He makes me lie down in green pastures, he leads me beside quiet waters, he refreshes my soul. He guides me along the right paths for his name’s sake. Even though I walk through the darkest valley, I will fear no evil for you are with me… Psalm 23:2-4
I have always been envious of big families; families with tons of aunts, uncles and cousins, nieces, nephews, grandparents and great-grandparents; generation upon generation. I see the richness that comes from that unique community that is the familial bond of name and blood. Families that are so big sometimes the lines of relation are blurred, but everybody knows that everyone is related to one another in some way, shape or form. (“Hey, Pop, who’s that?” “Him, there? That’s Jimmy. He’s my second-cousin’s father-in-law’s sister’s son. He’s from New Jersey.” I don’t know why the big families in my imagination always have a Brooklyn accent and are filled with characters named Tony, Guido and Nicky who wear gold-chain-necklaces... But I digress.)
My immediate, nuclear family growing up consisted of one brother, one sister, a mom, a dad and me. That’s it. Period. Of course we had aunts and uncles, cousins and grandparents, but geography made them actual “distant” relatives. I would receive the annual birthday card or phone call from family members far away who were more names to me than faces.
Before we continue with my story, you should know that I’m the baby of our family. The literal last child in the order. My oldest cousin is thirteen years older than me, and then the cousins and my siblings trickle down every couple of years, leaving me at the bottom. And… As is often true with the baby… I was spoiled. (At least I admit it, right?) My brother, sister and cousins can attest to my level of spoilage, but I can assure you, it was severe. What my siblings and cousins might not have realized, though, is that I absolutely idolized each of them.
When I was growing up, we would take an occasional trip to visit my “distant” cousins. They were a-little-bit-country and we were a-little-bit-rock-and-roll, if you catch my drift. Therefore, I was fascinated by my cousins’ ability to literally “hop the fence” and play kick-the-can in the woods (without getting scared). Additionally, the older kids could just jump into a car anytime they wanted. Since they were almost all licensed to drive, they would simply drive away to the movies or the ice cream shop, only to come back at midnight. Of course the spoiled baby was not invited to join in these escapades. No, my seven-year-old self had to stay with the “old people”, watch Lawrence Welk, eat watermelon (not ice cream) for dessert and go to bed at eight o’clock. Thus, my envy and idolatry of the big kids continued to grow and blossom.
It was on one of our trips to visit my cousins that we took a day-trip into mountains. Leaving early, before sunrise, to stake out the most perfect location for our day’s adventure. My uncle was a Forest Service Ranger, so he knew all the best places to hike, fish and picnic. Once we found our idyllic location, my dad and uncle made us a hearty breakfast and we prepared ourselves for a day of fun, spent fishing, hiking and exploring the nearby stream-bed and mountains.
After our breakfast, it was time to explore. As the youngest (and a city slicker) I was a little nervous of my unknown surroundings. The big kids, however, took pity on me. They were usually prone to taking off to do “big kid stuff” and leave me behind, but this time I was included in their exploration of the landscape. Or, more likely, they had been told by the adults to keep an eye on me.
My dreams had come true. I was part of their group.
We spent a good deal of time exploring around our picnic area. We splashed in the stream, skipped rocks across the water, tried to catch crawdads, threw pinecones at one another, were loud and generally as obnoxious as a pack of minor children tend to be when left to their own devices, unsupervised. For the first time I felt like I fit into the group. I began to find an acceptance, my place in the lot. They may have seen me as an annoying tag-along, but I was blissfully unaware; thankful for my inclusion. Needless to say, I was in heaven.
We hiked through some trees and bushes and along the shallow, slow moving stream. We found a trail that led up into some rocky cliffs. It was there, in the cliffs, that one of my cousins exclaimed “Wow! Look at this!” and disappeared into a cave. All the big kids immediately followed, my brother making howling noises like a wolf. The rest of the group laughed enthusiastically. I had to swallow my fear. I was part of the group now and I had to prove that I belonged; that I was courageous, not a spoiled, whiny-baby. I felt no enthusiasm to enter a dark, cold, mysterious cave; its gaping mouth enveloping my contemporaries. But… The alternative was to stay out in the open… All by myself... Alone...
I chose the cave.
It was just shallow enough that the light of day still illuminated most of the inner space. Only one corner was sheltered by the darkness. That is, of course, where my siblings and cousins were congregated, all standing but inspecting something on the ground. A cousin kicked the “something” with his foot.
I shimmied into the circle and looked to the ground. There sat a few white, time-bleached bones. “What do you think it was?” My sister asked, curiously. “Dunno,” my cousin replied, “It looks like a couple leg bones. Maybe a deer. Probably got pulled in here by a cougar or something.”
Then like magic, the interest in bones shifted and our little posse exited cave. Leaving with them, I felt a feeling in the pit of my stomach that I had never felt before. I stumbled along behind the group in a kind of horrified wonder. I was haunted by those bones. I had never, in my suburban life, stumbled across bones. Death had always been something on the periphery. I, of course, knew about predators and prey. I knew that the food we ate came from animals and I had seen the occasional “road kill” on the side of the freeway... But I had never unwittingly happened upon death. That’s what those discarded bones represented to me.
The rest of the day spent in the forest with my extended family is a blur. I don’t remember if we continued exploring. I can’t tell you if anyone caught a fish (though, I can assume that my mother did because she always seemed to be the one to catch fish). And I can’t tell you who drove the car back to my aunt and uncle’s house that day. I can, however, remember the bones. Somehow, I think I will always be haunted by those bones. There are a lot of things we forget in our lifetimes, but the instant that your humanity, your existence, becomes a tangible thing, I think that’s a moment that is hard to forget.
It brings to mind, now, the dry bones of the Bible. I love the word picture that is drawn in scripture, in the book of Ezekiel. The prophet sees a vision from God. It is a valley of dried up bones. The valley was “full” and “very dry”. Ezekiel is asked if the bones can ever live again and in his wisdom, he says only God knows. While facing this miraculous vision, interacting in dialog with the one true God, Ezekiel was instructed by God to speak life into the bones...Just say the words. Of course Ezekiel was obedient and God brought the dry bones to life. The bones became attached with flesh and tendons and skin. God instructed Ezekiel to prophesy over the army of bones and as he did, breath entered them.
I am in no way a Biblical scholar, but in my humble study, my understanding is that Ezekiel’s vision of a valley of dry bones was in fact symbolic of God’s returning his holy people to their holy land. That not only would God’s people be redeemed, but they would find their eternal redemption when Jesus returns again, to save the world.
Aren’t we all just dried bones some days? Lifelessly moving through life, devoid of passion for living. We are not meant to be dry bones. The Holy Spirit brings with him a life of love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control. It is a life of a beating heart, a thinking mind and a willful spirit. It is a life of abundance. It is a life of flesh on bone.
I was afraid to enter the cave in the mountains with my family that day. If I hadn’t gone inside, I would not have witnessed the dead remains of an animal. I may not have been confronted with my humanity that day. However, the knowledge would have eventually come. I needed to take the first step into the cave to appreciate life by witnessing death. It wasn’t easy. It was scary. But it gave me important perspective and insight to life.
Walking with Jesus isn’t easy, but every step we take with him is a step away from being dried-up, brittle bones. Every step we take away from the valley of death is a step towards green pastures and quiet waters. These steps are scary and difficult but important.
If you’re feeling like you’re nothing but dried bones, it might be time to take a walk in the mountains, find a cave and contemplate your humanity. Don’t worry, you won’t have to take the journey alone. Jesus will match you step for step. And if there are times when the terrain gets too rocky or you are too tired to take another step, he will carry you through the dry bones and insure your deliverance to the other side.
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