God works things out in the most interesting ways.
For instance, He saw to it that Christmas would be correlated with the winter solstice, the day when light first, almost imperceptibly, begins to increase against the darkness. I mention this often, because it continually amazes me.
God likewise connected the spring equinox with Easter, that glorious celebration of Jesus' victory over darkness. Not only is light increasing, but the spring equinox marks the day when there is more light than darkness in each day.
We can also ponder how Thanksgiving, and other harvest celebrations, happen when light is decreasing the most, when there are more hours of dark in a day than hours of light, and the darkness expands until the winter solstice--the birth of the Messiah--signals the awaited change in light. But in the weeks before the winter solstice, when lack of sunshine symbolically represents our earthly brokenness most clearly, we find ourselves exhorted to give thanks and look forward to when the tide of darkness will begin to turn back.
Of course, these things only apply in the northern hemisphere. Yet, approximately 87% of the world's population lives in the northern hemisphere. Nearly 90%. This is surely worth pondering.
Speaking of the days leading up to the winter solstice, my mother was born at the beginning of November. She turned ninety this year. Ninety years ago, a tiny baby girl was born at the end of a harsh Minnesota autumn, into a world of bare-branched black trees and bitter blowing winds. She was the final hurrah, the ninth of nine in a large, depression-era family, a fragile speck of almost invisible beauty and hope in need of all the warm, worn blankets they could scrounge up for her.
Now she is ninety and can't remember very many things when she tries to recall them, although she remembers quite a lot when she is able to relax and allow the memories to drift into her mind. She is fragile and tiny once again, but very industrious, even though it hurts her back when she gets down on her hands and knees to wipe the floors.
I was there for her birthday, back in the home where I grew up, the one place that has remained the same all these years while I have moved from state to state, selling, donating and discarding so many of the random artifacts that signified my life. When we left New York, I worked as hard as I could to winnow properly, but ran out of time, the net result being that the stuff from the main floor and upstairs were mostly adequately curated, but the boxes from the back of the basement were loaded up and moved as they were, so we ended up with an odd assortment of the things I wanted and valued most, strange objects from a past I could hardly remember, and some legitimate rubbish. When we left Illinois, we had to pay for the move ourselves, so I parted with breathtaking portions of our belongings, including many things I sorely miss when I see them in photos. I can easily slip into grief if I think about it, although of course we have more than enough to meet all our needs, and a number of new things besides.
All this to say that there is a sort of comfort in going back to my parents' home and living amongst the familiar: children's books that Dad read to me when I was a little child, and the Oneida Twin Star silverware, the same pattern that First Baptist kept in their church kitchen. Gold plastic cups my brother brought home from a plastic factory where he worked during college, a painting of penguins I made in 5th grade that has hung ever since on the laundry room wall. The closet in the bedroom where I slept as a teenager contains a row of dresses my mom sewed for me. We used to go to Minnesota Fabrics to pick out a pattern and fabric together, and she made the dresses I wore to church. There they still are, cotton print memories with full skirts. The green shag carpet my parents installed in my early childhood bedroom is still on the floor, more than 50 years later, and it has been vacuumed more than 5,148 times (I used a formula to arrive at that number). I still remember the joyful disbelief I felt when they were willing to install green shag carpet for me, because I had always dreamed of having a floor that looked like grass.
I was nervous about flying to Minnesota by myself, although I wanted to go, and I thought the Lord also wanted me to go. I had a 6 a.m. flight, so we got up in the middle of the night and left our house at 4:00, planning to arrive at the airport by around 4:30 because Shawn always says you don't need to be at the airport two full hours early, regardless of official advice. Usually when we fly, Shawn handles both of our tickets on his phone. When I have flown alone, Shawn has always printed out my boarding pass so I can hold a paper copy. For some reason, this time I told him not to bother printing me a boarding pass, so on the way to the airport, I practiced navigating to my boarding pass on my phone until I felt confident.
We arrived at the airport after having to take a detour to a different exit off I-40, and we navigated through a maze of construction cones in front of the terminal. Shawn heaved my 45 pound suitcase out of the trunk; I gathered myself and my wits together. We said our good-byes, Shawn driving away into the dark pre-morning, and I heading inside to check my bag. I approached the kiosk to print out my luggage tag and, needing my ticket, reached into the pocket on the side of my purse where I keep my phone. It was empty. "What?" I whispered, "Please, God." The pocket was definitely empty. I unzipped my purse to check inside, rummaging through a number of times, soon realizing that no, I did not have my phone. My first instinct was to call Shawn and tell him, but of course I could not do that.
I quickly scanned my surroundings and saw a very normal and kind looking man in line a few feet away from me. "Pardon me, I'm sorry to bother you, but I seem to have left my phone in my husband's car, and he is driving away right now. Do you think I could borrow your phone?" I desperately blurted out.
"Oh, no problem," he said, handing me his phone. I fumbled around and dialed Shawn as quickly as I could. There was no answer. I left a message, telling him, "I don't know when you will get this, but you have my phone." Then I helplessly told the man, "He didn't pick up," irrationally fearing that he would be cross and not allow me to try a second call to my phone.
"Call your phone?" he suggested.
"Yes," I said, "Yes, thank you. I'm sure he'll see it. It will light up." I called my phone, but the call went directly to voicemail. I was stunned.
"It will be okay," the man said, "You can go get in line, and they will print you a paper ticket. And you can have your husband overnight your phone to you with FedEx. You'll get it by tomorrow. It will be okay. Don't worry. We used to fly without our phones all the time, and we were fine."
I thanked him and moved to get into the line. He asked if I was traveling internationally, and I told him no. He pointed at the sign above us and said, "This is the international line." Then he pointed across the way, "You need to go over there." My heart sank as I saw how much longer the domestic flight line was, but I went over and stood in it. The man called after me, "I hope it works out for you!"
Signs all around me repeated the phrase: "Pre-tagged bag drop." All the other people in the line had tags on their bags. The last time I flew with a checked bag, I had approached the counter without a tag on my bag, and the man behind the counter had yelled at me to go back and tag my bag. I stood in line and thought, "Am I going to get yelled at again?" and, "How will I coordinate with my brother-in-law to pick me up at the airport, without my phone?" and, "I wonder when Shawn will realize that he has my phone?" I observed the three different people servicing the counter, noticing that the one on the far right seemed significantly more sympathetic than the other two. I prayed, "God, please let me get the nice one." I felt completely powerless and dependent. I prayed, "Thank you God that I am right here close to home, and if I can't reach Shawn, I can borrow another phone to call and ask David or Ashton to come and get me. I am not stranded in a strange place. Thank you. I thought you wanted me to go to Minnesota for my mom's birthday, but if you don't, that's okay. I won't panic. It will be okay. I do not know what is going to happen, or if I am going to see my parents, but you do, Lord. All I can do is wait and see how you will work this out. I will wait and see what you do."
Then I was at the head of the line, and it was the nice lady on the far right, motioning me to come over. And just then I looked over to the far left, and right outside the queue stood Shawn in his blue-green Under Armour shirt, so tall, with his right hand high in the air waving my phone at me. "I got your message," he called.
I ran over and retrieved my phone from Shawn, and then the nice lady at the counter--she was so kind--helped me tag my bag and get it all squared away.
So it was a miracle, but you have to hear the other side to realize how exquisite a miracle it was.
Shawn, as I said, had driven away into the pre-morning dark. He was uncharacteristically edgy because of the construction and the detour, and he was trying to concentrate on how best to get back on I-40 west. He knew he would need to take a right exit, but there was another car on his right, blocking him from getting into the right lane. He tried to speed up and get ahead of the car, but it matched his speed and sped up, too. So he tried to slow down and pull in behind the car, but when he slowed down, it also slowed down. No matter what he did, it matched his speed and blocked him. He was feeling a building sense of annoyance at this "jerk," when he saw my phone lying on the passenger seat. He thought, "She needs that." And he realized that he must formulate a plan. As he was trying to decide what to do, the car on his right swerved left, and he had to swerve left to avoid it, and this maneuver catapulted him onto the left exit that goes straight into the airport parking garage. So, he continued on into the garage, found a convenient spot to park, and sprinted to the terminal with my phone, hoping he would find me. Which he did.
After I dropped off my bag, Shawn walked with me to the security line. We squeezed hands, talked about how thankful we were (although we didn't have a chance to exchange the details of our stories until later), and exchanged hugs (perhaps also a kiss).
The reason Shawn did not hear either of our phones ring is because we always set our phones to "do not disturb" overnight, and it was 4:40 a.m.
But it was okay. Fear was gone. God had reaffirmed the trip, His presence, His power, and His compassionate mercy. In fact, when Shawn left the parking garage, he'd been there for such a short time, he didn't even have to pay anything!
God is always good, but I am especially grateful when He is good in tender and attentive ways that are easy for me to recognize and appreciate. Miracles make my heart sing.
