Good Friends from the Garden

 “…Then the Lord God said,

‘It is not good for the adam to be alone like this;

I will make for it an equal partner who will rescue this one from loneliness.’

So, from the clay of the ground,

God shaped every animal of the land and every bird of the air,

and brought them to the adam to see what it would call them;

And whatever the adam called every living creature, that was its name. 

So, the adam gave names to all the animals,

and the flying creatures of the sky, and to all the wild creatures of the field, 

but the adam could not find another being like itself,

there was no power the Lord God thought suitable for the adam

It still was not good, not complete. 

So, the Lord God caused a deep sleep to fall upon this one

Who still stood alone in the garden…”

(Genesis 2:18-21 paraphrased)

This has to be one of the most overlooked scenes in the drama of the Creation stories!  At least when kid’s hear the stories, you can almost see their imaginations bursting out of their little bodies.  You can see the garden getting crowded in their eyes while all sorts of fury friends join the party.  As this human wanders the garden, animals are brought in and each one get’s its own special name.  It’s like the most enchanting petting zoo ever!  I love the old Creation stories from the Hebrew Bible.  But, somehow the full version of this little part of the story often get’s left out.  When I was younger, someone failed to let my imagination run as far as God intended.  So, I’ll make up for it now. 

The writer, director and main character all in one unfold the drama like a potter at play with his clay, “The Lord God formed the adam from the adamah and breathed into it the breath of life; then the adam became a living being.” (2:7)  This living creature was different from all the other living things in the garden. It was filled and animated by the same Spirit that hovered over the primordial chaos from before.  But this one from the dust, even with the source of life itself in it, was alone.  The project of Creation approaches its climax in this one, but humanity and all of Creation is incomplete until the clearest reflection of the image of God is seen in two standing face to face…together.  God, who is communal love, knows the work of creation must continue until there are two.  They were to be male and female, both created in the image of God, each held together so intimately they could not help but celebrate with the One who brought them to one another.  Yet, before the house lights came on and everything that is in the heavens and on the earth erupts with wonder and praise, there was a serious snag in the process.

The story seems to show God in great distress when it’s clear that for the first time in the whole creative process, something is “not good.”  So, in some moment of creative panic or purpose, God makes all the animals and brings them to this almost human hoping it would find the companion God intended all along. 

What was this?  Did God run out of colors to use in this great cosmic painting? Was God seriously improvising, fashioning one animal after the next trial and error style?  These creatures were among those the adam would care for and have dominion over.  What game was God playing here?  Surely, no suitable partner could be found among these.  This is more than a snag in the story. This seems like a Creation experiment fail on God’s part!  I mean how many tries does it take God to get it right?

Evidently even God needs second chances. Or maybe God knows true love requires such a great search on our part that it must ultimately be sustained and fulfilled by God’s boundless grace in presenting us with an other so similarly unique no one else and nothing else could compare.  I find new peace as I trust God is still at work creating in a process that once seemed to end in failure.

Still, my imagination leads me to wonder if this lesser told portion of the story should really be interpreted as failure. Perhaps, the real end was fulfilled through this part of the drama.  We were meant to find ourselves in a multidimensional relationship with our planet and all the living things that are a part of it, just as we are in relationship to God, ourselves and others.    In the story that plays in my imagination, this part of the creation experiment awakens us to the great joy and responsibility seen in our deep relationship to other creatures. 

Meet Cleo, my eleven month old dog.  I’ve had other dogs before and I miss them dearly, but Cleo has been a delight.  Cleo’s a Vizsla (vee-sh-la).  Among other qualities, they’re known for their unending energy, loyalty and drive to hunt along side their companions.  Cleo is no exception.  When I found Cleo, I knew she’d stretch me with her desire for action and need for purpose in life.  Yet, I could not have imagined how close she and I would become this early in life. 

When she turned five months old, I discovered Cleo had osteosarcoma, or bone cancer.  The news came like one more cheap shot blow from life.  Given how incredibly rare it is for a puppy to have this cancer, I couldn’t help but wonder if everything I touched in life would be destroyed.  I chose the no treatment route and decided we’d try to make the most of her six month life expectancy while she was still strong. 

Meet Cleo, my eleven month old cancer dog.  It’s amazing how even less sophisticated animals seem to find a way to survive.  Today, you’d hardly be able to tell she’s been diagnosed with cancer.  She hasn’t lost a step yet. I’ve learned so much in my relationship with her.  I’m sure other pet owners can relate, but I think God loves to love us through friends like Cleo. 

For the most part, Cleo lives in the moment.  While I struggle and worry over the past or future, Cleo reminds me my best energy is spent in discovering what the present could be like.  When I’ve been tempted to lay down in the most hopeless realities of life, she has a way of lying down with me, but is quick to search for a new and worthy reason to get up and move.  When I’ve grown weary on the trail, Cleo sprints ahead like life depends on it; yet only far enough to where she can still hear or see me.  It’s not long before she runs back to pull me forward as if I must see what’s ahead.  Along side Cleo, strangers on the trail become friends and you learn to trust the pack as family.  All the while, Cleo’s learning to follow as I learn to lead more intently.

I can hear some say, “Well Mark, this sounds nice; cute really. But you realize, you’re just finding symbols and insight into life from an animal that is so much simpler, primal and driven by instinct compared to another human being.”  Hear me say, “Exactly! Isn’t it beautiful?”  I don’t pretend my relationship with my pet is anything near what I experience in community with other people.  And as much as I love Cleo, I’m sure I will still not know the love imagined in the Creation stories until I’m surprised with one whom God will celebrate in saying, “This is very good.”  In the meantime, however, I’m profoundly thankful for the contagious energy and adventurous spirit I share with one of those animals I imagine was brought into the garden to join the community. 

Time Travel Orientation (Part 2)

I like walks.  Walks to nowhere are nice, but I especially enjoy walks to places.  I might actually like places more than walks.  So many of my walks have successfully carried me away from something to someplace where I could sort through some things.  I particularly like places that allow me to escape from things so I don’t have to worry about the walk back to the things.  When I’m feeling courageous enough, however, I will travel back to the places I used to walk away from in order to invite the possibility of seeing the old place become like new. 

Whenever we’re fortunate enough to find or return to someplace like that, we might be met with the gift of new potential.  We may be faced with possibility for both our perception of the memorable space and perhaps the space itself to be preserved or transformed.

One of my favorite walks was to my old high school football field in Notus, Idaho.  After loosing it in an argument with my parents one night or reaching some stressful point of no return, I would take the half mile trip to wander around the field in the dark and pray.  My routine visits had this way of assuring me I would find some hope in my current or past situation. But truthfully, the majority of my trips to the field weren’t about dealing with life’s problems. Most of the time I would walk or jog the field, getting intimate with all the areas where I would elude the defenders in my next game and make the game winning the touch down.  I visualized the routes I’d run, the catches I’d make and the memorable plays that would go down in school history as the greatest.  If I could rehearse the moves and visualize my success in advance I would be able to handle any challenge ahead.  This place somehow enabled me to look backward and forward.  Yet, I’m pretty sure I just looked like a lunatic out there, sprinting around in the middle of the night, spinning, jumping, winning imaginary games with my invisible teammates.  I’m so embarrassed just thinking about this now!

Though I usually can’t locate it in the moment, I’ve always held a clear expectation that my sight will be the most fulfilling source of refreshment on life’s journey.  “If only I could reach the top and behold the vastness of the summit, look out and see no end to the sea…then I will find order in my chaos; I will finally see my past pain under a new light.  Then, I might be given the same peace that’s been made visible to me.”  I suppose I’ve depended on my sight for so long, I’ve secretly come to consider it my primary way of interpreting the past and leaning into the future.  Yet, it is usually the fog, the necessity of realizing the limits of my senses, that the Spirit uses to speak on my walks.  It’s usually my chosen way of perceiving the world that blurs my vision.  My plan by which I will treat my old wounds ends up being the obstacle. 

I wonder if the greatest limits to our senses were our own expectations? 

What if the assumptions or expectations providing order in our journey are the very things limiting the senses we need in order to make our way through the storms of suffering?  What if it was true: “Faith is being sure about what we’re hoping for, while still being certain that we can’t see it really happening.” 

One of my favorite authors talks about traveling back in time to find healing from past hurts with a familiar experience.  We wake up in the middle of the night to get a drink of water but must walk through the pitch black house first.  Our eyes are open, straining to make out shapes and shades that could indicate we’re heading in the right direction.  Our hands go up and out ahead of us like extensions of our eyes. We know the way because we’ve traveled it before.  Yet, we’re surprised in the worst possible way when we stub our toe on the table we swear someone must have moved into the path on purpose!  Then, just as we reach the end of the black minefield, we bash our funny bone on a corner that appeared out of no where! Even if we get our drink of water, we conclude it was so not worth the pain.

Still, on the walk back or the next time we find ourselves facing the dark in order to get to a future, we can slowly become aware of where some of the painful memories, comments, rejections and reasons for us to quit are located. We will not be able to bear looking at them all at once, nor could we as they aren’t made entirely visible to us.  In fact, rather than wishing or waiting for all the lights to come on or to see anything at all, we must submit to the reality that there are other means of finding our way. 

But, God knows, walking into darkness doesn’t exactly feel like a productive use of time. I mean God knows, even though one can learn from the past and enter it long enough to trust there’s a future beyond it, if he sticks around in the dark for too long it could end badly.  After listening to some friends tell about moments from their week, my heart ached as I was reminded once again we are not always in control of our time traveling. 

At the most random, inappropriate times, Grief can suddenly transport us back into the hell or bliss of a particular memory.  Something relatively mundane or meaningless somehow has power to send us back to a place so great or horrible we can barely stand it.  Without notice we can be rushed to a panoramic display of memories and experiences all at once; and we are forced to watch it all go down and feel more than we can handle in a lifetime.  Here, Grief is no friend guiding you gently back and forth in time.  There is no Ghost of Christmas standing nearby as a faint companion, offering answers to our questions.  Rewind, fast forward, slow, pause and play are nothing but cruel jokes.  In this time travel, we feel completely alone.  The only thing we’re oriented to is our own scream: “I want off! Get me off of this thing! I’m gonna loose it—stop it—LET ME OFF!”

It’s difficult to know what to say in response to that type of time travel.  There’s no anecdotal advice or formula to stop or avoid the process.  The serious lack of control over it is real.  I can only confess, while this dizzying travel is part of the process, it has not been permanent for me.  Their relationship is a bit ambiguous, but I think Grief has a friend who was out there spinning in time with me.  I’m not sure how, but today I feel known by Him.  She’s never taken anything away, but sustained me through it all.

In all likelihood we will stub our toes on the same things time and time again.  The pain may be no less intense each time.  If you’re anything like me, there may be nothing causing you to stumble and you’ll still manage to trip over yourself.  But, whenever the other’s trespass comes to mind, whenever the pain or numbness sets in at the thought of what’s gone, we are faced with an opportunity.  No one or thing can take it away from us as it presents itself in both pain and pleasure, in sorrow and joy.  The opportunity emerges as we allow our other senses to inform us of where the causes of suffering exist.  It’s found not in our efforts to eliminate the cause but in our search for what potential for life the cause secretly carries behind it.  The next time we approach the once delightful or pain-filled reminder, or it surprises us with it’s appearance, it may be no less frightening or dreadful.  However, we can become familiar enough with the space that we can stand to pass old things on our way without stumbling…as much.  Then, with whatever miniscule bit of faith we can claim, as blind and irrational as it is, we can eventually sense the opportunity and the possibility it births. 

My walks have come with unanticipated and unpleasant realizations.  I’ve been surprised as they’ve taken me to more mysterious places than vistas with crystal clear answers.  So, there’s probably no coincidence nearly all my newfound reasons for life and a future have come as I face my limits for what they are.  In ways I least expect it, the Spirit is gracing me enough to reach places where I stop expecting things from life and start accepting new responsibility to it.  Today, my hope is to find others to walk with along the way. 

Time Travel Orientation (part 1)

It was supposed to be one a excursion ordained to reset my inner self.  A challenging trip that would stretch my mind and body enough to remind my spirit it was indeed still alive.  Something was calling me forward, empowering me to respond to my trials with new hope.  As I set out, ready to seize each refreshing moment as my own, only one response came rushing from deep within my heart toward my lips—“%$!&}! *!;$%#!” plus other related swear words!

I had carved out vacation time, chose my destinations, and made plans to allow plenty of time for some restful wandering.  I was sure a vacation like this would remedy my chronic weariness from the year past.  I decided to go on three day trip along the coast to hike portions of the Oregon Coast Trail, stopping to enjoy however many beaches, lookouts and Lighthouses seemed right.  I was so certain my mini expeditions would provide those healing moments I so desperately needed.  The breathtaking panoramic views awaiting me would somehow help me to see beyond my grief.  So, when the clouds refused to lift and the fog thickened I threw an embarrassing internal temper tantrum! 

Maybe it was because I was still recovering from two demoralizing ventures from months earlier.  The elation after reaching the summit of Mt. Hood the year prior had faded, so I decided to take some friends up for another attempt. While I knew one is always at the mercy of the mountain on a climb like Hood, I simply refused to accept the possibility of having to turn back.  I needed to summit.  I needed to behold the vista that would somehow remind me how worth my journey through pain and grief would be.  At the summit I thought I would receive the reason for me to continue, trusting its truth in spite of the suffering it might require.  At the start, I felt energized.  It was a dark and beautiful night to be with the mountain.  But with each step up, the snow grew softer and deeper.  The wind whipped her icy defiance more fiercely as we surged upward.  Before we knew it, an otherwise clear night gave birth to an unruly flurry and her blinding fog promised to end our attempt.  This happened twice.  The fog ruined two great attempts, which made this coast trip even more important.

On my first morning, Cleo and I began a hike through the coastal wilderness to greet the day at an old lighthouse. The lighthouse stood tall atop some of Oregon’s highest cliffs along the coast.  I awoke feeling invincible. I quickly packed up camp, called for Cleo and headed out. It was warm and sunny.  The day and the trail was ours! 

While nothing kept Cleo from sprinting up the hills and swerving around muddy switch backs, my pace slowed with every mile.  My disappointment increased with the elevation as the warm sunlight was suddenly muted by clouds and a blanket of fog was dropped over the wilderness.  This was no usual morning haze.  Towering trees standing just yards ahead appeared unexpectedly from within the fog like the forest’s magic tricks.  Just beyond them—only white nothingness.  I kept walking so as to keep up with Cleo, hoping she would avoid a dangerous turn and pause at my call.  At times I’d reach the crest of a hill and be drawn to a look out point off the trail.  I could hear the waves coming to shore beyond and below, but could see nothing. As I continued, the trees dropped the prior night’s dew and I looked up, but couldn’t even see the branches showering me from above.  It was as if I was in a dream world.  My vision was but a sensory tease offered by the fog.  But, I slowly pushed forward and finally made it to the top where it seemed to be more clear.

The weathered lighthouse dominated the cliff side.  It an was interesting sight, but I’d come this far to see what it could see!  We bounced off the trail toward the edge.  I peered over the rail eager to see the tide crashing into the rocks below, to find seagulls and other shorebirds gathering for breakfast, to be comforted by Creation’s wonder; but I was still stuck in this foggy dream world. The water and rocks were no where to be found.  At first, the ocean’s roar below seemed real enough, but the fog soon enveloped my senses.  I stared numbly into the frosty abyss. Everything went silent and faded to white as though nature’s symphony wasn’t worth finishing and the artist gave up on his painting half way through. 

Then, like a violent clap of thunder or cannons firing beneath me, the waves crashed into the rocks below with such tenacity my trance was broken. Yet, the sudden sound was still only enough to remind me of how little I could see.  I sat for a while on the ground feeling defeated, watching tourists experience the disappointment I could have announced to them in advance.  Score another one for the fog.           

I lied to a first time Oregon traveler at the lighthouse.  I assured him the fog would lift as afternoon approached; and it may have for him.  All I know is it followed me for the rest of my trip.  Up and down highway 101, multiple days, this fog ruined each stop.  Every beach, every view point was overtaken by it.  My temper tantrum turned into solid resentment. 

I had prayed hours before, wholeheartedly pleading for God to speak and move in my time of solitude.  How could this trip end up being one more symbol of my weariness, my failing, flailing way forward in life.  Was this some kind of joke?  Where is God?  At least tell me where am I? 

I’d chalk it all up to bad luck if the fog and I didn’t have such history together.  If you’ve ever experienced a profound loss and you’ve managed to get up the morning after and somehow the next days after that, you know it too. It’s what you feel when someone genuinely wants to know how you’re doing and you take a genuine moment for self reflection to answer because you desperately need someone to know how you really are, but you can’t see your reflection—only fog.  You can feel the past as though it is still happening, but it’s still a fog.  Fog in the present and certainly nothing but fog ahead of you. 

Now, I had visited the mountain and most of my coast destinations before. I knew the trips well enough to trust in the healing power and presence I’d discovered there in the past.  I thought my life source was there waiting for me, promising the refreshed ability to finally dream about my future.  Ironically, it was actually my past I most desired to change on these hikes. 

Of course, one cannot change actual events already transpired.  But, I believe in our mysterious ability, perhaps responsibility, to change the way we experience our past.  In doing so, we revisit the people, places, even specific circumstances that have been most painful.  We face memories that have exercised the most power over us in the present.  Once there, we might begin a slow walk into the fog and consider a gentle work of excavation.  It is a process, a suspicious one at that.  And there is no denying the intensity of this potentially dreadful work.  In fact, it’s often best left alone, because once in the middle of it, we may very well realize the process itself desires to become our sole vocation in life.  Still, if the time is right and you’ve been graced with enough patience and presence to begin, there is usually much past-transformation to be done.  However and wherever we are able to start, the work is best sustained with a certain meekness, a forgiving sense of humor and very little expectation. 

I’d like to think this time travel is something different than claiming the cliché about hindsight being twenty-twenty.  What if what we still don’t see about back then and all of what we still can’t see now is where we must remain for a time in order to continue?  I’m told the fog has a way of lifting eventually.  But, while it’s there and it seems we can’t do anything about it, perhaps the real call is for us to learn to pay attention to ourselves within it.  I wonder if we can eventually change our present experience of the past, finally discover a way to be whole heartedly present in the present, and reclaim our way of being in the future when we finally welcome the reorientation of our senses.  As for me, the reorientation can only continue if I confess once again that I cannot always guide myself through the fog.