Now and Forever

Just before America began closing up shop, our youngest son and I took a little spring break road trip to the Grand Canyon, during which he suggested we buy a 1,000-piece puzzle of the expanse. Imagine! Even while our eyes grew accustomed to the nuances necessary to distinguish the slight color variants and particular quirks in size, we found ourselves continually surprised by where the piece in hand wound up finding its place. The picture remained indistinguishable until nearly complete and impossible to predict. It was a quiet activity for weeks of muffled life; lots of wordless conversations consisting of ooh and mmm. It felt very much like a metaphor for life at this moment.

Now it seems like it’s been forever.

There are surely some strange sights to behold these days. A few eye-catchers that come to mind include kids trudging into work at 8:30 a.m. on the heels of their parents rather than heading off for a day in the third grade. Small people push lawn mowers, handles at eye-level, at 2:00 in the afternoon. Our kids are watching us right now, more closely than ever. All of these kids. They’re our kids, all of them. Back in January, one young senior from our family-village made an ironic comment regarding time’s slow pass. It was the first week of her final semester of high school, and she said, “By Thursday it should have been spring break!” In no way could she have fathomed the halt we would all face when turning spring break’s calendar page, and the ways it would seemingly both speed and halt the season.

It has been 40 days today.

Forty days since my husband began his quarantine following New York travel.

There’s certainly biblical significance to the span of 40 days. It seems to be a significant time marker for earth dwellers. Interesting how COVID-19 overlapped the 40-day Lenten season, a season for prayer, an interface with our dust compositions and human limitations. “I don’t do great things and I can’t do miracles” (Ps. 131).

Noah experienced a wet six weeks. I wonder what his prayers were like. Nobody knew 40 soggy days could leave a guy feeling so spiritually dry. Or did he feel drawn in by the Lord, sheltered and refreshed by God and more intimately synced with his homies?

Jesus spent 40 dry, hungry days in God’s desert workshop, living the raw demands of a body and the temptations of a human mind. Moment by moment he chose reliance on his heavenly Father rather than a return to the comforts of heaven all too soon. He prayed and paradoxically was strengthened during this appointment, but…

…it had to have seemed like forever.

So what do we do when now feels like forever? What note can we take? We number these days, knowing the significance they hold that we cannot yet see. Or we feel time cut short during this brush with death. We deal with ourselves. There’s no way around it, and it’s messy. We posture our hearts and bow our heads in submission to the work of prayer and a holy realignment, however long it takes.

Our real fears are justified, but ultimately unease cannot rule the day. This plague is a vortex for anxiety, tempting us to stick on the spin cycle, becoming a contagion all its own. To this we say no, and from the decoy of control we shift our gaze. We full-face focus on the One who holds time’s key, and we become beacons, shining light for those around still searching.

Scripture speaks to now and forever many times over. “The Lord will guard you as you come and go, both now and forever” (Ps. 121:8).

“The Lord surrounds his people now and forever” (Ps. 125:2). God promises his Spirit to us. The Lord remains king.

Our call is to hope and our hope is in him, now and forever (Ps. 131:3).

We hope and become renegade grace dispensaries bordering the land of God’s promise.

In this world, in this global moment of watching and being watched, we listen past the news because we have learned through experience that the now and forever promises of the Spirit take us straight into the heart of God. There we experience the grieving groans of creation, each loss a timber in the forest fire fueling restoration.

We can’t see where this is going and we want to so badly so we can be ready for it. Our work is distant at best, absent in many cases. So are some of the people we love. At the very least, lots of things that used to be fun are now work. The introverts are thriving, but all of us have to deal with ourselves and our temptations. But we are ready. Closer than our breath is our shepherd whose presence was no greater during that first rain or on the devil’s plain than it is now. We have everything we need.

It feels long.

Yet I am calm and quiet, like a baby with its mother. I am at peace, like a baby with its mother (Ps. 131:2).