Last night, Jesus showed me in 14 minutes what he’s done over the past 14 years of my life.
Because I work from home, I do most of my blog and book writing somewhere other than my house. A month ago, the COVID-19 shutdown took away most of my favorite writing spots—even the outdoor ones. Not wanting my words to suffer from cabin fever, I scrolled through my memory of scenic local drives and remembered a creekside spot where my buddies and I used to start our kayaking trips after a good rain.
Three Sunday afternoons ago, I drove out there, parked my camp chair next to the creek, and banged out two blog posts back-to-back. I listened to some worship music as I watched the sun set over the mountains. Then, I drove home with a heart full of contentment and a windshield full of winding roads.
Over the past few weeks, I returned two or three times with my niece. We walked along horse pasture fences and the creek bank then back near the horses again. After a monster rain a week ago, we marveled at how this serene creek had transformed into a dangerous river. We talked to the horses. We laughed at lot. That little spot and the roads to get there became respites from the freedom and income I’ve lost to our international pandemic.
Last night, I returned with my camp chair and laptop. Instead of settling in my spot, I walked up to the bridge to scope out a different angle on the river and the cloudless sunset. On the shoulder, I noticed a familiar SUV pass me. I waved. I recognized the driver as a friend who leads worship at my church. I kept walking but felt compelled to turn around. When I did, I saw the vehicle now parked on the shoulder, my buddy walking toward me. It was a long, awkward walk for me—a chair in one hand and a laptop in the other.
“Hey, man!” He told me his family owned the land across the river from where I’d been parking my car. He gave me directions to their driveway and to the double track back to the waterfront. He invited me to set up there, to enjoy it.
And I did.
On this far side of the river, the ground came without lumps that challenge a level chair. The grass had been mowed into a lush carpet, and the mountains didn’t hide behind as many trees. No vehicles buzzed close by. Throw in some fireflies, and Disney characters probably would’ve emerged from somewhere.
Back in drivers ed classes, my instructor had a motto: “There are no accidents—only collisions.” I don’t know if that’s true on the road, but I’ve found that to be true with my divine encounters. No accidents, just collisions with sovereignty. God has repeatedly appeared in serendipitous moments to surprise me with a better option. He has confronted my contentment. He has chuckled at me. “That’s a good life, but I came to give you abundant life.”
He doesn’t mean that like a TV preacher. He says that like when we are super excited for someone to open our thoughtful Christmas gift. “You’re going to love this! Open it. Open it.” Almost all of those gifts have required that I empty my hands to receive them. Jesus has pulled toys out of my grip and handed me moments of transcendence. He has redirected my adventure trips toward holy encounters. Where I’ve searched around the planet for Facebook affirmation, he has given me surreal moments that I can best describe as feeling truly known and still welcomed. He has transformed obedience into fulfillment, duty into joy. He has let prideful feats fail in order to make room for influence. He has showed me that blessing typically happens far from Facebook, that Instagram filters don’t improve on his generosity.
My worship-leading friend invited me to return for more writing or even camping—to soak up what Sovereignty planted there. My guess is that he finds joy in sharing such beauty, such a blessing. And I imagine that Jesus feels the same way. He didn’t come to give us a beautiful memory, a magical night, a cool experience. No, came to fill our lifetimes with intersections with his heart.
Don’t expect a flow of rainbows and butterflies. Not indefinitely, anyway. He didn’t promise a fun or easy life, an existence where faith can atrophy. His presence and pleasure have often washed me as tears rinsed my face. I’ve grasped his wisdom and direction through regret. Cathartic mourning has supplanted insufficient escape. I’ve held the gift of his friendship when I’m alone. I’ve felt his pulse—his infinite heartbeat—from a human hand on my shoulder.
When I start to grow ungrateful or when my memory fades, he sends me a new reminder of his goodness. He flashes some serendipity. He shows off his sovereignty. He proves his thoughts are higher, his plans better. He lets me revel on one side of the river and then invites me to the other side.
