In This Place
“It's a dangerous business. . .going out your door. You step onto the road, and if you don't keep your feet, there's no knowing where you might be swept off to.”
J.R.R. Tolkien
Because the sky is not dark until after ten in Washington summer evenings, Drew and I often find ourselves a bit aimless after dinner. In the winter, the sun begins to set around four so out of sheer desperation we are in bed around nine. But in the summer, sun guilt prevails. Sun guilt is a very real phenomenon in the PNW, loosely defined as “the inability to be at ease with one’s self or others indoors while the sun is still shining.” It feels wasteful to miss even a single ounce of the precious sunlight we are so woefully without in the long winter months. So in the blue and gold haze of summer evenings, we walk.
On our walks, we pass a house that I’ve tended to judge. Its fading coat of purple paint is peeling, and an evolving pile of junk sits on a white plastic chair out front. This pile sometimes includes empty Big Gulp containers, rags, and obscure metal objects that look like they once were kitchen tools. We typically end our walks on this street, and as we rounded the corner one evening, there it was: the discard pile that makes me cringe. This time, something different was added to the scene—the gently hunched silhouette of an elderly man in a wheelchair on his porch, watching us pass by.
Sensing he was eager to talk, we paused to say “Hello!” and began conversing with him, learning his name (John) and that he has lived in his purple peeling home for over twenty years. “I love the color of your home,” I said. (This is true—I always appreciate striking colors on old homes). “Oh, thank you,” he said. “I know, it’s seen better days. But I just can’t afford to get someone out here to paint it.”
His statement triggered a sharp plummet of remorse in my stomach along with an inner vow to never, ever judge a house by its paint condition or its junk pile again. Learning a bit of this man’s story gave me compassion and transformed the way I saw his house: not a visual disgrace, but the place where a kind soul named John lives.
At some point in our conversation, John learned we were Christians. Leaning forward with wide eyes and breathless anticipation, he said what I am certain no person has ever uttered in the highly unchurched pacific northwest:
“Tell me about your church!”
Drew and I turned to one another in surprise, smiled, and then proceeded to share with him.
With a catch in his voice John said, “Oh, I’ve been so lonely for Christians. My daughter and grandchildren live with me, but they aren’t believers. I’ve been waiting for someone to talk to.”
And it was at that moment—in the cool of a weekday evening on the last block of our sun-guilt walk in the driveway of a house I’ve long judged—that I sensed the sweet, tender presence of God. A tingling sensation on my skin and a rush of joyful compassion towards John led me to pray Jacob’s prayer: “Surely, the Lord was in this place, and I did not know it.”
* * *
When Jacob encountered the presence of God in an unexpected place, he, too, was on an evening walk. At some point between where he had been and where he was going, Jacob lay down for the night and had a dream:
When he reached a certain place, he stopped for the night because the sun had set. Taking one of the stones there, he put it under his head and lay down to sleep. He had a dream in which he saw a stairway resting on the earth, with its top reaching to heaven, and the angels of God were ascending and descending on it.
(Genesis 28:11-12)
What Jacob saw in his dream is precisely what the Lord spoke to me on my evening walk: there are no ordinary people, places, or encounters. The most mundane realities could very well contain the staircase to heaven, the footprints of the divine. The staircase connecting earth and heaven shows that heaven and earth were never intended to be separate; rather, they are meant to be in communication until the day that heaven and earth are made new and become one.
Upon waking, Jacob exclaimed, “Surely the Lord is in this place, and I wasn’t even aware of it!”
* * *
I wonder how often we miss the presence of the LORD “in this place” because we live as though we know where God is and is not. I never looked for God’s footprints leading to a shabby old home, but God led me there anyways. His presence was waiting for me in the gift of John. It was as if God was saying, “Hi honey, I’ve been here all along. I’m so glad you decided to join me. Do you see how beautiful this is? The place you least expect to find me is where I AM.”
Fellow traveler, are there situations in your life that feel utterly void of the presence of God? Are there places you haven’t thought to look or allowed your feet wander, simply because of how things appear?
If so, look again.
You could be standing near the foot of the staircase between heaven and earth and simply miss it, as I have so often done.
Ask God to show you His presence in the most unlikely places of your life. As you do, I will be praying this with you and for you: