Life is about learning to see.
Off we go again this morning on our country drive to Nick’s reading tutor. He reminds me to bring my camera because it’s foggy and he thinks we might capture some cool shots. As we drive, we look for lessons. We’re learning to see God everywhere, in everything teaching us, and we’re learning to teach each other.
“You might want to get a shot of that fence,” he says.
Along the road are t-posts with barbed wire strung. Nick sees God’s way in the barbed wire and speaks truth to his mother.
“That wire is good and dangerous. It keeps animals in and it keeps animals out. If you try to go through it you’ll get cut. It’s like sin. When we stay away from the fence we don’t get cut. But if we go through—if we sin—we get cut.”
“That’s really neat, Nick! I like how you’re learning to see.” And this—this everyday intentional looking for God lessons everywhere—this is what I love about school days at home and on the road.
Fog is thick. In places, we can’t see much beyond our car. This time, I see and share.
“Life is often like a fog. We can’t see very far. We have to slow down and depend on God’s light and God’s directing hand to lead us through places we can’t see.”
“Now let’s see what we can learn from the lakeshore.” I say.
The lesson learned was not expected.
I take a turn and drive down the hill into a park overlooking Lake Michigan. Nick stays in the car and watches me walk out to the beach and toward the water’s edge. I misjudge. I walk out on thick snow to photograph when suddenly, the snow gives way and I fall through into icy water up to my thighs. My camera falls and I panic slightly. Will the snow hold as I try to pull myself up? Will I be stuck? Will Nick see? I knew the water was shallow beneath me. We know this shoreline well. But I felt ridiculously stupid. I KNOW you’re not supposed to venture onto ice or snow over water. But I did. I wanted a good shot. Oh Lord, help me turn my foolishness into something positive!
I pull myself out. Soaking wet and freezing, I walk back to the car quickly and get in.
“I saw you fall through the snow,” he says calmly.
“Yeah. That was really not smart on my part,” I reply rather sheepishly.
We drive up the road and I see ruins.
“Look Nick! It’s an old foundation of a barn. See the silo?”
Nothing remains but the foundation.
“We have to have a foundation in God because that’s the only thing that lasts.” He sees and speaks truth to his mother again.
“Yes! That’s right! Everything in life can come down—will come down in the end. And the only thing still standing will be solid foundations.”
“Stone is harder than snow. God is the strongest thing of all.”
“Yeah,” I say, looking at him with a smile.
“We can build and even re-build when the foundation is solid. What does the lesson on the beach and the lesson of the barn foundation teach us about God?”
“To build our life on God and His ways.”
No need for further interpretation. He gets it. I get it.
We’re both learning to see.
Thank you God for revealing yourself and your truths to us in the everyday ordinary. Thank you for teaching us how to really see in our school of life.