rudder
My phone vibrates against the bar top, suddenly shaking the metal tray beside with a vibrant zing. Sighing, I reach for my coffee mug, slowly inhaling the drifting steam. Too early. But our peaks and valleys do reverberate, contagiously.
I lift the phone, reluctantly scanning the notifications. Hurricane could come our way, and just the weekend we plan to head to the beach for a retreat.
“Mom, your schedule paper is right here,” Riley says, gesturing toward the bar, gently reminding me in her light, sweet way, that I am still their rudder, and that she’s waiting on me for direction.
I open up the browser on my phone and search for reports on the storm–five different predictions about where it could go, and at what strength, and how significantly, or not, it could impact the coast. They have computer models with video, and in all of them, the hurricane looks like a bleeding sore gashed right into the ocean. Four people have lost their lives, or so the headline says. We have contingencies to consider, a knotted-up list of responsibilities and what ifs, and the safety of a whole group of friends to protect. I have an email, two texts, two Facebook messages, and a Facebook post, all wondering about the hurricane. These storms blot out visibility, unpredicatable and menacing, wrecking our plans. It suddenly seems as though our careful, prayerful efforts will fall apart. We have no idea where the real threat to us begins and ends.
“Mom, I said, ‘The schedule paper is right there,'” Riley says again, and then sits down at the bar, folding her hands, carefully weaving her delicate fingers together. She smiles, and waits, relaxed and patient. Riley starts absolutely every morning by passing this off to me, the laminiated sheet where I plot the day in slick, black lines, outlining not only expectation but sequence. And should I set aside the job in the midst of hustling through breakfast and time and gathering, she’ll scoop it up in her ready fingers and place the day once again in my hands, as she does now, prepared to wait on me for the impetus to begin. She will wait on me for as long as it takes, immovable, until I set her course. Once, enjoying her presence on a day off from school, I forgot that she waited and why. We chattered while I worked; I planted kisses on her forehead; I wandered away to fold warm towels and took a shower. Finally, wandering back downstairs, I found Riley still sitting in the exact same place, waiting on me to write the schedule.
Time’s coming when she’ll need to be able to do this without me. Her independence insists upon it. I toss the phone back on the bar. I can’t make out what to do.
“What do you think we should write on it?” I ask her, dividing avocado among the breakfast plates in rich green quarters.
“Ummm, I’m not sure. I don’t think I know,” She says, sliding her gaze sideways and down my cheek.
Riley has never forgotten a single “to do” list we’ve given her. In fact, she still works through reminders we stored years ago on a now unrechargeable, now useless Ipod. “I found it in my head,” she said one day, when I asked her how in the world she still kept up with that list. So this, I know, is not about whether or not Riley could create her own schedule from memory. She can find it in her head, if she must. But she’s looking at me, and I’m here with her and available.
“I just really like it when you write the schedule,” she says, without looking at me. With one hand, she tugs at tangles well-hidden in her thick, brassy hair, and with the other, she points toward the laminated sheet, the wet-erase marker tossed at a sharp angle on top, like a slash. Despite her obvious capability, the simple fact is that Riley still trusts me more than she trusts herself. She prefers my agenda to her own. Most days, the order of things barely changes, but her comfort rests in seeing the bold outline of the day in my handwriting, not in the reliability of her own memory. Every day, she exactly transposes what I’ve written onto a dry erase board beside the door, checking it relentlessly for direction, like a trusted map, and on the days when I change things up, her questions focus on how to facilitate the change, not whether or not to allow me the intrusion.
Again, my cell phone zings, and I sigh. I feel caught up in a fury, tossed in a mad whirling wind, left without a good way to see in front of me. The hurricane may be far out at sea, but this morning, it has shown up in my kitchen, and it’s blowing debris all over my peace. And then there’s Riley, sitting right here, teaching me. Wait for the Lord, Spirit says, and Riley smiles at me from her waiting, long, graceful fingernails in glittery rows. Be strong and take heart and wait for the Lord (Psalm 27:14).
Even when the hurricane could be coming my way, He’s still my rudder. Hecan not only see through the storm, He can still it, if He chooses. Quiet; Be still (Mark 4:39). Be still, and know that I am God (Psalm 46:10). When it seems as though He’s set aside the schedule, I need only to take a lesson from Riley and return the day to His hands.
Lord, I need to know what you want us to do. Your schedule paper is right here. And I’m prepared to wait.
