Foreseen in Joy

“I am about to do a new thing;
 now it springs forth, do you not perceive it?” Isaiah 43:19

My friend Ignatius has foresight, but with a twist: he likes to prepare himself for events which have yet to happen. I’m reminded of this every time we go on a mission trip together: I pack for one, while Ignatius packs for many. Buried in his suitcase among the socks and the toothpaste are the items he can’t wait to give away to people he hasn’t even met yet: silly string and balloons for kids in San Salvador, McDonalds’ gift cards for hungry, homeless men in Boston. Even before he’s out the door, he is preparing for joyful moments of encounter long before they happen. Which, I’m convinced, is a big part of why they inevitably do.

It’s precisely that kind of foresight to which Isaiah invites us: that spiritual readiness to see beyond the stranger to the friend, beyond the lump of clay to the chalice full of wine, beyond the conflict to the reconciliation. It is that kind of vision of which Wendell Berry spoke when he wrote, “That which is foreseen in joy must be lived out every day.”

This afternoon I passed by a homeless man sitting alone on a remote city bench. His walker was sitting beside him, and in his hands, raised to his lips, was a flute. At first I thought it odd that he was playing without an audience. Then it dawned on me that perhaps he, like Ignatius, is gifted with foresight, and that his flute and he were simply announcing that there is more to God’s realm than sometimes meets the average eye.

Prayer
Visionary God, give me eyes to imagine what you have already seen, and to live it out every day. Amen.

A Poem for Sue Ann Martin

We’d wave at you, and you at us,
each morning as kids piled off the bus,
my daughters and I would walk past your window,
fleetingly mindful of flowers and Crypto.

I’m remembering a Sunday not long ago,
that Sunday piled high with new fallen snow;
folks said, "close church," and I said, no, if you please;
and you showed up ~ one of a dozen ~ arriving on skis.

I remember many things, and truly, we all do,
your faithful following is a large, devoted crew;
your teaching and your life were masterful art;
borne witness by the fact that even when you sweat,
the stain made a heart.

That stain will cling to us, we will wear it with pride;
and we promise to engage the world with our curious side;
as you taught, we will not shrink from running the extra mile.
Your class, Mrs. Martin, lives on in us, and with it, your smile.

And so with sadness, and with joy, we salute every one of your 50 years;
the end of your class came much to soon, we confess, and with tears;
but we stand here today to say we love you, even more than you loved to run;
and we declare to you, well done, good and faithful servant, well done.