Prophetic Poetry
Leaving Everything
Last week the road was a tunnel of radiant orange and yellows:
ordeal by sensation, running from home to highway
then came the sleet-chilled gusts to fifty miles an hour
roaring like dragsters down the tunnel
wrenching the glowing leaves by fistfuls
from their displays
pooling the flowergraves with rosy maple faces
polka-dotting the deck
pouring with copper and gold the forest floor
stripped branches at the treetops foretell the rest
an illusion of warmth clings in frail clouds to the lower limbs
today an ember mist smolders in the sugar bush
but ice on the walk betrays the sort of night
loveliness has endured
the grass will hold desperately to its color for another month
if we can see it
the forecast for tonight holds snow
I am crying, fighting against all reason
for a summer sunrise
as though its ease and comfort
contained a promise
reason falters
there was a vision—have I come full circle?
was it not of celestial white and winter roses
springing through the harsh drifts
leaves golden quickening the deep frost
within my bitter solitude
I discern a multitude:
heat and sun upon many faces looking upwards
gala or festival—where? in winter?
Leave these things
the mystery that eludes and enfolds you
the truth you cannot grasp
accept the quiet way
the day of the falling leaves
there are promises deeper than winter
I wrote these lines, a description of what I saw on our road, together with an interior vision of an amphitheater of faces, in mid-October just before the school crisis broke—and misplaced them. They were out of mind as well as out of sight. Two years later, on the very day the moving van was picking up the few things we planned to take with us to the US for what we thought might be a permanent move, the poem paper resurfaced. It seemed a remarkable confirmation of our decision to leave all that we had been given here, especially since the departure took place in the midst of one of the worst snowstorms ever recorded to hit the eastern seaboard of the US.
We had agreed to join friends of long acquaintance in developing an outdoor theater. The potential for improving our economic status was considerable; the climate was attractive; there seemed to be a fortuitous meshing of talents and experience among us. In the first stages of considering this move, I was praying at bedtime with our two youngest children (not about our plans) when I had a vision of Jesus pointing. After prayers, I was puzzling aloud when our daughter joined us. As I described the vision, she wasn’t puzzled: “He’s pointing South, isn’t He?” she declared. Of course, the children were excited about such an adventure. None more so than our oldest son, who revealed he had been praying to be allowed to continue his education in the States.
We made an exploratory trip. We still wondered how we possibly could finance the move. As I paced the long verandah, praying, I heard, “The answer will come out of left field.” Thus, I was expecting something unexpected! Back at home, my father mentioned to our great surprise (his suggestion came “out of left field”) that friends from his church were looking for property to build a house. Thus, we sold 10 acres of our “left field” (as viewed from the road) to these friends to pay for the move. And wonderful neighbors they became, too.
When my husband went South again on a further fact-finding mission, I prepared the house for tenants. I was not well and dreaded leaving all that was familiar. How could I abandon all that God had provided for us when He led us here? As I prayed about where we would live, a different image came to me of Jesus pointing. This time He was standing on the left side of a road and pointing with arm raised at a hill with a long, curved driveway. I sketched this vision into my diary: I would recognize that place if I could find it.
After a few weeks of boarding with our Virginian friends and looking without success for places to rent, we answered an ad for a house for sale. As we drove with skimpy directions through the unfamiliar landscape, I noticed a sign beside the road, standing where the figure of Jesus had stood in my vision. The post carried a diagonal cross-bar positioned at the angle of His pointing arm. It pointed up a hill with a long, curved driveway, which to my rising excitement proved to be the advertised house. The landlady accepted our rental offer that included a tentative offer to purchase. For most of a year, we lived in “Sweet Haven” at the top of that drive with a magnificent view of the Blue Ridge Mountains, next to a family who became warmly supportive friends.
The project was an outdoor summer theater—“heat and sun upon many faces looking upwards” and “gala” and “festival.” However, despite our fervent efforts, these goals were not achieved. In fact, the winter we spent working on that project was the bleakest for frustration and disillusionment I’ve ever endured.
While our material objectives were left twisting in the wind, another story emerged through beautiful people who reached out to help us on our shaky limb. My “War Cabinet” of trustworthy professional women provided information, business advice, insights, and—from C.—money to keep us afloat in the maelstrom. Neighbor Jan shared her remarkable spiritual insight, her wisdom, her prophetic dreams, and an unfailing sympathetic ear. When Dan’s learning difficulties caused serious problems in school, one of his teachers actually came regularly to the house to tutor him. Jan also helped him with reading sessions. There were other individuals and couples who opened their hearts and homes to us—like roses in December.
When we left, our oldest son stayed. He had met a young woman with hair the color of autumn leaves. Seven years later, in a snowy Wisconsin February, they became husband and wife. There are promises deeper than winter.