Walk in My Ways

Always but always there is a litany of praise and thanks in my soul as well as a request,” But what can I do for you, my God?”

Always but always I sense God’s answer, “Walk in My Ways”.

And your ears shall hear a word behind you:
“This is the way; walk in it,”
when you would turn to the right or the left (Isiah 30:21).

Blessings

I am an early riser.

But no sun will peep over the horizon today, yielding God’s paintbrush to decorate first light.  Misty grey clouds envelop my world this morning. Through the window in my study, I watch desultory raindrops lazily plink and plop down in the slow-flowing canal that runs past our house.

Across the water, a forested lot reflects distorted in the dark green wavelets. I ponder on the wildlife that calls it home. Rabbits and lizards, squirrels, probably a few harmless snakes. As well as one or two best avoided. A blue heron stands on the edge, closely watching the crustacean smorgasbord.

I am the only one awake at this hour.  Back in our bedroom slumbers my husband of forty years and two small dogs. My life, my reason for living.

I dwell on this scenario, once again realizing how incredibly favored I am. I am showered daily with blessings beyond belief.

As soon as the weather clears, we will take the dogs for a walk. My husband will branch off at one point for a long walk while I return with the dog that can no longer go that far. We will stop from time to time to socialize, then continue, marveling at nature as I have my morning conversation with God.

What Would Jesus Do?

In my daily life, I try and fashion my actions and speech around “what would Jesus do?” The present climate of hostility, antagonism, and fear in the United States is challenging.

And now and again, something happens to test me. As it did a couple of weeks ago.

We heard the yelling and cussing as we parked the car. Colorful, profane, and inventive curses caused roosting crows to scatter, their strident squawks a dissonant counterpoint.

My face dropped along with my heart. Somewhere south into my sneakers. This spot was special to us – the starting point of our daily walk with the dogs.

Overhead a vast bridge carries traffic on the I-95, the central highway north and south in the United States, and always busy. Especially at night when truckers make use of the diminished commuter traffic.

Below the bridge, there is parking and a few picnic tables. A short walk brings one to the gentle, most of the time, flowing water of the Intra Coastal Waterway. A boater’s paradise that flows north from Boston, Massachusetts, along the Atlantic Seaboard. It skirts the southern tip of Florida to follow the Gulf Coast up to Texas.  Sometimes the waterway is part of a river, sometimes an inlet or bay. In between, man created artificial channels to connect the natural waterways.

But here, where we live, there is a lovely path that meanders close to the water.  It is exposed to the sun in a few places, but the trees form a welcome canopy on a hot day in other areas.

It is a little slice of heaven. The dogs love to explore, chase squirrels as far as their leads will allow, and meet and greet other canines.

I swung my legs out of the car, braced for the full assault on my ears.

An Encounter

She sat at one of the picnic benches, one arm waving and punching the air with each f-bomb that punctuated her sentences. The phone was clutched tight in the other hand. Screaming, yelling, crying, sobbing, hysteria hovering, and waiting.

Along with other early morning walkers and enthusiastic bikers, we gave her a wide berth and kept walking with the dogs.

“I wonder what her problem is,” I said.

“Not your business,” replied my practical spouse.

No, it was not. I am so quick to interfere in the guise of helping. Not realizing I might be sticking my nose in where it is not wanted. It is a family joke that I collect stray dogs and fallen women!

We reached the point where we part ways, and I turned back.

Close to an hour had passed by the time I got to the car.

She was still sitting there. Not yelling or screaming. Just a defeated hunched up little bundle gazing at her phone.

I was already halfway out of the parking lot when something made me stop. I backed up until parallel with her, turned off the car, got out, and walked over.

“Are you okay?” I asked, summing her up in a glance.

Painfully thin, shoulder-length dark blond hair, flipping at the ends, tank top and shorts, flip flops, and a huge shoulder bag. Not young, the late thirties or even early forties. A face that has seen the hard side of life.

Scrupulously clean. Not a whiff of smoke or drink. No jewelry.

A slight hiccup as she tried to control her sobbing.

“I’ve been sitting here since 6.00 o’clock.” A small voice.

I looked at my watch. It was 9.30. So, she had been sitting on this hard bench with nothing to eat or drink and only her misery as company for over three hours. “What happened?” I asked.

The floodgate opened. “My boyfriend threw me out. I don’t know what to do.”

“Where do you live,” I asked.

She pointed.

There is a small mall-like complex across the road with stores and restaurants on the ground floor and apartments on the first floor.

“I can’t go back.” Her voice wavered.

Twenty years ago, I would not have hesitated in bullying her into coming home with me. I would have fed her, told her she could stay with us if she wished, got the whole story, and set about organizing her life.

The much older me is no longer that impulsive. I have learned not everyone appreciates you muscling into their lives.

“Do you have anywhere to go?” I asked

“My former housemate,” she said.

“Call,” I told her. “Ask if you can come, and I will take you.” I passed her a disposable mask. I carry a stack of those in the car.

The friend lived over half an hour away, and there was no way I could keep quiet that long. But there was no need. She started talking the minute we set out.

“I lived with my mom,” she said. “She died a couple of months ago, and we sold the house. But the estate isn’t settled yet. So, I moved in with my boyfriend. I miss my mom.”

She has no money, she misses her mom, and her boyfriend kicked her out.

Lovely.

“Where does he work,” I asked.

“He’s retired.”

“And where do you work?” asked nosy parker me.

It was a bit warbled and confusing, but I think she worked for an Air B&B and got laid off with the pandemic. I decided to stop asking questions and delivered her safely to her friend.

Before we parted, I asked if I could have her phone number to check on her the following day.

She wrote down her full name, the address where she would be staying, and her phone number.

Thanks to Covid-19, I could not hug her. Really tough for a hugger like me! I wished her well, told her I am sending an air hug, and left.

I glanced down at the piece of paper she had left with her information, and a hand clutched my heart.

Her name was Stephanie.  As is the name of my beloved and deceased daughter.

A small act of kindness returned a message of love. Brightening my day.

“Walk in My Ways”

And while God loves more deeply and fully than we will ever understand, we are called to imitate that perfect love and share it with all we encounter, especially those in most need.” (BIS 8/12/2020 – Sarah Rose)

I waited a day, then called. No reply. No surprise there. I left a voice mail and sent a text. I did not get a response to that either.

A little voice told my older, more mature self to leave well alone. She was probably embarrassed, and anything further I chose to do would be meddling in her life.

I wish I could remember where I read the following words. Or maybe it was my own thought.

“Imitating perfect love is not that hard to do.”

Especially when the Holy Spirit is there to nudge you along.