In this morning’s Fruit of the Vine, Chuck Orwiler reminds us that “the seeds of spring wait in the cold darkness of winter.” It is cold. The days are short. But silently and invisibly, just beneath the soil’s surface, there are seeds — waiting for the ground to soften, waiting for the rain to come, waiting for a little more warmth — and spring after spring after spring, they emerge. We know they are coming. We know that there’s reason for hope. We know that what we endure today isn’t permanent.
As Chuck writes, “We may be in a winterish season, which sucks us into its darkness. We may have thoughts and behavior of which we are not proud.” But there’s hope because “the God of resurrection is not as easily sidetracked as we are.” God knows what’s coming. God knows what good there is, silently and invisibly waiting just beneath the soil’s surface. That’s why “our dead ends are often God’s beginnings.”
In his reflection on 1 Samuel 1:4-11, Chuck admits that even though “Hannah was a woman of prayer . . . she was embroiled in a rivalry that left more of her humanity showing than she might like. But that is not all. Something deep within her was touched, and she cried out to God with all her heart.”
I think this is the key to the story in 1 Samuel. Hannah admitted her need. She begged God for help. Then there was spring. “We raise our hand to heaven and cry out from the depths of our being,” and God hears us. God listens. God responds.
At the end of this morning’s reflection, Chuck offers this prayer: “O Lord Almighty, if you will only look upon your servant’s misery and remember me.” And God will. Because even “in a winterish season . . . we attend to that which burns within us” while “the seeds of spring wait.”
Someday soon, what has been waiting will emerge, and it will be beautiful.
Eric Muhr
We begin to see
I made a mistake this weekend. I forgot to make sure I’d written and queued a newsletter email for Monday morning. And then, yesterday morning, for the first Monday in a year, there was no Long Story Short. Dan McCracken sent me an email, wondering if I was performing a public response test. I wasn’t. But it was an encouragement to know that what we’re doing at Barclay Press makes a difference and that when we don’t do it, people notice.
In this morning’s Fruit of the Vine, Nancy Thomas makes a suggestion about how we learn to notice over time: “With humility and patience we combine prayer with attention to God’s word, and the Spirit unfolds that word, layer by layer. The unfolding of the word brings light.” That word — “light” — is why I chose the photo in the header of this email.
The week before Christmas, there was heavy fog in the valley floor, so I drove up into the Chehalem Mountains, hoping for a good photo of tree trunks in the mist. I remembered, halfway up to Bald Peak State Scenic Viewpoint, that fog in the valley often means clear skies in the mountains. And when I got to Bald Peak, the setting sun — reflecting off the low-lying clouds — lit up this stand of trees. There was so much light. All day long, I’d been living down on the valley floor, and it was dark. But just before sunset, after a drive up to Bald Peak, I was surrounded by light — blazing light — a completely different world.
Nancy writes that this is what happens when “the Spirit punctuates the Old Testament with assurances of God’s guidance . . . with bright promises of greater guidance available to all God’s people.” In Ezekiel, for instance, “we learn that the same Spirit who will anoint Jesus will also be given to his followers, opening up to them the possibility of receiving revelation from God.”
And there is light. The psalmist asks God in Psalm 119:18 to “open my eyes.” In verse 105, “Your word is a lamp to my feet and a light for my path,” and “the unfolding of your words gives light” in verse 130.
We live on the valley floor. The fog is thick. The day is dark. But up on the mountain, there is clear sky, bright sun, a sea of blazing light. Because “in God’s time, we begin to see. Bright promises, indeed.”
Eric Muhr
On symbols
This morning’s Fruit of the Vine features a reflection from Lucy Anderson, first published in 1988. Lucy passed away in 2013, but her words remain both vibrant and encouraging, especially in today’s short essay, one in which Lucy draws our attention to the symbols of Christmas. Lucy reminds us that our love of Christmas carols is partly because of music’s power as “the symbol of joy. . . . The Christmas tree graces our homes as a beautiful symbol of hope.” The gifts we exchange — “a lovely symbol of love.” Bells remind us of the angels’ promise of “peace on earth,” and the Christmas star offers “a bright symbol of God’s message of forgiveness.”
There’s another symbol here. Just two pages before this morning’s short reflection, there’s a photo of Lucy. She’s smiling, and below her photo is a brief biography. Lucy served at Malone University, Barclay College, George Fox College (now University), the yearly meeting office of Evangelical Friends Church-Eastern Region. She lived in Colombia, Ecuador, the Dominican Republic, Nigeria, Guatemala, Burundi, Kenya. She wrote her life story. And through her words, Lucy remains with us, encouraging us today with a message of hope recorded almost 30 years ago.
I never met Lucy. But when I was just a toddler, her older brother, Roy, came over to my house for lunch and stayed to tune our piano. When I was in grade school, I went to Camp Tilikum, where two of Lucy’s nieces taught me songs and told me stories about Jesus. In college, I often ran into Lucy’s son, Paul. He believed in me. He wanted me to think about graduate school. He always had a word of encouragement. And this last year, I’ve been honored to work closely with Lucy’s daughter, Marva. In her role as clerk of the EFCNA board of Christian Education, Marva has been responsible for helping Barclay Press plan for and move into the future. Marva has been a real source of hope and support for me.
One more thing. Last January, while I was still just days into my new role at Barclay Press, there had been a financial gift — the sale of stock left by the estate of Lucy and her husband, Alvin, that took pressure off of me, giving me a little more time to adjust to the new position and all the unknowns that entailed.
So I’m grateful for Lucy. And for her words this morning.
Lucy offers a prayer at the end of today’s reflection: “Thanks be to God for his unspeakable gift!”
And I am thankful.
Eric Muhr