Читать книгу On the Other Side of Fear - Hallie Lord - Страница 11

Chapter Two

Trail Mix

But God doesn’t call us to be comfortable. He calls us to trust Him so completely that we are unafraid to put ourselves in situations where we will be in trouble if He doesn’t come through.

~ Francis Chan

If you’ve never been to Alabama in the summer — never had your glasses fog up the minute you stepped out your front door, wondered whether you had merely imagined that phenomenon known as “wind,” or had your makeup literally melt off your face — you should know that it is hot. And humid. And possibly not fit for human habitation. Which is not to say that I don’t have a soft spot for it in my heart, because I most definitely do, but — oh my word — is it hot.

Even by Alabama standards, though, it was scorching the day I buckled my four young children into their car seats and headed for Point Clear. We were on our way to the Grand Hotel, where my mother, caring more about spending time with her grandchildren than, say, actually surviving to see her sixtieth birthday, was waiting for us to join her.

We were about pull onto I-10 and head across Mobile Bay when something on the side of the road caught my eye. Unthinkingly, or perhaps prompted by a force I could not see, I pulled over.

I put my car into park and took my foot off the brake. Less than ten yards away from me were three men in long heavy gray robes. They appeared to be perched quite contentedly in the blazing sun atop a guard rail. They turned their heads in my direction, and as their eyes met mine, their faces broke into wide, ebullient smiles.

I got out of my car and walked over to them. They introduced themselves to me, sharing that they were friars from a small Dominican community in France called The Little Brothers of the Lamb. I’ve always had an affinity for French people, having no small amount of French blood running through my own veins, and was tickled to hear the signature French lilt that marked the edges of their vowels. They were on their way, they said, to help the Little Sisters of the Lamb build a monastery in Kansas City and, having taken a vow of extreme poverty, were at the mercy of whatever motorists offered to take them a few miles down the road.

I laughed and said that while I would have loved to be able to help them, I was headed in the opposite direction. Their faces lit up with childlike glee, they grabbed their backpacks, and, talking over one another like giddy children, all assured me that it was no problem at all because they had every faith that I’d been sent by God and that their next ride was waiting wherever I dropped them next.

These days I drive an enormous van that can fit all nine of our family members (plus another handful of poor souls who make the questionable decision to travel with us), but back then I drove a very small two-door Saturn that already had four children stuffed into it. I was about to stammer an apology in the hopes of stopping them in their enthusiastic tracks when all of a sudden I remembered a story that I’d read about Mother Angelica, the nun who founded the international television network EWTN with not a penny to her name and no media experience.

Before she had a television network, she was called by God to start a small publishing house that printed short pamphlets of an evangelical nature. Somehow she’d gotten her hands on a small printing press that was to be delivered to her monastery. When the men delivering the printing press arrived, they took one look at Mother Angelica’s entryway, pulled out their measuring tapes to confirm, and told her that, sadly, the printing press wouldn’t fit through her door.

Not being a woman easily deterred, she responded, “Well, of course it will fit through my door! God sent it to me!” She told the men that she and her sisters were going to go to the chapel to pray for God’s assistance and that she had every faith (and expectation) that when they returned, the printing press would be inside her building.

They tried to argue with her, but she would have none of it, turned on her heel, and marched to the chapel. There she told God that she would need him to temporarily change the laws of physics so that his gift could be put to good use, please and thank you. When she returned, sure enough, the printing press was in the building and the men left utterly speechless for they had no explanation for how they’d managed to get that printing press through her door. But Mother Angelica knew. God had worked a little miracle just for her and just as she knew he would.

I glanced at my tiny car, looked at the three full-grown men happily ambling in its direction, and thought, “Okay, God. If you want me to give these men a ride, you make them fit.” Somehow I knew that he would.

There are moments in life, rare moments, when the Holy Spirit descends and suggests so strongly that you do something that the space between your will and God’s becomes startlingly thin. Sometimes I can’t help but think that if that mystical space became manifest, and we could see it with our flawed human eyes, we would find that it is as translucent as batiste. This was one of those moments. I knew like I’ve rarely known anything in my life that I was meant to give these men a ride to, as they put it, wherever their next ride was waiting for them.

They tossed their backpacks into my trunk and began to fold themselves, one after another, into my car. By the time I climbed into the driver’s seat, the friars were chattering away with my giggling children. Though to this day I could not draw you a diagram of how we all managed to fit ourselves into that car, somehow we did.

Can you Feel it Now?

I pulled my car back onto the road, headed across Mobile Bay, and began what was one of the most spiritually profound experiences of my life. As Dan so eloquently put it once, as soon as the three friars joined us, a “spiritual fizz” filled the car. We didn’t discuss anything particularly profound — though their tales of their journey thus far were entertaining and the way in which they encouraged me in my vocation was hugely uplifting. It wasn’t just that these men were joyful, though they absolutely were. The best way I can think to describe it is to say that it was as if somehow the Holy Spirit himself had managed to squeeze himself into my car as well.

Never before, and never since, have I felt the presence of God so intensely. I wish I could have bottled that experience so that everyone could get a taste of what those thirty minutes spent in the presence of those friars felt like, but even then, I doubt words could adequately describe the experience. Simply put: it was otherworldly.

Our time together passed swiftly, and before I knew it, they were climbing back out of my car. Though, at that time, my bank account spent more time in the red than not, I felt compelled to offer them what little cash I had in my wallet. Due to their vow of poverty, though, they refused to accept it. I frantically searched my car looking for anything I might offer to help sustain them on their journey, but all I could find was a half-eaten bag of trail mix. I sheepishly asked whether they might want the last of it, to which, with twinkling eyes, they responded, “Oh, yes! Absolutely! Does it have M&Ms in it, by any chance?” Oh, that you could have seen the looks of glee that danced across their faces when I assured them that yes, of course, it had M&Ms.

Right as I was about to climb back in my car and continue on down the road, they humbly asked whether I might allow them to surround my car and sing the hymn “May God Bless You and Keep You” to my children and me. They began to sing, and I started to cry. I cried while they sang. I cried while I hugged them good-bye. I cried as I drove away. And I kept crying as I called my husband to share with him what had just happened to me.

For years Dan and I had been experiencing relentless trials — financial trials, marital trials, extended family trials, and more — and I’d begun to think that maybe God didn’t love me. Or rather that he did love me, but that I’d cut myself off from that love, being the terrible person that I am. What else could explain his silence? Why else would he withhold relief and comfort? But then he sent his friars to me, somehow managed to fit them all into my tiny car, and allowed me the privilege of spending thirty life-changing minutes in their God-soaked presence. Minutes during which God chanted, “I love you, my daughter. I love you. Can you feel it now?”

People talk about mystical experiences and try to explain them because when something that awesome occurs, you want to share it with the entire world. But they, and now I, always sound a little crazy because God’s a little crazy, and when he deigns to reach down from heaven and touch the earth, crazy things happen. And those crazy things don’t fit easily into flawed human language. All I can say is that was the day that I went from thinking that God was probably real and that he probably loved me to knowing that he is exactly who he says he is and believing completely that he absolutely loves me. That was the “before and after” moment of my life.

After I finally stopped crying, I started to think about those three friars and wonder what it was that they knew that I didn’t. Here they were in a foreign country, with no money, no car, no home, and no real plan other than to somehow hitchhike hundreds of miles until they landed in Kansas City, and yet they could not possibly have been more joyful or at peace. I, on the other hand, had a car, a roof over my head, and at least a small income, and yet I was full of fear and anxiety and had little joy and even less peace. What was I missing? Did God favor these three men more than he favored me? Or was it, perhaps, that they knew some secret that I had yet to stumble upon?

I figured, as long as God was touching the earth and doing crazy things, I might as well ask him. Almost immediately — as he likes to take advantage of my attention when he has it — a scene from a few months earlier popped into my mind.

I had been fretting about money, and Dan kept telling me that everything was going to be fine. Over and over again I replied, “But you can’t know that! You have no idea what the future holds!” Finally I added (with no small amount of histrionics), “For all you know we could all end up living under a bridge!” Do you know what he said? He said, “You’re right, Hallie. We could end up living under a bridge. But even if we did, we’d be okay because we’d have each other and God would be with us.”

And that was the end of that conversation. Because there’s no point in arguing with an insane person.

I’m starting to think insane people are God’s favorite kind of people because he played that scene for me in Technicolor and whispered, “Dan’s right, you know. He knows what those friars know. As long as I am with you, you will have everything you need regardless of whether you live in a mansion or under a bridge.”

That ebullience the monks possessed? They possessed it because they weren’t afraid of living under a bridge or on the side of the road. They weren’t afraid of going hungry or only eating one half of a bag of trail mix shared between them for an entire day. They didn’t fear rain, or cold, or the merciless Alabama heat. They carried God with them wherever they went. And so, in a way that is simultaneously utterly mysterious and breathtakingly simple, they were at peace.