Ordinary days, aftershocks, and the Rapture

Another earthquake post — the one I promised.

In an earlier post, I had mentioned that the Nepal earthquake of April 2015 did not have such a great impact on me than the aftershocks that followed it. Yes, I still think so.

The big one came and went; it was just a memory after five minutes. But hundreds of aftershocks followed it; and they were not just memories. Knowing that they had come today, yesterday, and the day before that; and knowing that they would probably continue on for a whole year made them more than just memories.

It wouldn’t be exactly true to say that aftershocks became a part of life. But it came close.

Sometimes one would come when I was studying at my desk, helping my brother with his schoolwork, or practicing the keyboard. Just a quick shudder, a leap in my pulse — and I would be awed to think that I had not been expecting it. Then another would follow the next day when I was cooking dinner. The water inside the water-filter would tremble again.

Sometimes, they were like the first one; our house would rock and tilt and lurch as if it were a village local bus, crossing the bumpy riverbed. Once, it was more like a jump. But most of the the time, the aftershocks would gently nudge our house — north to south.

You know, our brains are wired in a particular way: it expects the earth keep still. It’s as if our little understandings are saying subconsciously, “Everything can change, but the earth will remain the same.” But that’s not true. The earth can turn to liquid in a split second; and when it does, our brain is a little confused, having its theory disproven.

Once I woke up around 3 a.m. The mattress was sliding north and south, and I was sliding with it. I think it was a being-rocked-in-a-crib-like feeling. I was sleeping with my sisters, and they were woken up by the aftershock, too. We tried to rate the aftershock, amused to think that we had become “experienced” seismologists. We checked the news that morning; and, lo and behold, we had guessed right.

The last time a significant one came (5+ on the Richter scale), I was reading Absolute Surrender by Andrew Murray. It was on a Saturday afternoon, and I was flopped on my brother’s bed, highlighting every other sentence in my ebook. When the windows began to clatter and everything jolted, my heart beat sped up. I was about to get up, but it stopped.

I resumed my reading . . . my mind wandered. The rapture — it will be like this.

“In a moment, in the twinkling of an eye, at the last trump: for the trumpet shall sound . . . and we shall be changed . . .  For the Lord himself shall descend from heaven with a shout, with the voice of the archangel, and with the trump of God . . . Then we which are alive and remain shall be caught up together with them in the clouds, to meet the Lord in the air: and so shall we ever be with the Lord.” (from 1 Cor. 15, 1 Thess. 4)

I know it will be at a time when I am not expecting it. He has said to us that He will come “at an hour when ye think not” (Luke 12:40). But I can be ready.

The rapture — perhaps, today might be the day. Are you ready? Are you saved? Is your lamp burning?

Sometime some ordinary day will come,
A busy day like this—filled to the brim
With ordinary tasks—perhaps so full
That we have little thought or care for Him.

And there will be no hint from silent skies,
No sign, no clash of cymbals, roll of drums;
And yet that ordinary day will be
The very day in which our Lord will come.
— Anonymous

Through the Fog

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Fog. I wonder if there is any traveler who likes fog. Artists and poets might find something good in it, but I doubt that any pilgrim could appreciate it.

As for me, I hate fog — especially when we are traveling. The grayish-white cloak of monotony is wearisome: it shrouds the scenery with gloom and an all-encomassing despondency. It is a veil that conceals every mountain, tree, and rock. Even the edge of the road is barely perceptible, sometimes!

Some time ago, we were traveling through fog. It was not the thickest fog we had seen, nor was it nighttime. Still, the bleak surroundings seemed overwhelm me. I was tired — tired of the fog, tired of the tortuous roads, tired of traveling. My soul seemed to be as dreary as the fog outside the misted window-glass.

Then I remembered a song I’d learned years ago:

Why should I care if the sun doesn’t shine?
Jesus is mine, all of the time.
Why should I care if the storm clouds are low?
Jesus is with me I know.
He will never forsake me, I am under His wing,
Tho’ trials o’ertake me,
I will praise Him and sing.
I am ever so happy,
So why should I care if the sun doesn’t shine?
Jesus is mine all the time.

Then, the remembrance that Jesus is mine aroused me, invigorated me, and fired me with zeal for my Lord. . .

Or . . . that is what . . . should have happened, right?

Well. It didn’t. It was good to remember; but still, my heart was weary. I was still tired of staring at the fog. You see, simply knowing God’s truth isn’t enough for victory.

Until I decided that I was going to trust God that He was with me although I couldn’t see Him through all the weariness of my mind and obey Philippians 4:4 in spite of the fog, that song was just an ideality to wish for.

But when I did trust, He blessed. Sure, the fog was all around and the U-turns were as bad as ever, but I had the peace that passeth all understanding. Faith as a grain of mustard seed, and He accepted it.

“But without faith it is impossible to please him: for he that cometh to God must believe that he is, and that he is a rewarder of them that diligently seek Him” (Hebrews 11:6).

How amazing He is! And He is the ever-faithful one that always rewards even our feeblest footsteps to draw near to Him (James 4:4).

We climbed higher and higher up the mountain. Reaching the summit, we broke through the fog. Behind, I could see the impenetrable gloom. Ahead, the mountains and valleys were spread out in majestic grandeur. And I remembered the sweet promise in Isaiah 44:22:

“I have swept away your offenses like a cloud, your sins like the morning mist.”

Brother, a Boeing 747-8, and a Believer

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Trees, trees, and more trees. Rolling hills and valleys. We are flying through the Nepal East-West Highway at 100 kph. I stare out the window, and my mind wanders.

“Baba?” my brother’s voice breaks through my thoughts.

“What?” my father answers him.

“I think —” he says ponderously, “I think the pilot of the Boeing 747-8 must be like God.”

Hearing his awed voice, I stifle a giggle. Sumpurna has fallen in love with that airliner this month because of the video Baba downloaded for him.

My father is wiser. “Why?” he prompts him.

“Because there are all those dials and things,” my brother replies, enthusiastically. “There are so many things that he must be like God to know everything all at once!”

“Well . . . I think he is more like a believer more than being like God.”

Now it’s my brothers turn to ask, “Why?”

“The pilot cannot use his eyes to pilot the plane — I mean, he has to, but not by looking out the windshield. He has to look at the dials to guide him to the airport. He has to pilot by faith. It is like the believer looking at God’s Word and walking through life by faith, not by sight.”

Anyone would think that my brother would be satisfied with the answer; but, no, he has more questions: “Don’t the dials ever go wrong? What happens if it does? Doesn’t the pilot look out of his windshield to look at the lights when he is landing? What do the people on top of the tower do?”

“The people on the towers direct the pilot as the Holy Spirit directs the believer. If he doesn’t hear them, the pilot will not be safe.”

The conversation goes on and on. We have crossed the jungle and reached the suburb areas. I stare out the window, and the houses flash by.