The Gift of Small Things

The Gift of Small Things

“Who dares despise the day of small things?”

(Zechariah 4:10)

My friends rode bicycles, played basketball, and hung out at the soda fountain. They went to movies, had slumber parties, and roller skated. Playing like kids do during summer vacation, my buddies were having a blast, while I was flat on my back in bed – very sick – for the entire season, watching Batman and Gilligan’s Island and Andy Griffith. In black and white. Ten-years-old, I was not happy about my situation.

A family friend, Aunt Speedy, came to visit me at the beginning of that summer with a big box full of little gifts just for me. But her instructions were clear: I could only open one present a day. The gifts weren’t presents that cost a lot of money, but presents that brought a lot of encouragement. Funny stories, home-made treats, hand-written poems and prayers. Most definitely the “small things” referred to in Zechariah 4:10. Not on the scale of a temple being rebuilt, but definitely on the scale of a life being rebuilt. And certainly helpful to a devastated young girl whose life had been put on hold. Who needed something to look forward to each day.

“Who dares despise the day of small things?” the angel asked the prophet Zechariah, who was faced with a “mighty mountain” of rubble that was once the temple in Jerusalem. Daunted by the massive rebuilding project before them, the people were discouraged. God sent a message: Do not despise these small beginnings” (NLT).

Aunt Speedy wasn’t my aunt; she was that sweet little lady who was everyone’s aunt at our church. But the way she lived her life reminds me today, in the aftermath rubble of Harvey, that helping in small ways matters greatly. Big or little. It’s all the same to God. Even simple words of encouragement.

Hunkering down during Hurricane Harvey

A fly fishing guide in Sedona, Arizona, once told us a story about a flood that battered the area where he lived.

The rain pounded, the wind gusted, the water churned, and the fish hunkered down as the flood ravaged the gorge, the creek, and its banks. But the local fish survived, he told us, because they hunkered down together as the flood waters pummeled the creek.

I took notes while he talked, knowing that God was speaking to me. Hunkering down seemed a good thing to do, especially in a storm.

The people of Houston, Texas, have hunkered down together. Turing off our television sets does not turn off the lingering images of roof-top rescues, nursing home evacuations, and homeless families. For thousands, earthly possessions are lost, future plans are uncertain, yet gratefulness has not been swept away by the storm and hopelessness has not ruled the day. Houston is hunkering down.

One synonym for the verb hunker is kneel. One definition for the verb hunker is to hold stubbornly to a position. To kneel, holding stubbornly to a position. Sounds like prayer to me. Our fishing guide told us that the fish that survived the raging storm swam down deep. Hunkering down, they rode out the storm together. Houston is doing the same.

And not just Houston, either.

“How can we help?” “What can I do?” Our hearts are moved in compassion. And compassion spurs us to action. We want to help.

Hunkering down before the Lord, I’m asking Him one question each day: “What can I do today, Lord, that I normally wouldn’t do?” Help me not to concentrate on what I can’t do, but give me one thing, Lord, just one thing that I can do to help.

Thank you, Lord, for Your Presence, for the desire to help others, and for the gift of hunkering down. In turbulent times, may our faith grow in you and not be swept away by the storms. Amen.  

Worship

Leaving the comfort of our room at the Inn and the warmth of El Tovar’s cozy lobby, my husband and I stepped to the rim of the Grand Canyon and sat on the stone wall, waiting for the sun to rise. It was 5:00 AM, quiet and dark and still.  Few people could be seen. None could be heard. Surrounded by an expectant silence, we waited with a few others for God’s sunlight to manifest itself. Without words, we all knew what was coming.

As the minutes unhurriedly ticked by, words were whispered, but they were reverent, more felt than heard. For those of us who came for the experience of the sunrise, we simply waited, together, expecting to be awed with the wonder of God’s creation.

But as the time for sunrise neared, another group of people raced out to the rim, noisy and loud and disruptive. With only a few minutes to spare, they clutched their phones, preoccupied with the perfect camera shot. Waiting was not an option. “Have we missed it?” they yelled to each other. “Will you bring me some coffee?” they called out.  “It’s cold, isn’t it?” they noisily agreed. Crowding the rim, they blocked the view of those who had been waiting, disturbing the respectful silence.

The gathering along the rim grew crowded and hectic and rowdy.

And when the sun rose over the cliffs, those who had rushed out at the last minute captured their shot and hurried back inside, satisfied with the picture they took that proved they had seen the sunrise at the Grand Canyon.

But they missed the stillness of the wait, the reverence of the moments, the anticipation of what was to come. They missed the experience.

For one group of people, it was a time of wonder; the other group settled for a selfie.

Lord, may I always worship You in the manner you deserve. Amen.

“From the rising of the sun to the place where it sets, the name of the LORD is to be praised”

(Psalm 113:3 NIV).

“The heavens declare the glory of God;

the skies proclaim the work of his hands.

Day after day they pour forth speech;

night after night they reveal knowledge.

They have no speech, they use no words;

no sound is heard from them.

Yet their voice goes out into all the earth,

their words to the ends of the world.

In the heavens God has pitched a tent for the sun.

It is like a bridegroom coming out of his chamber,

like a champion rejoicing to run his course.

It rises at one end of the heavens

and makes its circuit to the other;

nothing is deprived of its warmth”

 (Psalm 19:1-6 NIV).

"A Whole Lot of Nothing!"

Traveling from the Grand Tetons in Wyoming to Mount Rushmore in South Dakota, we chose the quickest route, a 450-mile stretch of highway that didn’t look very interesting on the map, but would save us several hours of driving time. Since we were leaving a stunning mountain range created by God and going to an iconic American symbol carved by man, we didn’t care that this drive wasn’t going to be a scenic one.

When we stopped for snacks and bottles of water at a convenience store along the way, the woman at the counter confirmed our assessment and commented, “Well, you’re headed where there’s just a whole lot of nothing.”

But as we continued to drive, a whole lot of nothing turned into something really awesome! Rocky, red-tinted hills rocketed into a crayon blue sky, splotched with soft white, puffy clouds. Shades of green -- golden and olive and evergreen -- bracketed the muddy river flowing parallel to the gray of the road.

Everything changed to color. Would we have noticed the green grass on the side of the road without the red cliffs? Would we have noticed the muddy-red of the water without the green growth carpeting its banks? Would the sky have seemed so blue without the layered red rocks reaching to touch it? And the white clouds so puffy and bright without the blue sky they hovered in?

We had no choice but to stop and gawk and snap a picture as the color exploded around us. We had driven into a western art museum full of vibrant landscapes, and all that was required of us was to pay attention and clap our hands, expressing our joy and showing our appreciation to the Creator of the World.

And my husband’s comment? “Well, if that’s a whole lot of nothing, I want a whole lot more of it!”

You see, somebody’s whole lot of nothing can be pretty awesome!

 “…the mountains and hills will burst into song before you.”

Isaiah 55:12b

Get on the Bus!

 

Now Nature holds her breath

To see the vital flood of radiance leap

Across the chasm; and crest the farthest rim…

Until the cataract of colour breaks

Upon the blackness of the granite floor.

(Henry Van Dyke, from “The Grand Canyon: Daybreak”)

That first glimpse of the Grand Canyon spun us around and left us dizzy.

Almost drowning in an emotional cascade, we exchanged wide smiles, mirroring respect and shock and amazement at the power of God and the beauty of His creation. Poetry flowing from our hearts, the only appropriate response. And then, standing still, we waited at the edge of Nature’s “flood of radiance” while the sun slowly set, sending shadows marching in every direction and enveloping the rim with silence. We were humbled and awed and stirred.

Even one glimmer of the Grand Canyon is a whole lot of God’s awesomeness, and we just wallowed in it.

And the very next morning, after the sun popped out, unmasking the blues and purples and pinks and reds in an ever-shifting kaleidoscope that magnified the miles of layered, weathered rocky cliffs and tree-dotted slopes, we grabbed our trekking poles, filled our backpacks with water and snacks, and took to the trail along the edge of the Grand Canyon’s south rim. We had been told it was seven miles, and we figured we could handle that distance without wearing ourselves out for the rest of our trip.

Full of anticipation, we began.

Each moment was savored. Each mile was worth it. We oohed and aahed and paused and soaked in as much grandeur as we could stand.

The mile markers reminded us how far we had walked, the sun blazed, and our 60-year-old bodies began to slow down. 

We weren’t worried, though, because a free shuttle bus stopped approximately every mile or so, making it easy to hop on and ride for a while. We knew we could always get on the bus, but we wanted to hike that seven miles without any help. 

With plenty of scenic stops along the path to rest and wallow in it all, we kept trekking. Soon, however, we discovered that the south rim path was twelve miles, not seven. We were doing pretty good, though, so we voted to continue our hike. We didn’t need the bus. And we’d have a story to tell our kids, a tale we began to rehearse as we walked, laughing about the seven miles that turned into twelve. And there was always the bus, waiting at every stop.

We continued to laugh as we walked, retelling the joke about the man who was caught in a flood and prayed for God to save him. Some boats came by and he waved them on. A helicopter flew over, and he waved it on. And then he drowned! And when he met God in heaven, the man asked, “God why did you let me drown? I prayed for You to save me!” And God replied, “I sent the boat! I sent the helicopter!” For crying out loud!

 

God kept sending a bus. We kept choosing to walk. Slowly.

Seven hours later, we reached the end of the path, somewhat dehydrated, completely exhausted, and barely able to walk. 

 

We thought we'd have a better story if we did it our way; God, however, kept sending the bus.

Well, we’ve got a story to tell for sure: Get on the Bus!

When you’re exhausted, get on the bus!

When you need rest, get on the bus!

When you’re thirsty, get on the bus!

You’ll be restored and refreshed and hydrated. And you’ll be ready for the next day! And the story will be even better because God is the one who sends the bus!

I lift up my eyes to the mountains— where does my help come from?
My help comes from the Lord, the Maker of heaven and earth.

(Psalm 121:1-2 NIV).

By the word of the Lord the heavens were made, their starry host by the breath of his mouth.

He gathers the waters of the sea into jars; he puts the deep into storehouses.

Let all the earth fear the Lord; let all the people of the world revere him.

For he spoke, and it came to be; he commanded, and it stood firm.

(Psalm 33:6-9 NIV).