What are you doing here?

Elijah travels 40 days and 40 nights to get to the mountain of God. Angels have fed him just so that he will be able to make the journey. Now he is here. At the very mountain of God. Waiting in the cave for God to show up.

When God arrives, He asks Elijah a question; a question to which surely God knows the answer.

“What are you doing here, Elijah?”

Elijah right away pours out his complaint. You can tell this lament has been building up within him. The disillusionment… I have been very zealous for you God…and it didn’t work out the way I planned. The grief…they have prophets to death by the sword, I am the only one left. The fear…now they are trying to kill me too.

God doesn’t immediately address any of these concerns. Instead he offers Elijah the gift of experiencing God’s presence. He tells him to “go out and stand on the mountain in the presence of the Lord, for the Lord is about to pass by” I Kings 19:11. What an amazing gift.

Yet after experiencing the wind, the earthquake, the fire and then finally God’s gentle whisper, when God asks the question again… “What are you doing here, Elijah?” Elijah’s answer remains unchanged. It is the same word for word. He has experienced the very presence of God but he is still so wrapped up in his troubles that it is almost as if he missed it.

God, ever patient and gracious, does not rebuke Elijah. In fact, he gives Elijah a solution to his problem and Elijah goes away to carry out the plan. However, I wonder if he left feeling any more refreshed than when he arrived? I see myself in this story. I come to the altar of God, knowing my thirst, how greatly I need more of God. However, when I arrive there I am so caught up with all the day to day worries, the problems and concerns that I forget just to spend time in God’s presence. When God asks, “What are you doing here?” Like Elijah, I list my complaints, my fears, my griefs. God listens, he hears, he is faithful to answer.

What if I answered differently today.

What if when God said, “What are you doing here, Alison?”

I answered, “I just want more of you.”

What if when God’s presence filled me up, the problems I came in with fell away? What God’s presence could soothe the grief, the fears and worries that follow me all the day long. What if it was God’s presence that I was missing all along?

The Plot

He just walked away. I look at the small plot before me and think there must be some mistake. For years I have been working faithfully beside my parents, sowing, watering, working the harvest, waiting for this day. It wasn’t supposed to be like this.

I watch as the Master Gardener stops and laughs, a deep belly laugh the rumbles from his chest one of the little ones tries to climb up his back. He stoops down to swing him up on one of his shoulders. The little boy giggles with delight. For a moment I pause just to watch. I wish I could be like that child again.

I look back at the plot at my feet. Was he unhappy with my work? Did he think I couldn’t handle a larger plot like the others? This morning when the plots were assigned, I listened for my name to be called and watched as plot after plot of thriving fields were given to other workers, friends I had worked alongside. Were they better than I? I feel my stomach clench. I forgot to eat breakfast this morning.

I sigh as I pick up the small watering can the Master Gardener left for me. Water is precious here in the Drifts. Each plot has its own watering can, forged by the Master himself.

“Is that watering can or tea cup?” Jonas, my oldest brother bumps me on the shoulder a little too hard on the way by. He carries one of the largest watering cans on his head.

I bite my tongue so hard I think I taste blood.

I pick up my watering can and join the other women in the line up. I overhear the other girls my age talking about their plots.

“…my can is so heavy…”

“It will take me all morning to water the plants…”

I shift the watering can to behind my back.

“Aliyah?”

“What?” I feel heat creep up my neck as I realize they have been talking to me. “Oh, yes I’m very happy with my plot. It’s just at the end. That’s probably why you haven’t seen it.”

I wonder if they can tell that I am lying. My eyes start to burn and I feel a lump in my throat. What if I just slip out of the line up now. Would anyone notice?

“Next.”

I put my small watering can up on the bench and try not to meet the eyes of the well worker. I’m afraid of what I might see. Pity? Embarrassment?

I grab my watering can as quickly, but still carefully, as I can. I might be upset… but not so upset that I would spill water. I think my garden plot is smaller than before. Is that possible?

The Master’s words drift back through my mind from this morning.

“Is this it?” I say. Disappointment pulls my shoulders towards the ground.

“It is enough.” Then he smiled knowingly and walked way.

It is enough.

I repeat to myself. It is enough.

I try to believe that as I get to work watering my small patch of earth but my eyes wander to the more impressive plots being worked row after row beside me, as far as the eye can see, and a seed of doubt takes root in my heart.

~

Another day. I rise early so that I can be at the front of line, hoping no one will comment on my watering can. As I walk back to my plot, I see all the other gardens growing so much faster than my own. I brush my hands along the corn stalks that already as high as my waist.

“Look short stuff,” I jump as my middle brother comes up behind me. I quickly grasp my watering can, the water sluices precariously close to the edge. He laughs. “The corn is almost as tall as you.”

I want to stick my tongue out at him like I did when I was young but I scowl instead. He just laughs again and starts watering. His arms strain at the weight. He is not so much bigger than me. I could carry that jug easily. He sees me watching him and winks. I turn on my heel and hurry away.

It doesn’t take me long to water my garden plot. Slowly and steadily the plants are growing. I wonder what they will be. I should have asked or maybe I should know. Does everyone else already know but me? I stoop to pick out some stray weeds that grew up in the night and notice a couple of Wanderers approaching. They are the colour of the earth, beige and brown, their skin, their clothes…only the whites of their eyes stand out. Perhaps their clothes had colours once but long ago the colours have faded back into the colours of the soil, bleached by the sun. They belong to the earth where they roam. They have no home, so we call them Wanderers.

The elders say, we were Wanderers too once, before the Master Gardener came. It was he who knew where the water was and showed us how to build the well. Without him, we would be Wanderers still. The thought brings a shiver to my spine though I am not cold. How could anyone be cold under the heat of the midday sun? We must never forget where we came from, the Master Gardener says. So we plant and harvest not only enough for our village but for any Wanderer who comes our way.

As I look out towards the Wanderers coming towards the village, the older one stumbles. A small cloud of dust surrounds him as he falls, as if the earth wants to swallow him back up. His companion, his son?, gives a small cry, and reaches down to pull him back up. I want to help but I hesitate. What should I do? Should I get help? Should I go myself? Before I can decide, two young men run past me and go to their aid. A woman comes with water for them to drink. Together they bring the Wanderers into our village as I watch, frozen, beside my little plot.

I was the closest and I did nothing.

~

The idea came to me in the night like a vision. I lay awake listening to my brothers and sisters sleeping peacefully on their straw pallets beside me. I tried to sleep but whenever I closed my eyes, all I could see was the old Wanderer lying in the dust, crumpled like a sack of grain. Why did I do nothing? Why didn’t I run to him and help him up? I was so useless. That’s probably why the Master Gardener gave me such a small plot. What must others think of me… just standing there doing nothing. I should have done something.

I turned over yet again in my bed, a piece of straw poking me in the side. It was no use. I would never get back to sleep.

Then it came. The idea. I sat bolt up in bed. My sister groaned next to me and pulled the thin blanket back over her.

There were leftover seeds in the potter’s shed. I was on the end of the row. If I planted more seeds at night to make my harvest bigger, no one would know until the plants were sprouted. Then all the extra plants I was growing could help feed the Wanderers. It was perfect. The Master Gardener would be so pleased. He would see what I could do. Surely he would approve. Maybe that’s why he gave me a plot at the end of the row. I was meant to do this.

Dare I do it? My heart burned within me as I rose cautiously from my bed. I stepped over my sleeping brothers. I couldn’t go back now. As I passed through the tent flap the cool night air hit me like a breath of freedom. I felt alive. I could do this. I must do this.

The moon was full, lighting my way as I crept outside to the potter’s shed. The seeds were right where I remembered seeing them. It was too easy. My heart grew lighter as I imagined the Wanderers thanking me for the food I had provided for them. As I planted rows of seeds beside my garden plot, I whispered a prayer of blessing over the new seeds for life to grow abundantly.

When I returned to bed, I fell fast asleep. I couldn’t wait for the new day.

~

Everything goes well, at first.

I use my water very carefully to make sure there was enough for the current plants and to stretch to the new seeds as well. After the first week, I am delighted to see my first shoots break through the hard earth, reaching up for the sun.

At dinner, my mother comments that I look quite tired in the evenings, now. I figure that is to be expected, tiling two plots instead of one. However, other people are tiling plots much larger than mine.

“I have everything under control,” I tell her, as we wash the dishes. I even venture to hint that my yield might be better than expected.

The next day I wake up with a sharp pain in my back. The added strain of the second field seems to have caused my back to spasm. It takes several minutes before I can sit up. I try to massage my back with my hands to relieve the pain. However, bending over to put on my sandals causes another shot of fire through my back and legs.

I am late arriving at the fields. The first thing I notice when I arrive is a few dry leaves in my first garden plot. I walk quickly through my rows and there are a few more. My heart starts to race. I touch the tips of my plants and they are dry as well.

I race over to my new shoots. I am relieved to see they seem fine for now. Water. They need water. It has been hot for the past few days. Surely that is the problem. It would be fine. Today is supposed to be cooler. Everything is under control. I try not to run over to the line up at the well.

The next day the plants are worse.

I gather up the fallen leaves and hide them in pockets. No. No. No. This can’t be happening. I feel panic rising in my chest. Some of the shoots look smaller than yesterday and a few have started to shrivel. What can I do? I can’t ask for my water without admitting what I have done. Sweat trickles down my back. I kneed the sore spot where the ache is throbbing. I look around, has anybody noticed? Are people watching me? Maybe I could just line up twice? Or just tell them that I’m getting water for someone else? Surely if i get a little bit more water today, everything will be fine. I can handle this.

Then I see it. Someone has left their watering can further down the row. It’s much bigger than mine and they are done for the day. I could just borrow their watering can. With the extra water, I could easily water both my plots. Then the plants will be fine after today. I know they will.

I look all around, seeing if anyone is watching but no one is in sight. I haven’t seen the Master Gardener all morning. I quietly walking down the row and reach down swapping my watering can for the larger one. I wipe away the sweat from my eyes with my sleeve. I feel like there are eyes watching me but I don’t dare turn around. I hurry over to the well.

“A different watering can?” The Well Master asks in a friendly voice.

“Oh, the Master said I needed more water today,” I lie, keeping my eyes on the ground. He doesn’t question me. I hurry away as fast as I can without spilling. I don’t get very far before I have to put the watering can down. It’s so heavy. The ache in my back in throbbing to beating of my heart, I can barely walk. I stop every few feet to switch arms but it doesn’t help. I can’t let anyone see that it is too heavy. I paste a smile on my face. The pain is shooting down my legs now. It burns.

It feels like hours before I reach the end of the row. I nearly drop the watering can when I place it down and some water spills over the side.

“Be CAREFUL!” One of the elders reprimands me as she walks by. Of course, there has to be someone there right at that moment. I bow my head and apologize. All I want to do is lie down on the ground and fade into the earth. I have never been this exhausted. When I go to drink from my water skin, I notice the deep welts in my hands from the weight of the watering can. My hands are even bleeding in some places. I hadn’t even noticed. I tear some cloth from the bottom of my skirts to bandage my hands, and look with apprehension at the watering can. The plants must be watered. I push my knuckles into my lower back and try to straighten up. Then I get to work. I can do this. I must.

~

It made no difference. None at all. In fact the next day when I returned to my plot more plants were dry, more leaves had fallen to the ground. I bent over to sweep them away, to fill my pockets with the leaves so no one could see my failures. I wanted to scream, to rip the dead plants from the ground. But I had no energy left within me to do even that. Why was this happening to me? Why couldn’t I do this one thing right? Despair washed over me. I tried to stand but then I felt a ping in my lower back like a rubber band snapping. Alarm raced through me. I couldn’t move. I couldn’t straighten up. Pain came in waves as I tried to force my back straight. I collapsed to my knees as bile rose in my throat.

I looked at the dirt before me and thought to myself, why bother getting up? The dirt seemed so inviting. I could just rest awhile. I lay down. Another dry and brittle leaf among the many dead plants in the row.

The sun bore down upon my neck. Hot sweat trickled down my back. I was thirsty. So thirsty. Time no longer seemed to matter. If I could just get up and drink. Just one drink of water! I tried to push up to my knees to crawl for help but pain seared through by back, a blazing hot iron. I fell helpless back to the earth. I did not rise again.

Cool water. Someone was pouring cool water between my dry cracked lips. First a few drops then a few more. Strong hands, rough but strangely gentle cupped my head. Who was it? A few more drops of water passed between my lips, the fog lifted a little from my brain. Then I knew who it must be.

I wanted to crawl back into the earth and pull the dirt back over me. I turned my face away from him.

“Come, drink,” he said. Did he know?

I wanted to pour out the whole sad story to him: how I wanted to prove myself to him, how I stole the seeds…how everything died in my hands. But the words couldn’t get past the lump in my throat. Somehow I sensed he knew it all anyway.

Instead, I shift my limp broken, hurting body, resting my head on his feet. Tears stream in the mud, making tiny pools in the dirt.

“I am yours…if you’ll still have me.” I croaked.

He laughed. It was the last sound I expected in all the world. I was so startled I looked up. It wasn’t a laugh of derision or mocking. I searched his face for the rebuke I expected, no deserved, but it wasn’t there. All I saw was understanding, and acceptance.

He reached down his hand to me and said, “Come.”

Tentatively, I placed my hand in his and was surprised I could stand. Though my legs trembled, the crippling pain I expected to shoot through my back never came.

Then handed me my watering can. It felt comfortable and familiar in my hand. “Do this for me.” He pointed to the dear patch he had given me at the beginning.

He started to walk away and I knew I should just keep my mouth shut, but I couldn’t help myself.

“But what about the other seeds I planted?” I blurted, “Will they die because of me?”

“Those are not your concern. They never were.” Then once again he walked away, whistling as he went.

The next day, when I arrived to start planting my new seeds, I noticed a newly marked plot next to mine. A young man arrived to till the new plot. Just as I started down to work, he hesitated for a moment.

“Do you think plot is a little small?” he asked me.

I smiled wisely and replied, “It is enough.”

The Cave

Based on 1 Kings 19:9-13

Night falls, as I stumble, half crawl, into a cave on the mountain. The darkness enfolds me like a tomb. Grief and exhaustion pull at me, weighing down my aching limbs; yet sleep eludes me. Angry voices swarm through my thoughts like stinging wasps. Even here I am not alone.

I am startled by the sound of a voice. Was I asleep?

“What are you doing here, Elijah?”

-Lord? Don’t you know why I’m here? Haven’t you seen me? Don’t you care?

…

You said you will come. So I will stand here on the mountainside until you do. I wait and wait.

Nothing.

Then the wind starts to blow.

-Is it you? Are you here?

The breeze swells to a howling wind. At the first crash, I am driven back against the wall of the cave. Shivers crawl up my spine. Rocks rain down like a waterfall as the mountain tears itself apart.

You are not in the wind.

…

The winds die down. I barely catch my breath when the very ground beneath me starts to shake. The sound rumbles louder than thunder. I cover my ears. I cannot block out the sound.

-“WHERE ARE YOU, GOD???” I scream my throat raw but no one hears.

My voice is drowned out by the incessant roar. Will it never stop?

The earth settles but I am still shaking. I rock back and forth, back and forth, in the darkness of the cave.

You are not in the earthquake.

…

Still, I wait. I will not leave until you come.

An acrid smell wafts into the cave, tickling my throat. I begin to cough; smoke burns my lungs. Fire consumes what is left from the wind and quake. It burns and burns until I think there must be nothing left. The heat grows until my bones are molten within me. I lie down and think maybe I will die here in this cave.

Just when I think I can bear no more, the fire leaves as quickly as it came. I rest curled in a ball while ashes drift in and cover me.

You are not in the fire.

…

Just then I hear your gentle whisper on a cool breeze.

Elijah…

I am afraid of what I will see.

I am afraid of what You will see in me.

Come out…

Your loving voice washes over me.

I cover my face with my cloak. On trembling legs, I come out of the darkness, to meet my God.

By Alison Wagler

photo credit:Luke Chui

@epicchewy

Eagle Dance

I am the eagle soaring

I dance with the wind.

I fall, I let go, Your wind carries me.

I rise and the dance begins again.

Birdsong Before Dawn

You, hey you,

                though you cannot see it

night is almost over

                hang on a little longer

I will sing until the dawn.

You, hey you,

                don’t give up at the closing

                you will make it through the night

               watch for the morning light

I will sing until the dawn.

You, hey you,

                you are not alone in the dark

He sees your tears that are falling,

                outside your window, I am calling

I will sing until the dawn.

You, hey you,

                birdsongs wake and join the chorus

hope is rising with the morning

                a brand new day is forming

Sing with us until the dawn.

You, hey you,

                come and see

                                …

                                dawn is here.

Photo credit:
Patrick Hendry@worldsbetweenlines via unsplash

Every Single Minute

This poem is dedicated to my family, I treasure all our moments, the ups and the downs, and store them up in my heart every single day.

A special dedication also to my Nana Phyllis McKay, for whom I originally wrote this poem, and my Granny Rhoda Mitchell. They lived 100 and 98 years respectively! I appreciated every minute I had with you both.

The translation below is from a friend who used the poem to celebrate his Mother’s wonderful legacy of a life of well lived over in Malaysia.

At my feet there is a path
I know not how long it be
So Lord, I want to value
Every day You give to me.

To walk beside those I love,
I do not want to miss
The sorrows and the triumphs,
Every hug and every kiss.

So when the clouds gather
And storms are on the way
I'll walk outside to meet them
I won’t turn and run away.

When I feel the path’s too long
I cannot see my way through
I know that I am not alone,
Dear Lord, if I have you.

And when it’s time to say goodbye
I'll hold on to each and every one
To say how much I love them
Before the journey’s done.

Then I will go to my God
With so many thanks to give
For every single minute
Of the life I get to live.

(Chinese Translation, thanks to Wan How)

<每一分鐘>

艾莉森瓦格勒

 我的腳下有一條路

 我不知道能走多遠

 所以主啊，我要珍惜

 祢賜給我的每一天

 與我所愛的人同行

 我不想錯過

 悲傷和榮耀

 每一個擁抱和親吻

 所以, 當烏雲密佈

 當暴風雨即將來臨

 我會走到外面和它們相見

 我不會轉身逃跑

 當我覺得路太長

 找不到我的出路

 我知道我並不孤單

 親愛的主啊，若我有你

 當該說再見的時候

 我會緊緊擁抱每一個人

 在旅途終結之前

 說我有多愛他們

 然後, 我會投向我的上帝

 懷抱著無盡的感恩

 感謝我活著的每一分鐘

Photo Credit: Alison Wagler

Starfish

I wrote this poem a while ago after a particularly hard season. We got difficult news and I went to the ocean to wrestle with it all. I collapsed at the side of tide and saw a purple starfish clinging to a rock.

Maybe you are going through one hard thing after another and instead of finding peace, hard things keep on coming…I share this poem for you.

I am a starfish

clinging to a rock.

Wave after wave washes over me.

Back and forth, day after day...

They never stop.

Oh, for a quiet pool

where there are no waves.

A place where I can be left alone.

Somewhere I can finally rest.

When will I find peace?

Instead of peace, a hurricane.

Waves tear at my back

like a raging snarling beast.

I feel my grip slipping from the rock.

I want to let go.

I hear a voice, clear as the day,

“I am your refuge in the storm.”

The waves still roar; but the sounds fade away,

Whoosh, Whoosh… whoosh….

Peace at last.

I search desperately for the voice;

in the vast sea, in the distant sky above.

But no… the voice is close, close to my heart.

It is the voice of the Rock

I have been clinging to all along.

I am a starfish

clinging to my Rock.

I will not let go.

photo credit: Rafael Garcin@nimbus_vulpis

Overflow

“When did I last drink from the well?”

The fog of my mind hides the answer.

My heart sinks deep within me.

I should be able to tell.

Thirst consumes and it drives me,

I find other places to quench my thirst.

I drink and I drink, yet I’m still thirsty.

I keep going back. It’s easy not to think.

When I finally notice how dry I’ve become.

Weariness is in my very bones.

Lead flows through my blood, pulling me

down with its weight. Am I too late?

You should teach me a lesson.

Make me wait to fill up my cup.

Remind me you told me I would get thirsty.

Tell me I should know by now I need to drink.

Yet when I drag what is left of me to the well,

my arms too heavy to lift my cup.

You reach down and start pouring,

until Living Water overflows my cup.

photo credit: Anderson Rian @oandersonrian