Today: The Warm Red Chair

I have on my desktop at work a picture of Ivy asleep in the red leather chair in my bedroom. She’s curled up in an almost sitting position. One arm, bent at the elbow, is tucked up behind her ear. The other folds gently across her lap. There’s a fan in the window and a patch of warm sun on the floor near the chair. The window radiates warmth and light and all is still.

There’s a story behind the picture. At the time of the picture, I had been very sick for two weeks and no improvement seemed on the horizon. Life and its associated responsibilities weighed heavily on my mind and I wondered if I would ever feel happy again. Right in the moment, I was trying to work up the energy to fold a pile of laundry on the bed. I felt tired, misunderstood, isolated, alone, and overwhelmed by all that needed my attention.

Suddenly, these dark, self-absorbed thoughts were punctuated by screaming, yelling, kicking, stomping, rampaging in the streets, and the terrorizing of small animals. I walked out of the bedroom to investigate and discovered Ivy—the smallest of the small ones—throwing an epic fit. Evidently, a sibling misappropriated a toy of questionable economic value, but tremendous emotional value. In an effort to ease tensions and prevent imminent bloodshed, I intervened.

For those who do not know Ivy, she’s small, but she’s strong and, more importantly, determined. As a result, it took some effort to disengage her from the melee and move her to the red chair in my room. Once ensconced in its warm leathery comfort, the wailing subsided to crying, which gave way to wimpering, which in turn ended in sleep and blessed release.

I watched the entire incident unfold in a matter of minutes. And I was struck—as I almost always am when teaching a child—by how the Lord speaks to me through my children. Turns out Ivy’s only problem was she was tired. What she needed was a warm peaceful place to take a nap. As I stood there watching her sleep, I could feel my Heavenly Father place his arms around me, pull me from my tantrum, and settle me into His warm red chair. I remember feeling impressed by the sunlight streaming through the window and how the light itself felt like a tangible manifestation of God’s love for me.

Significantly, the issues I confronted at that time did not go away. In fact, if I remember correctly, months passed before I fully navigated that ocean. But that divine act of comfort, that very real reminder of God’s love for me, gave me the courage to continue trying. And the peace or joy I felt in that moment reminded me that our Father’s exceeding great and precious promises are worth the 

Today: Pining for the Ponderosa

I don’t believe I’m one of those sentimental types that pines for the “good ole” days. While my teenage years were mostly free of trouble, you won’t find me running to embrace the future with arms wide open and head thrown back, especially in light of troubling current societal trends. Look for me, solidly staked against most of the winds of change, in the traditionalist camp. Life has taken on a much rosier hue following my exit of the teenage years. And yet embedded—hidden deep within my psyche—there persists a boxed spark of nostalgia, a part of me that does fondly peer back through the mist of time upon those years. Every now and then, some external stimulus will crack the lid on the soul box and allow the spark to momentarily flash free. For example, “Allison Road,” by Gin Blossoms, “What’s the Frequency Kenneth,” by R.E.M., and today the image of Pearl Jam’s Vitalogy album cover. Not that I have a particular fondness for these artists any longer. They don’t represent, even in a small way, my views on the world. And I am not so shallow as to willingly associate something so ephemeral as pop music, and grunge rock at that, with one of the most formative phases of my life. Still, we both inhabited the same space for a time. No, there are deeper symbols of that age. On my work desktop today, I find a picture of my two youngest children, Ivy and Grace, standing in the back of my 1995 Nissan pickup (also a relic of that age). They stand braced against a strong easterly wind, eyes wincing and hair streaming behind them. Above the girls and truck rises the ragged form of what has become perhaps the greatest symbol of those early golden years of my life, the Ponderosa Pine, and so too those places where I find the Ponderosa. Due in large part to my own insecurity and immaturity, the last three years of High School were little better than the first and middle school. But they were better. So even though 20 years have passed since I lived in Spokane, Washington, and even though I only lived in Spokane or anywhere on Washington’s Eastside for a mere three years, and even though I have lived in Western Washington for a solid third of my life, I continue describe myself as an Eastern Washingtonian. It was there I first came into myself as a young adult. The irony, the punishment of nostalgia is that it is doubly inaccessible. Not only are we bereft of Uncle Rico’s time-transporting crystals, but even if we could get the machine to work, the place we are seeking never existed. It is only beautiful because of the eyes through which we gaze upon it.