The Earth Will Be Filled

Over the past week, I've been meditating on a verse from the Old Testament book of Habakkuk which offers a promise. An amazing promise. It's a promise to consider when we're especially world-weary and discouraged, a promise to cling to when everything feels profoundly broken and desperate. 

Habakkuk 2:14 states this: For the earth will be filled with the knowledge of the glory of the Lord as the waters cover the sea.  

Just think: one day the earth will be filled with the knowledge of the glory of the Lord. Even when people rail against the Lord, even when wickedness seems to prevail, even when foundations are shaken and the world calls what is right wrong and what is wrong right, even when our hearts break, we who have put our hope in Jesus Christ know that He is faithful. He is good. He is kind and patient, not wanting any to perish but for all to come to repentance. His ultimate desire, put in motion the moment when sin separated God and man, was to fulfill the world's greatest rescue mission where He died in our places so we would not have to live without Him.  

It's an exchange that makes no sense, yet it's the foundation of the Gospel: Christ died once for all, then He rose again, conquering sin and the grave. When we accept this, and when we confess with our mouths that Jesus is Lord and believe in our hearts that God raised him from the dead, we are saved. He took our sin, and we receive His righteousness. We are forgiven.

We can choose to believe Jesus, and our lives — and our eternity — will never be the same. 

One day, the earth will be absolutely filled with this knowledge as waters cover the sea. Everyone will see the Lord as He is. They all will know, and every knee will bow.

So Long, Summer

This summer rolled out in phases. First came my teaching phase, which nipped at the heels of the spring semester, when I taught two classes over an expedited six-week summer semester. I survived this phase, but already have little recollection of it. Next came the visiting phase, when my parents came north to escape their Florida heat and spend time with us in central Pennsylvania. This was followed by the phase of planning our annual neighborhood garage sale, then a phase of intensive yard work when we mulched and trimmed bushes and repaired our old fence. Most recently was the phase when I prepared for the fall semester.

Given that today was the first day of classes at the university and the local high school starts tomorrow, we safely can say so long to summer. It was a good ride. In the midst sunshine and sunscreen, humidity and the background song of cicadas, our kids had summer adventures of their own: a first internship in Pittsburgh for our oldest daughter, a school choir trip to Italy for our middle, and a week at Young Life Camp for our youngest. Everyone, it seemed, was doing something.

My something was taking a late July trip to Maine to visit my dear friend. While only five days, including the days devoted to driving there and back, it undoubtedly was the most memorable phase of summer.

Maine is worth the hype. So is spending time with a good friend. So this trip, which combined a long-awaited reunion and the beauty of Maine, already was destined for greatness in my mind before it came to pass. My friend asked if I would want to visit the coastal of town of Camden and take a scooter ride. I said I did.

Then, I realized that I had misunderstood her -- she had proposed we take a schooner ride, which is even better than a scooter ride. Mind you, I was entirely down for scootering around Camden, but sailing for two hours on the Penobscot Bay in a gorgeous schooner was phenomenal.

When we docked, I felt vastly better about life. Such is the power of sailing, I suppose.

We toured the University of Maine campus where she works. We strolled the otherworldly Orono bog boardwalk. We visited quaint shops and tasted homemade Maine maple syrup. We enjoyed skipping rocks, even if mostly unsuccessful in our attempts, and eating ice cream at Bar Harbor. We capped off our time by exploring Acadia National Park, which might be one of the most beautiful locations I've ever laid eyes on. While overlooking the ocean from a bluff, I was surprised to discover tears in my eyes, not from sadness, but simply due to an overwhelm of awe.

So now, as I officially say so long to summer and hello to fall, which is beautiful in its own right, I take this moment to reflect on the main event of summer: a truly special time in Maine.

56 Hours By Myself in My House

Last week while I was teaching the final week of my summer classes, most of my family was on vacation. Kramer Family Beach Week has been going on with my husband's side of the family forever, or at least it seems like forever because it started when our kids were babies. I've been to every one of these trips — if not for the whole week, then at least for a day or two — with the exception of this year. The semester's end simply didn't line up. Our middle child couldn't attend Beach Week, either, because she had a school choir trip overlapping later in the week, so being home also meant that I could send her off well. 

I hugged and dropped her off at the school early Thursday morning. The rest of the family would be returning from the beach on Saturday afternoon. In between, I had roughly 56 hours (minus the hours when I was on campus teaching) in my own house, by myself. 

Do I remember the last time when I had 56 hours by myself in my house? No, I do not. This is because I haven't had 56 hours at home by myself for 20 years. It felt perfectly natural and entirely unnatural all at once.

It was so quiet. It was so clean. I cannot overstate this last point: IT WAS SO CLEAN. For 56 hours everything was in its place, and nothing was out of place, and if something was out of place it's because I was the one who had been using it; therefore, everything's whereabouts still made perfect sense to me. 

Mealtimes were a breeze. I was in 100% agreement with myself at all times about what to eat and when to eat it. Did I cook? No, I foraged through the refrigerator and assembled meals: 7 baby carrots and hummus, a slice or two of chicken lunch meat, a piece of cheese, some blueberries, a pickle. (I've done this with kids home too, of course, but then I call it charcuterie to convince them it's something intentional.)

When I finished my grading each day — it was, frankly, a bit of a bummer to be actively employed while living out my Home Alone fantasies — I'd shower, get ready for bed, then watch TV. What did I watch? Doesn't matter. What matters is that I held the remote control. Apparently, I don't do this often, because I barely knew how to work the thing. Input HDMI 1? Sure, that sounds fine.

Sometimes I wandered room to room, looking over the house as if it were a vast empire. I played my music loudly. The computer chair remained pushed in when not in use. No shoes were piled at the garage door. No kids turned on the shower right was I was headed upstairs to take a shower. Space and time — two currencies that often seem in short supply — felt abundant.

On Saturday afternoon, I sat at the dining room table with my laptop, plugging in final grades for my two classes. It's the culmination of any semester to hit "submit" on final grades, especially during this expedited summer session that aggressively crams 15 weeks into 6 weeks, with those 6 weeks starting when you're still tired after the regular academic year. 

I saw the "grades submitted" popup flash in the upper right hand corner of my screen. It is finished, I thought, as I tapped my papers into a neat pile to file away. Mid-paper-organizing, a mere 30 seconds after hitting "submit" and before I could even take a deep breath, I heard a sound that I had grown unaccustomed to hearing in just 56 hours.

It was the garage door opener. The beachgoers were back from the beach.

So much came through the door at once: people, voices, bags, a suitcase, a Sam's Club-sized box of leftover individually packaged assorted Sun Chips, beach towels that somehow were still damp, leftover sunscreen sprays and bottles, a stack of napkins from a fast food joint from the ride home. I walked down the hallway and tripped over shoes that hadn't been there a minute ago. 

All back to normal.

He Meets Us in the Basement

I once had a particularly rough semester in college. A few close high school friends who attended different colleges up and down the East coast and Midwest were having particularly rough semesters, too. I can't recall the particulars of our struggles, whether they were over boys and breakups, or managing classes and part-time jobs, but I do remember one friend's comment in a group email:

Collectively it seems that we are not having a mountaintop experience right now.

Roger, that. 

This "currently not on a mountaintop" status happens to be true for myself and some friends right now. The particulars are weightier, though. There's a cancer diagnosis, kids who have gone off the rails, job struggles, a loved one battling an addiction. There's sleepless nights, heart palpitations, a bout of depression. We still do the things that need to be done — work, laundry, putting dinner on the table — but, in our own ways, we're all struggling.  

I told my dearest friend that I might be having a midlife crisis. She texted back, "Did you buy a Harley?"

I haven't. But I have contemplated quitting my job, buying a farm, and raising chickens, so there's that.

With this as the backdrop of my current mental state, let me dial you into a day last week when I was especially low, the kind of low when you vaguely discern in your mind's eye that you're not your best self, but not only do you lack the ability to pull yourself up, you can't discern which way is up, as if you were rolled by a wave in the ocean and, disoriented, you're sinking deeper underwater instead of rising to the surface. The kind of low when you're wounded and feel misunderstood, when your mistakes and flaws seem like the sum tally of who you are, when hope has turned to dust. 

That day I had cried myself dry while sitting in my parked car in the garage, away from family. After wiping my eyes and checking my face, I went inside and saw a small package addressed to me alongside the day's mail that my husband had set on the counter. It was from a sweet friend who lives hundreds of miles away, a friend I haven't talked to in months. Inside was an artwork print and a handwritten note.

Her note read:

This flower is an anemone. It grows on the banks on the Sea of Galilee. It was drawn by someone in our church and given to mothers on Mother's Day to remind us of El Roi, the God who sees me. Robin, may you feel God's presence and know El Roi sees you. He sees you in your ups and downs of daily life. He sees your faithfulness in the mundane. He sees the things weighing heavy on your heart. He sees the tears you cry behind closed doors. He sees your victories and defeats. He sees all of you. May you be reminded of His good deeds from the past so that you can continue to have hope in the future.

I'm surprised I had tears left, yet new ones formed in my eyes.

If you're not familiar with the reference, the name El Roi appears in Genesis 16 when a woman named Hagar encountered God at her lowest point. After being mistreated and running away, Hagar was found by God near a spring in the desert and given direction. We're told later in the chapter that Hagar gave this name to the Lord who spoke to her: "You are the God who sees me. I have now seen the One who sees me."

When I think of the billions of people who have walked this earth, from antiquity to now, my mind can't fathom the weight of all our stories. How many tears have been shed on this earth? How many times has a person found themselves in a desert of the soul, mistreated and running away? How many have grappled with bitter disappointments when their lives have included chapters of unimaginable heartbreak? How many have looked over wreckage and wondered if it could ever be redeemed? This life is hard.

But El Roi. But God sees. But God sees me.

God saw it fit to prompt someone to mail a package two or three weeks after Mother's Day so it would arrive at the exact moment when her far-away friend, the friend who just had been hiding and crying in her car in the garage, needed a reminder that her life was not beyond the notice of God.

His arm is not too short to reach me. His hand is not too weak to steady me. His power is not too limited to save. His goodness has not dried up. I belong to a God who meets me in the basement. This is a God who walks me through the valley of the shadow of death. I type these truths not necessarily because I currently feel them, but because I need to remind myself of them.

If you are part of the collective group of people who currently are not living mountaintop experiences, you're not alone in the valley. The Lord will meet us in the basement. He sees us exactly where we are.

Artwork by Emily Morgan Brown