Among the Leaves

My younger brothers are huddled near the window. There’s something new on the windowsill: a terrarium. It’s mostly made of fragile glass, but each pane is framed with strong copper. The rectangular base and triangular lid make it look like a small, transparent house.

               But it’s not the terrarium my brothers are looking at. It’s the Venus flytrap inside. Long spindles of green spill out of a pot of sphagnum moss.  At the end of each spindle is an open mouth lined with jagged teeth.

               “Can I touch it?” Gabriel asks.

               “No, it’ll hurt,” Isaiah says. He looks at me for confirmation.

               “You can’t touch it because that would drain the plant’s energy,” I say. “But it can’t hurt people. Just flies.”

               “Why would a fly ever land on that?” Gabriel asks. “Look at all of those teeth.”

               “The flies don’t land on the teeth,” I say. “Look at the mouth.” I point at the smooth center of one of the traps. It looks soft, almost padded, and it’s just the slightest shade of pink. “Each of those little mouths smells very sweet to flies. They think there’s food nearby, so they land on the trap. When the fly touches the mouth, the jaws close. By the time the fly figures out the smell was a trick, it’s too late.  Those teeth are locked tight, and the fly is trapped.”

               “That’s sneaky,” Isaiah says. “I kind of feel bad for the fly.”

               “I do too,” I say. And I really mean that. On some level, I can identify with the fly.

               Because the flytrap reminds me of sin.

               Sin is dangerous. But it’s also attractive. It draws us in by looking appealing and enjoyable. But the sweet aroma it gives off is only an imitation of goodness. And once we’ve opened ourselves to sin, it grabs hold. The jaws close. And getting free is no easy task.

               I’ve been there before. I’ve also been saved and set free by Christ. I’ve seen the power he has over sin.

               But I don’t want to wait until I’m trapped to recognize sin. I want to see it for what it is from the start.

               “Can we water the plant?” Isaiah’s voice pulls me out of my thoughts.

               “Sure. Let’s go get the watering can,” I say.

               As we leave the room, I look back at the terrarium. The plant inside is draped in an almost lazy fashion.

But I know that there is danger hidden among the leaves.

Toward the Goal

I’m on my Saturday morning run. The air is October cool, and the sun glints through the yellow canopy above me. I started my run in the city, but the buildings are behind me. Now I’m running alongside a lake.

Being out here helps me cope with the emptiness inside of my chest.

I’ve gone through a lot of goodbyes lately.  My parents are selling the home I grew up in. I moved across the state to a city I’m unfamiliar with. My friends from law school are now spread around the country.

That’s why I’m running. Because when I run, for just a moment, I feel like I’m okay.

My phone buzzes. It’s a notification from the running app on my phone. My friend David commented on the warm up I logged a few minutes ago.

David: Why are you running this early?  And on a Saturday? Some wild animal must be chasing you. What are you running from?

He’s joking. But there is truth hidden in that final question.

I am running from something. I’m trying to outrun the emptiness. I’m trying to distance myself from the loneliness that follows me like a shadow.

I’m running because, when my muscles hurt, my heart doesn’t.

I start to slow down. Even here, sadness has found me. And as it overtakes me, so does fatigue. I’ve only made it to the tip of the lake, which means I’m only halfway home.

I round the tip, my head hanging low.

But after I turn the bend, I look up. Off in the distance, I can see my apartment building. Its stacked floors rise far above the tree line. 

I feel a surge of energy. Seeing my goal makes it feel attainable. It gives me hope.

I run toward that goal.

There’s power in running toward something. Running away has reprieves but no end. Whatever is giving chase can always catch up.

But running toward something is different. There is no fear. No looking over shoulders. Only moving in the direction of something good and real and tangible.   

I don’t want to run away from my loneliness anymore. I want to run toward something.

I want to run toward Christ.

I want to trust Him to restore me. To take away the loneliness. I want Him to fill the empty places of my life in the way that only He can.

That goal gives me hope. And that hope gives me the strength to press on.

Thoughts from a Rest Stop

I’m driving home to see my family for the weekend. I left about an hour ago—right after I got off work. It’s been a long week, and I’m feeling it. Each time I blink, it takes me a little longer to open my eyes.

I pass a blue sign. “Rest Area. One Mile.”

I’m torn as to whether I should stop to get a soda from a vending machine. I probably need to get some caffeine pumping through my veins. But I’ve been moving along at a steady clip, and I’d hate to slow myself down with a stop. I can probably make it without stopping if I crank up the radio and . . .

A loud reverberating noise pulls me from my thoughts. Rumble strips. I must have been drifting. The rest stop is just ahead, so I exit the interstate.

I get out of my car and head toward to the welcome center. The automatic doors are almost too slow for my approach. They just barely slide open before I pass through. Once inside, I see a vending machine. I feed it two dollars and punch a faded button. Then I fish out the bottle that drops to the bottom.

This has been a fast stop. I can’t have lost more than five minutes.

When I get back to the parking lot, I set my soda on my car’s roof. I lean down, unlock my door, then stand up to grab the soda.

When I do, I am stunned by what I see beyond the bottle. Past the parking lot, there’s a green and gold field. It gently slopes down and back up again. A tree line frames the field. Some of the trees are verdant green. Others are just barely touched with autumn red. But they are all drenched in the soft light of evening.

Behind me, I can hear the drone of the interstate. But in front of me, the world is quiet and still. And as I gaze out over this scene, the pressure to rush back to the road subsides. This image pulls everything inside of me toward the artist who made it. This sight gives me peace.

I almost drove past this majesty. Traded pastures for the passing lanes. Missed out on the rest that my Father provided for me.

I’m grateful for this moment. I close my car door and twist open my soda. I lean against the car and take a sip.

In a few minutes, I’ll resume my journey. But for a moment, I want to take advantage of this opportunity to rest.

For a moment, I want to be completely surrounded by the peace that only the Lord can provide.

Held Fast

I’m going through family photos, looking for one to fill a new frame for my desk. There are a lot of memories here: Christmases. Birthdays. Everyday life. I pull a stack of pictures out of the box. A stray photo slips out of my hand and drifts to the hardwood floor. It’s upside down, so all I can see is the word “Kodak” printed in light grey. But when I flip it over, I recognize the image immediately. 

My youngest brother, Isaiah, and I are together on a ski lift. I’m grinning, my arm around Isaiah. But Isaiah’s face is pure alarm. His eyes are wide, and his mouth is a perfect O. It was his first ride on a ski lift, and I remember how scared he was. His fingers had gripped my arm. He had huddled close to me as the lift rose and the empty space underneath us grew from inches to yards. I wrapped my arms around him and told him that he was safe.

Looking at this picture, I’m struck by how much I can identify with the way Isaiah felt. There are so many things in my life that I can’t control. And it scares me. There are days where I feel like my feet will never be on solid ground again.

But this photo also reminds me that even when I feel helpless, God is holding me. And I can lean into Him. Grip Him tightly. Ask Him for reassurance.

And He will never let me go.

I set the photo aside and place the rest back in the box.  I found what I’m looking for. This picture will be a reminder on the days I feel helpless: I am secure in the arms of my Heavenly Father.