arches
I have been thinking a lot about arches.
Every time my feet land on our front porch, arches surround me.
A quick count reveals five arches on our small stoop.
Our front porch has been the required location, spanning decades of first-day-of-school photos or snapping images of friends and family to mark a visit.
An arch envelopes each one of us.
The arches adorning our home are made of brick. If I am honest, the brick isn’t comprised
of my favorite shade combinations. Those brick colors would be on the Tudor-style house diagonally across from our abode. Our brick contains shades of cream, pale apricot, and rust, not the deeper brick colors I prefer.
New owners hailing from Arizona bought the house with the preferable brick (wink) this past spring. The home remained uninhabited for nearly seven months, creating the usual neighborhood buzz and questions. A few weeks before the new neighbors arrived, our street became filled with brick layers who, over three weeks’ time, added a ramped entrance adjacent to the front steps.
I walk next to our bricks daily and rarely think about the process required to create the design and arch work. From my ever-present position at our dining room table, I watched while these brick layers worked. As the project took shape, their labor was quite beautiful. Each person had a specific job and completed it with precision and timing. Their expertise was stunning, and despite my color preferences, I must admit our home’s brickwork is equally exquisite.
I doubt there are many people who would not consider the last three years to be anything less than life-altering. The image of an arch has been meaningful to me as I reflect on these past years and what has been contained over these hundreds of days.
If I took a piece of paper and drew a large arch with my favorite Sharpie, it wouldn’t be a perfect arch; only achieve the general desired shape.
Suppose I was an animated character and could reach my hand to grasp one side of the hand-drawn arch, only as high as the length of my arm, far below the full expanse of the arch.
I picture myself this way over the last few years.
Perhaps if I squint hard enough, this has been my posture always.
Often, I hold tightly to the straight edge of the arch but am on the outside, being buffeted and pushed by the cold winds of life. When I am brave and wiser, I extend my elbows, swivel my body, and shift over to the other side of the length I am holding. It’s akin to leaning back on a swing. This action takes abandon and trust. When I am fully under the arch, the wind continues to blow. I can still feel its power, but I am sturdier in this position and less likely to be toppled.
Prior to my recent physical struggles, I would often replace one of our bird feeders by wrapping my left arm around one length of our largest brick arch, leaning to the right to reach the hanging hook.
I never doubted my ability to complete this task nor the brick archway’s ability to hold me.
I never wondered if a certain day would be when the brick crumbled or the arch started to sway. I completely submitted to my body’s ability to reach the desired destination. I have slowly begun this routine again. I always trust the arch, even on days when my abilities feel more fragile than normal.
November is a fragile month for our family.
Last week marked three years since losing a beloved man who was a husband, father, brother, grandfather, and friend to a cast of thousands, it seemed.
It’s difficult to believe we have traversed this passage of time.
Less than two weeks later, we will remember his birthday, which lands on Thanksgiving this year. I think reflecting on how time has crept past makes the days and events when he hasn’t been present even weightier.
I am grateful for arches.
I am grateful that God has been the arch over my days.
He is an ever-present help in times of trouble.
He is my Comforter.
He is my Protector.
He is my Shepherd who makes me lie down in green pastures.
He is God, who is with me through it all and in it all.
Thanks be to God.
When I began to write publicly on a blog in 2006, one of the main reasons was to share my life and hopefully make others feel less alone. Over these years, I have discovered time and time again how our life experiences have the power to overlap with one another.
In my recent blog post about trees, several of you shared how my tree love resonated and reciprocated with your own stories. I LOVED these exchanges.
Over at least six months, I have text messages full of sudden and unanticipated pain and trials of people I love. It seems no one is immune from hardship in this life.
When I write about the Arch, I write from the deep knowledge that putting yourself underneath doesn’t magically cause our situations and suffering to disappear in a poof. Much like my preferred brick color, I would prefer my trials to cease but it’s not the arch I occupy.
I will repeat, the powerful winds of trials may still remain but there is respite and feeling less alone. I hope you feel this as well.
May you place yourself directly under the expanse of an archway.
May you find comfort if you are missing someone this Thanksgiving and holiday season.
May you have complete trust in the Arch even when you feel fragile.
