​We should have foreseen it. A few miles after turning off the interstate, we found ourselves in the middle of a cellular black hole. No Internet. No emails, no texts, no calls. And definitely no social media.

We’d been on a business road trip, driving across country to visit customers for the first time since lock-down. As my husband drove, I was in full working mode, dashing off quotes, fielding calls, shooting instructions to my assistant.

And then all of a sudden, I wasn’t.

The county where we were headed had one claim to fame: its impressive inverse ratio of population to square miles. The seat had fewer than 100 residents. Yet they had need of our product, so we’d made an appointment to stop by.

Sidelined from productivity, I was forced to look up and outside my window at the spectacular, southwestern scenery. Terra cotta-colored buttes pushing up from acres of high desert scrub land, uninhabited except for the occasional grazing cow or horse. Wispy, ash-blonde grasses undulated in the easterly breeze as rambunctious seed-puffs skittered gleefully across the two-lane highway. Perky cliques of Black-eyed Susans gossiped, and scrubby dark evergreens—pinyon pine and juniper—freckled the face of modest hills that grew more assertive as the elevation climbed.

After a few reflexive attempts to check my electronics, I rested my hands quietly in my lap and felt the stress melt away from my mind and muscles as they absorbed the soul-nourishing beauty and its silence but for the wind rushing by.

I smiled at my husband. He smiled back.

The trip's only drama was when a shiny red snake slithered across the road, making the tactical mistake of pausing midway to consider his options, which at that point became regrettably limited.

Nearing our destination, a couple of cell towers rose in the distance. I took a glance at my phone, only to find that our carrier had apparently not felt the region worthy of its infrastructure, leaving it to the competition. Off-grid confirmed, I slipped the impotent device back into my purse and breathed thanks for the gift of this moment.

When we arrived, we asked for our point of contact, who had apparently been called out of state on a family emergency. Would we like to wait for 20 minutes for someone else?

“Why not?” we said, embracing our temporary vacation, sipping hot coffee and taking in the tiny town’s quaint pride in their centennial celebration, boasting a logo contest and plans for a parade of decorated automobiles, tractors, and horses. We wandered the grounds and observed the humble goings-on: passing pick-up truck drivers stopping mid-street for genial conversation. A pair of outraged goldfinches chasing off a crow. A barking hound tethered just out of range of the little terrier his owner scooped up in her arms as she walked by.

Our substitute contact point turned out to be the mayor, who arrived shortly in his own pick-up truck, dressed in scuffed cowboy boots and a ball cap. The town had a legitimate problem that our products could help address, so we launched into a discussion of possible solutions, which he interrupted for a moment to take a call. His ringtone was literally the sound of crickets.

I was in no hurry to wrap up our respite and return to “civilization” with its raucous demands and constant stimulus. For all its benefits, my digital existence had crowded out the simple delights of the natural world around me, and I hadn’t felt its crushing weight until it was lifted in that brief reprieve.  

I was purely present.  And purely happy.  

Shuttle driver.  Doctor.  Janitor.  Fellow resident.  Everyone who encountered my dad heard the same story.  

“I’ve got five great kids,” he’d boast, holding up his hand, fingers spread apart like exclamation marks.  “Four daughters,” he’d say, carefully folding the fingers over, leaving a hitchhiker’s thumb—missing half its nail since that last power tool incident— “and one son. Five great kids and not a lemon in the bunch!”  

If you lingered, he would slowly recite the names, sometimes struggling but never failing to come up with all five.  
   
Though he’s been gone for several years, my sister and I still marvel at the miracle of this man we call “New Dad.” 

The father we were more familiar with was driven:  a scientist and entrepreneur, always chasing the next invention that would make him a millionaire and silence the “never-good-enough” inner voice of the boy who grew up, literally, on the wrong side of the tracks. Other than the occasional memorable bout of paternal discipline, he left the child-rearing to our mother while he focused on business and loomed large but inaccessible in the periphery of domestic life.

It wasn’t until Alzheimer’s slowly and decisively shut the door on his ambitions that our dad was transformed—in the best way.   Stripped of his dreams, his car, home, health, and even his wife of 63 years, New Dad emerged with gradual acceptance, twinkle-eyed humor, and a buoyant love for family that rose like a submerged beach ball, impossible to keep down. 

Tragedy and redemptive beauty sometimes walk side-by-side.  When all else is lost, love remains, triumphant. 

“Do you want to include Anne’s granddaughter?” I asked, flipping to the next page of my mom’s well-worn address book.   
She shifted in her easy chair, trying to get a little more comfortable.   Addressing Christmas cards was quite a task.  
 
“No, she was just writing to be polite.   No need to add her to the list.” 

My mother was a prodigious correspondent.   All her life, she’d been faithful to remember family and friends’ special occasions with a note or card and to respond quickly—usually within a few days—whenever she received a letter.  In recent years, she’d embraced email, but now she was struggling to navigate the computer.   And her exquisite handwriting had grown shaky; nearly illegible.  

I’d volunteered to help address the cards and mail them for her, easing a burden that she still refused to relinquish.  

As we addressed the cards, I wanted so much to ask her about the names I recognized only vaguely.  Who were Marguerite and Jim?  How did we know the Fishman family?  Were we related to Lucille or was she a friend from bygone days?   There were stories, I was sure, for whom she was the only source: relationships which I wanted to learn of and hold close.  But, besides the real issue of her fatigue, asking those questions would have been an admission that she might not always be around with the answers.  And I firmly closed my mind’s door on that thought.
  
Before the next Christmas, she was gone.  And the stories, the relationships, the answers died with her.  As I slowly turned the pages of her address book, I grieved the loss of those friendships that she had so cherished.  I felt great sadness and regret for allowing my denial of her mortality to rob me of the opportunity to capture and carry forward precious memories and connections.  A future without my mother had been inconceivable.  I wish now I had had the courage to ask the delicate questions anyway. 
 
Because freedom from regret is an incomparable gift you can give yourself, today.   

The tension tumbles from her tiny, boney shoulders.  My mother, struggling from afflictions too many to count, still gives a beautiful smile of welcome and voices her concern for my well-being—not hers—whenever I come to visit.  Practical matters handled and conversation exhausted, I then gently massage her scalp with my fingers and watch her body go limp with delight.
​    
Before they moved to assisted living, our family cycled through a series of helpers to care for my mother and, on a basic level, for my father with Alzheimer’s. One day, I came over and found Crystal kneeling in front of my dad, her hands working a pumice stone vigorously to smooth his shockingly neglected feet—reminiscent of a Galilean who had once humbled Himself to tend the feet of His friends. 

I am fortunate to work with my husband, where we spend most of our day independently busy, even emailing from the next office to ask a quick question. From time to time, he’ll pause what he’s doing to come up behind me and massage my shoulders for a moment and I melt. Sometimes it is I who visits, dropping a kiss on the top of his head and sliding my hand gently along his arm in silent affection.
​       
When other languages of love come up short, never underestimate the power of touch.  A simple, caring touch can transcend words to speak love that goes straight to the heart.  

“Return to your stronghold, O prisoners of hope; today I declare that I will restore to you double.” Zechariah 9:12 (ESV)

Somewhere in my childhood, I learned the lesson that hope is not safe. What imprinted that mantra into my young psyche, I’m not sure. Maybe hoping for something that never materialized: a special doll from the Sears Wish Book. Or a smile of approval from my preoccupied father. My disillusioned heart carried that conviction into adulthood like the chicken pox scar under my eye—barely noticeable but indelible.

I considered “hope” one of the most dangerous words in the English language. Hope is a set-up for heartbreak. Where hope abides, disappointment is idling in the driveway with a U-Haul. Who needs that kind of pain? So I said “nope” to hope and lowered my expectations to passive pessimism, preferring the occasional pleasant surprise to the disappointment of dashed dreams. 

I understood intellectually that the Lord is good and loving, but my guarded heart was crippled. By refusing to hope, I was unable to fully trust in Him, afraid to let go for fear of letdown.    

Friend, has something robbed your hope? Maybe, like Hannah (1 Samuel 1:3), you long to have a child and every month your hope crumbles a little bit more. Maybe you hope your marriage will change. Your health will improve. You’ll find another job after quarantine. After a while, you might be ready to jettison hope altogether—or at least imprison your expectations behind the bars of your heart, locking away their relentless ache.

In the days of Zechariah, the Jews had begun to return from their exile in Babylon and rebuild Jerusalem. After years of struggle with adversaries on all sides, some had given up hope that they could ever fortify and reestablish the city. Yet God gave them a promise that lifted their eyes beyond their hopeless circumstances to the source of sure and unshakable hope: the coming Messiah. “Behold, your king is coming to you; righteous and having salvation is he, humble and mounted on a donkey… Return to your stronghold, O prisoners of hope; today I declare that I will restore to you double.” (Zechariah 9:9,12, ESV)

As He did for his people, Israel, God heard my unspoken longings and fulfilled them perfectly through the love of Jesus Christ, setting me free to hope, to risk, to dream God-sized dreams.   

When fear and disappointment imprison our hope, Jesus invites us to come to Him, our stronghold and place of safety. Whatever we’re afraid to reach for, whatever we’ve lost, He promises to restore double the blessings as we rely on Him.
​
Dear God, thank You that all my hopes are safe with You. Help me trust You with my deepest longings and remember that You desire to bless immeasurably more than all I could ask or imagine. 

© Leslie A. McLeod 2021

Jesus.
The name grates.
Like a stone in your shoe.  Or a speck in your eye.
Its presence can’t be ignored.
 
Jesus.
The name pulses with electricity.
Like the name of your first love.  Or your bitterest enemy.
It pulls.  It repels.
And you react.
 
Jesus.
The name is everywhere.
In every birth, every sunset, every cyclone –
   it is the heartbeat of the earth.
It will not, cannot go away.
 
Jesus.
The name probes.
A laser into your thoughts,
    it disturbs your comfort, shatters your independence.
It intrudes.
 
Jesus.
The name of love,
    with love’s passion, pain and promise.
It draws you.  It pursues you.  It calls you --
    to a choice.
 
© Leslie McLeod, 1999

If.  
Two letters. 
One powerful word.
If wounds with regret. 
If only I hadn’t.
If only I had. 
Taunting specter.    
The keening ache of yesterday’s if.  

If boasts. 
Constant.  Confident.  
Arrogant, almost. 
If, then. 
Reap, sow.
If struts in tall boots, certain of today. 

But what if?      
Peering beyond,   
If quivers with hope,
A golden aspen leaf, ready to fall.
If I am not, am I still?  
If it is true, will I believe? 
A whispered answer beckons,
Overcoming  if’s last doubt.    

© Leslie McLeod 2018