Wealth

“…Haply I think on thee, and then my state,
(Like to the lark at break of day arising
From sullen earth) sings hymns at heaven’s gate;
For thy sweet love remembered such wealth brings
That then I scorn to change my state with kings.”
(from Sonnet 29, by William Shakespeare)

I have realized, throughout my life, but only in increments, how very rich I am.

Perhaps an explanation is in order.

We wandered through a gentle drizzle—the Lovely Lady and I—up to the university’s performing arts center last night. It seems likely we’ll do that a few more times in the coming weeks, since we’ve foolishly agreed to sing with the community choir again this school year.

There was no expectation of embarrassment for either of us. We’re not star vocalists, but more what you might call utility singers, covering our parts reasonably on pitch and mostly in rhythm. Mostly.

Still, I would be embarrassed before the evening’s end. Probably not for the reason you’d expect.

It was our first rehearsal, so a good bit of time was taken up with what I’d call minutiae. Expectations for attendance and the absence of cell phones were discussed, along with event dates and dress codes. And, we introduced ourselves to each other. That’s always a little unnerving. Did I say too much? Too little? Am I really that weird?

Then, as our esteemed conductor passed out the first piece of music, I was surprised to see a title I had requested several months ago. It’s a song with words long familiar from the old hymnals to many of us, but with a gorgeous, new tune. Fleshed out with beautiful harmonies in every vocal part, it may be one of my favorite choral pieces. For now, anyway.

The conductor, after all the choir members had their parts in hand, spoke in a quiet voice.

“Paul, before we sing, would you read the text for us?”

I never expected that. But it wasn’t as if he had asked me to sing a solo. I didn’t think I could be embarrassed just reading words from the page.

The new version of the song is copyrighted, so I’ve rendered a few of the more archaic (public domain) words here. It won’t matter.

“O Joy that seekest me through pain,
I cannot close my heart to thee;
I trace the rainbow through the rain
And feel the promise is not vain
That morn shall tearless be.”
(from O Love That Wilt Not Let Me Go, by George Matheson)

These are only a few of the words I read from the text, but they are the ones that embarrassed me. You see, I have a hard time speaking when the emotion clamps my throat closed and threatens to send tears rolling. I struggled, but read on and finished the text.

The Lovely Lady told me later that I recovered handily, but I’m sure she says things just to make me feel better sometimes. It usually works, too.

Less than a week ago, in the heat of a summer’s eve, a little thunderstorm blew up outside our door. We were happy to have the rain. The drops poured down for a few minutes, during which our grandson stood at the door with his Grandma and smiled at the commotion. As grandparents are wont to do, we smiled at him as much as at the commotion.

Moments later, I noticed the sun shining through the clouds, even though the rain continued to pepper down.

“There’ll be a rainbow,” I exclaimed, heading for the back door with my camera.

The Lovely Lady, ever the practical one, suggested that I’d get wet.

Don’t tell her, but I didn’t. Get wet, that is. Opening the door on the east side of my shop, I stood inside and peered out through the raindrops.

Barely, just barely, I saw it. Almost like someone was drawing merely the faintest outline of a faded-out rainbow that reached down and touched the ground in the Weaver’s field behind us, I could just make it out.

Waiting only a minute or two more, I no longer had to trace it through the rain, but could see it plainly. Even though the fat drops continued to pelt down, the rainbow stood out in vivid glory, its bottom clearly touching the ground just beyond the barbed wire fence.

I snapped a pic or two, one of which is posted with these words, sharing it online for my friends to enjoy. One of my buddies wittily asked the question:

“Well, don’t keep us in suspense. How much money did you rake in?”

He wasn’t the only one to mention, facetiously, the storied pot of gold we think about when we see a rainbow’s end. I laughed it off, as did he (and others).

But, after last night’s reading of that verse, I’m not laughing about it.

I wonder if we have any idea how very rich we are. We don’t need an imaginary pot of money at the elusive end of a tenuous prism in the sky to count, either. Real wealth isn’t counted in dollars and cents—or pesos and centavos—or pounds and pence.

We have a Creator, a Savior, who is concerned enough about our well-being that He puts rainbows in the sky to help us conquer our fear of the storm. And He tells us in the Psalms that He keeps a ledger of our tears. Then He promises there is coming a morning when every tear will be wiped away, every fear conquered, and every trial gone.

He cares when the throat tightens and the liquid escapes from the lacrimal glands, through the ducts, and down our faces. It matters.

To Him, the King of Creation, it matters.

He sends rainbows. Without the pots of gold, but with infinitely more wealth for us to gather in. We have to be ready to grab hold of it, though.

Sometimes, the rainbows are not up in the sky, either, but simply reminders in our hearts that He is walking beside us. Every step of the way, He walks with us.

He cares. About our spiritual state. About our emotional state. About our families and our friends. About the tears we shed.

He cares. About you. About me.

I figure that’s the real wealth.

And, I wouldn’t trade that for anything.

“I have placed my rainbow in the clouds. It is the sign of my covenant with you and with all the earth.”
(Genesis 9:13, NLT)

“He thinks less than he talks, and slower; yet he can see through a brick wall in time (as they say in Bree).” *

Mr. Tolkien didn’t know me; really, he didn’t. But he described me fairly accurately in the quote above.

I do talk more than I think. Sometimes.

And, fortunately, I can see through the brick wall in front of me. Eventually.

I’ve been in a funk recently. I should mention that I looked up the phrase “in a funk” online to be sure it was still in common enough use for most of my readers to know what it means. The obliging AI response suggests I’ll not have to explain it to very many of you.

I also wondered if I should use the term “woebegone” to describe my state of mind. But then, I’d need to explain the word’s origin from Old English. I might even have to use the definition that Garrison Keillor (a well-known storyteller and humorist) frequently gave for the fictional community he told about. He said the name Lake Wobegon was the native American word for “the place where we waited all day for you in the rain.”

But I’m not sure the description of my state is all that important. I just needed to know why I was in that state, be it in a funk or woebegone, or both of them at once.

Finally, the light has begun to dawn. It took a while, but after a few weeks of wandering in the fog, I think I finally understand why I’ve been unhappy.

The Lovely Lady who lives at my house helped me along the way the other day when she expressed amazement that I’m keeping up with my schedule pretty well. I usually get overwhelmed when there are too many events in a week for me to remember (usually, more than three will do it for me).

What she didn’t realize is that it’s been busy enough lately that this old man has actually learned how to use the calendar app on my smartphone for something other than keeping track of the birthdays of people I love.

As she talked about my schedule, and I thumbed through the past couple of weeks of events, I think I noticed that brick wall becoming a little translucent. I could almost—but not quite—see through it.

The things in my calendar are almost exclusively about possessions—things over which I claim ownership. Some of them are about money and insurance for the things I think I own.

And, with that thought, the bricks become completely transparent.

Why did Jesus say that it was easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to get into heaven? (Matthew 19:24)

Why is it so hard for me to give up my claim to the stuff of earth? The rich man in the reference above was scrupulous and unswerving in his obedience to God. With the rules and legal requirements, he was.

He just couldn’t turn loose of the things he held.

The storms of a few weeks ago have damaged our house, as well as our vehicles. The unexpected mechanical failure of both vehicles right before has already required a fair outlay of money to remedy. And now, dealing with contractors, insurance adjusters, and repair shops causes stress—a lot of it.

It’s not that the resources haven’t been provided. They have. But somehow, I’ve taken ownership of those resources. And, I don’t want to let go of any of them.

And God said to Moses, “What’s that in your hand?” And when Moses answered that it was a tool of his trade, his staff, God said, “Well, throw it on the ground.” (Exodus 4:2)

I sympathize with Moses. I hear the voice in his head arguing (the same voice is in mine).

“This is all I have for my livelihood. I was counting on this to keep me alive. Why would you want me to let go of it?”

Easy, isn’t it?

Just open your fingers.

Let go.

It was never mine. Never.

Freedom isn’t only about not being under the thumb of someone else. Chains are too often of the invisible sort, and just as likely to be of our own making.

When the stuff of this earth holds us more tightly than the bonds of His love, we are truly in captivity—carrying a burden He never meant for us to shoulder.

I’m better now.

Letting go. Again.

But, I’m realizing there will be more brick walls to see through along the road I’m walking. I could use some help with the next one. And the one after that.

I hope you’ll be willing to help. But could you, maybe, not talk as much as I do?

And, think a little faster?

“One who cannot cast aside a treasure at need is in fetters.”
(Aragorn in The Two Towers, by J.R.R. Tolkien)

“Take my silver and my gold;
Not a mite would I withhold.”
(from the hymn, Take My Life and Let It Be, by Frances Ridley Havergal)

*from The Fellowship of the Ring, by J.R.R. Tolkien.

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