Learning to Fly, part 4

There’s another song I learned as a kid. I thought I’d never be able to hear it again. In fact, until this past summer, it had been years and years since my last listening. But late one night this past June, I sat with my father in our cool, quiet basement, straining to hear the feeble sound of our family’s old High-Fi. I heard again the simple child-like melodies of Ken Medema and one of my favorite childhood songs.

It tells the story of Rennis the Nam who goes on a quest to learn how to fly by asking all the Drols of the land. Each one offers a piece of faulty advice, until Rennis the Nam comes to the Drol of Drols (for additional meaning in the story, read all names backwards). As usual, he sings to the Drol of Drols:
“Excuse me sir, my name is Rennis
And I’d like to learn how to fly.”
Except this time, the Drol of Drols doesn’t tell him how he can do it. He tells him he can’t. He says the only way to fly is to climb upon his back, and the Drol of Drols will fly Rennis through the air. It’s not the way Rennis thought it would go down, so he is bitter and reluctant. Finally, he climbs on and he learns what it is to soar.

No one wants to be a slug. No one wants to crawl. No one wants to rely on the assistance of another to be able to fly. But it’s the only way.

Learning to Fly, part 3

“Well I started out down a dirty road
Started out all alone
And the sun went down as I crossed the hill
The town lit up the world got still

I’m learning to fly but I ain’t got wings
Comin’ down is the hardest thing

Well the good old days may not return
And the rocks might melt, and the sea may burn
Well some say life will beat you down
Break your heart, steal your crown

So I started out for God knows where
But I guess I’ll know when I get there

I’m learning to fly around the clouds
But what goes up must come down”

Coming down, bringing oneself low, is the hardest part of flight. It’s impossible to fly on our own.

Learning to Fly, part 2

I sat in a lonely field, listening to my walkman and watching the snow fall. I looked up into the gray sky, thought of the people whom I loved and missed, and longed to be able to run headlong through the field, leap as high as I could, just before I reached the line of trees, and instead of falling back to earth, continue to glide up and up. Up, up and away, you might say.
You might think I was a small child when this happened. Actually, I was a freshman in college at BGSU. You might think that makes me foolish or immature. Guilty as charged, I guess. One of my greatest dreams is to be able to fly. Imagine soaring amongst the clouds, far above the majestic landscape. I think many have that same desire, if not the same dream. People long to soar. We don’t want to be bound to this earth. We desire significance and beauty. Listen to these lyrics.
“I'd rather be a sparrow than a snail.Yes I would.If I could,I surely would.I'd rather be a hammer than a nail.Yes I would.If I only could,I surely would.Away, I'd rather sail awayLike a swan that's here and goneA man gets tied up to the groundHe gives the worldIts saddest sound,Its saddest sound.” (“El Condor Pasa,” Simon and Garfunkel)
But what if all of our conceptions of flight are backward? What if we’re (not) thinking upside down? What if to fly, one must first know how to crawl?

Learning to Fly, part 1

In a conversation with my wife yesterday, I learned that she too was feeling the need to have “her own thing,” to contribute something to the family and to the world. It seems, then, that we all have this desire to be someone and to do something.

As I consider this, Heather is away at church, watching children during Sunday School so their parents can attend the church service. I’m pretty sure she wouldn’t say this is the thing for which she was made. She doesn’t take any great delight in it. She doesn’t feel particularly gifted for or fulfilled through this task. But isn’t she contributing? Isn’t she doing something significant? I am impressed with her service. And there it is.

Jesus has a weird way of doing things. There’s a kid’s song called “Upside Down.”
“He’s the king of the kingdom upside down
If you want to go up you have to go down
To be the greatest, learn to be the least
Living in a kingdom upside down”

Jesus says, “The greatest in my kingdom is the servant of all. If you want to find yourself, lose yourself in me. If you want a great task, prove yourself faithful in the small tasks first. Humble yourself, and I will exalt you.”

The Songs of Flight series

Long ago, I created a post called, “Corner of the Sky.” It had to do with my entry into the teaching field and my searching for purpose and my place of God-appointed ministry. It’s quite a bit later, but this series is a follow-up to that train of thought.

Answering the Diggity (or, Soaked to the Bone)

Fall is the best time of year. I felt this when I lived up north. I loved seeing all the trees burst into fiery color, waking to see the frost on the ground, crunching through fallen leaves. My grandmother tells me fall is still proceeding in exactly this same way on this very day, despite my absence. I still love the fall in the south, even though it’s not quite as vivid in its display. It is no less obvious to notice, however. The heat finally breaks, the bustle of the school year—and Friday night football—returns to full swing, and the rains return.
Fall is like the sunset. It is the Golden Hour. It is the time when everything seems clear. The tough questions seem to come so easily: Are we doing things right? Are we missing out on the important things? Is this the best way to live? And the hard answers are swift and sure in following: It would be better to work less, be involved in less. It would be better to spend more time growing food, cooking food, sharing together over food, and using food to fuel our bodies in rigorous work and play. It might even force us to eat that which is good, and not that which is processed and microwaved. It would be better to seek the forgotten places, to live where few tread. Fall is so beautiful, it makes everything seem more real. And the things that are phoney… well you just want to shed them like cumbersome foliage and walk away.
But the sun slips below the horizon. The last golden leaves fall to the ground and are trampled into fertilizer. The clarity of fall fades away. Was it the Apostle Paul or John Mayer who said that clarity can’t last? I guess it was both of them. John in his song by that title, Paul in 1 Corinthians 13. Right now we see through a glass darkly, but true and lasting clarity is yet ahead.
But last night, I encountered fall. How often do you encounter the seasons? When was the last time you walked barefoot? When was the last time you let yourself be drenched by the rain? In our society of comfortable homes, attached garages, hermetically sealed automobiles, and bountiful parking, it’s actually hard to get more than a few sprinkles on your shoulders. We let our connection to vital, living things pass away and replace them with dead, hard, metallic things, and we wonder why we feel less alive. The shells we surround ourselves with insulate us from the real.
Standing in a blocked-off street, surrounded by floats and children, there is little to do but encounter the weather. In the middle (at the very beginning, actually) of Aydan’s school parade, we were caught in a torrential downpour. Like Andy Dufresne emerging from Shawshank Prison, I could only look to the sky, hold my hands up and smile. We hid from the storm for a moment or two, but then Aydan and I gleefully rain into the rain and began the mile-or-so trip back home. It was one of those rare and beautiful times when you truly enjoy everything about a moment. All we did was relish each other and the environment we were in. We called to each other to come splash in the gigantic puddles we had found. We marched and stomped, spraying water all around. And each drop seemed to rinse away some of the fog and confusion. I was saturated in reality. This was true. This was beautiful. I thanked God, who sends his rain on the righteous and the wrong, for soaking me in such an important moment.