The prairie lies.
It did not occur to me that I was being taught as a boy by the smooth and beautiful plains around Aberdeen. But I had learned a lesson, and it has proven false.
I began to think about it a few weeks ago when I was in Vale, CO, for a wedding. The families were wonderful and the gatherings were filled with laughter and stories and excitement. On the day of the wedding, the weather began clear and bright.
I stood in the midst of the Rockies and watched the sun shine down on the Aspens and I smelled the wild flowers in the distance. Then the rain started.
I was not expecting the rain and it came in fast. Clouds must have been building on the far side of the mountain and then made their way over. It rained hard and I was worrying about the weather for the wedding.
I made mention of my concern and the only reaction I received was, “we’ll have to wait and see.” It occurred to me later that, short of watching the Weather Channel, that was exactly all we could do. There was no way of knowing what was happening on the other side of the mountain.
The rain cleared up and the weather was cool and gorgeous for the celebration. Then the sun went down. It went down fast. I am used to sunsets that last for hours, but in the mountains, it sets and darkness seems to come in minutes.
The next weekend, I was in Fargo, ND, for another wedding. It was an equally wonderful celebration, but on the ride home, down I-29, I watched the clouds in the west. I could see the clouds building and the darkness on their belly grow deeper and deeper.
Then, as I had learned from my father, I watched for the rain in the distance. I saw it start to fall just south and west of me and I knew I would be driving into it in about an hour’s time. And I did.
It was nothing unusual, just a summer’s shower and it did not slow down the traffic in the least; and, besides, I was prepared for it. I had watched it build and I had kept an eye on it as I drove.
It was as the clouds moved on and the sun began to shine on the shiny, wet interstate that I began to realize the lie of the prairie. It had deluded me all my life and I had allowed the lesson of the plains to touch me.
It had convinced me that the future could be known. It is a lie, of course. But it is a lie I want to believe.
Isn’t it a lie we all want to believe? Even the most ardent lover of mountains would have to admit that there is something powerful about the thought that we can see, and prepare for, what the future holds. We like to think we can control our destinies and guide our lives.
We think we live our lives on the prairie.
In reality, we live in the mountains. We really have no idea what is on the other side and what is coming our way. So often we are blind-sided by pain, the hurts that life can inflict have a way of sneaking up on us. We make our plans and we mark our calendars and we think we have everything set and ready to go.
We think we are in control and the sunshine falling around us has a way of deluding us into thinking it will always shine.
We do not see the storm on the other side of the mountain until it is on top of us.
There is no way to plan or prepare for the pains, storms and hurts of life.
That may not be a bad thing. Once I was in a discussion with some people about the future and one man said he disliked the fact that he did not know what was going to happen. The young women with us said, “I’m glad I don’t know what pain is coming my way. It would drive me crazy if I did and I doubt I could handle it.”
We both looked at her and thought she was crazy, and thought she was right at the same time. How could we endure the decisions we make, the commitments we enter, the lives we live if we knew?
There would be no strength found in faith.
Faith is a strength when the storms of life coming bearing down upon us from the other side of the mountain and our plans and control and knowledge seem pitilessly weak. It is then that we find the grace of faith telling us that the deep love of God cannot, and will not, let us be lost.
The prairie might try to lull us into believing that the future can be known, but the storms from the mountains tell us differently. We know there are storms on the other side, but we also know by faith, as the words of the Song of Songs remind us, words lovingly proclaimed at a wedding in Colorado, “Hark, here He comes, leaping over the mountains.”