this man and I, dispite drastic differences in ages, color of skin, and physical capabilities. He is one of the few people I cannot resist giving my paltry dollars to, so I cross the street before I come to him, suddenly aware of a few more homeless people on the street who will follow me like so many stray cats and of the cigarette in his mouth which would soon be joined by more companions - bought with my hard-earned money.

And why not? I wonder. Why not just live like you feel like living, stealing and begging a few dollars here and there. Why not fill your lungs with the residues that will eventually destroy the inner lining of your lungs and eat their way into your cells? Why not party and drink and hang out at corner stores if you feel like it? Why not watch girls and try to flatter and talk to them as this next guy is doing to me?

Why not?

Tell me this: If I have evolved from scum and am only going to be here for a few years before my eventual decay and death (once again scum), if I do not have to think of anyone but myself, if I am worth it, as the media tells me, why, oh why should I conform to the rules? If there is no order to this world, no destiny, no meaningful beginning - if all is a result of random chance, why should I not live by any random chance thought that passes through my mind and heart? If there are natural consequenses, that just proves that there is some order in the world - and there is always an easy out. Death must be more friendly than life.

An empty candy wrapper rattles down the sidewalk.

The empty shell of things once sweet.

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There is something so fiercely, stubbornly courageous about these people, I realize. I mean, do the math - what is more scary to you - believing that there is no one controlling this mess, that there is no hope other than to have as much “love”, drugs, drink, smokes, food, and sex before you expire and pass into non-existence, or believing that there is order, purpose, meaning in everything and that there is a wise, just, and loving being who carefully fashioned this world and every living person and will continue to care for you and bring you to perfection and eternal life? What brings you the most fear - the expectation of passing into oblivion after a tragic and painful end , or the knowledge of living in perfect joy forever?

What is it about us? What is it that makes us so incredibly intentionally blind? Why is it that, when all is said and done, we all choose the candy wrapper?

So that this strength could be shown weak. So that His weakness could be shown strong. So that in our weakness, He could give us His strength.

~   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   ~

“His grace is sufficient. His strength is made perfect - where? In weakness.

Your weakness will not keep you from being effective if you believe the gospel. Your delusions of strength will.”

- Paul Tripp

Ralph is his name. He is a mouse, a very small mouse to have such large ears. And a very smart one to escape Geoff’s wrath. Geoff and the mouse are at war. Actually, let me rephrase that: Geoff is at war against a mouse.

Susan and I suggest that Geoff make friends with the mouse. We reminisce over Beatrix Potter and the Mouse on the Motorcycle and talk about cozy mouse homes in the wall. We try to persuade Geoff that by making your greatest enemy your friend, you will at least have won the battle for your sanity. Unfortunately, the male species speaks a different language.

At around 8:00 every night, the mouse makes his appearance. The first nibble, the first skittering noise across the kitchen floor and Geoff is zoned in, every muscle tensed, eyes intensely focused on the spot of the activity. Shoe in hand, he peeks into the kitchen and stands there, waiting. Then - the shoe goes flying across the room. The mouse stands up, looks Goeff in the eye, and meanders off under the stove. The words, “Hey man, nice try, but ya gotta work on that aim!” could not be louder if he spoke. Geoff sighs, puts a few more sticky pads in suspicious areas, resets a few traps, and goes back to the living room. Only to have the entire thing repeated in a few different ways over the evening. And to eyewitness the mouse calmly running over the pads and eating right beside the trap.

Unfortunately for the mouse, everyone loves Geoff more than Ralph. His pain often becomes our pain, and when Susan wakes up in the morning to find she has shared her loaves of bread with a dirty, germy little rodent, her pain also becomes his. So . . . often we get dragged into this battle as well. Ask me for the story of how I almost outsmarted the mouse another time. Yes . . . almost. If Geoff hadn’t come home at the time he did, that mouse would have been a prisoner under a paint tray. As I said, a story for another day.

So, let me ask you: how do you catch a mouse who thinks sticky pads are dance floors and traps are jokes of the past?

. . .there was a big apple tree. She was very beautiful and grew many delicious apples. The tree deeply loved a little boy, who often came to visit her. The tree let the little boy climb her sturdy trunk and swing in her branches. She shaded him as he slept beneath her, listened to him when he needed to talk, played with him when he felt like playing. She fed him with her luscious apples. The tree was very happy.

As time went on, the boy came to see her less and less. Finally he stopped coming altogether.

One day, the boy came back. The tree was very happy to see him and said joyfully, “Come! Come and play in my branches! Come and climb my trunk and eat my beautiful apples! Come and talk and-” But the boy said, “I am too old to play now. I need money. Being an adult is expensive.” The tree was sad to hear this, but said graciously, “Pick all my apples and sell them at the market. Then you will have the money to buy many things.” So that is what the boy did.

Years passed. Finally, the boy came once again to see the tree. The tree was very happy to see him and said gently, “Come! Come and play in my branches! Come and climb my trunk and eat my beautiful apples-” But the boy said, “I do not play anymore. I want to get married, but I do not have a house to live in.” The apple tree said kindly, “Cut off all my branches. Then you will have all the wood you need to build a good house.” So that is what the boy did.

Many more years passed. The boy came to see the tree again. The tree was very happy to see him and said quietly, “Come! Come and climb my trunk! I no longer have branches for you to climb, or apples for you to eat, but-” But the boy said, “I am too stiff to climb trunks now. I just want to build a boat and sail away from the sadness in my life. I need a holiday.” So the apple tree said, “Cut down my trunk. That will give you the wood you need to build a boat.” That is what the boy did.

The tree was now a stump, but sat contentedly in the forest, until, a few years later, the boy came once again to visit her. He walked very slowly. The tree was very happy to see him and wispered, “I no longer have branches for you to swing in, or apples for you to eat, or even a trunk for you to climb-” But the boy said wearily, “I no longer have teeth to eat apples with. My limbs are very stiff. I am very, very tired, and only need a place to rest.” The tree said happily,”A stump is the perfect place to rest.” So that is what the boy did.

When you think you have given all you can- think again.