“Sit up,” I heard the inner whisper of the Holy Spirit say to me. I was lying on a wooden boat dock under the pale yellow rays of the northern sun on a quiet Norwegian fjord; my arms were my pillow. I was absorbing this one aesthetically perfect moment of solitude, gazing into the progressing indigo sky, putting off as long as I could the agony of packing the car for our drive home after a dizzying weekend church camp.
I did as I was told, though in a rather laconic sort of way: I leaned forward against my arms behind me and allowed my feet to dangle in the cool North Sea inlet. Soon the most luscious of breezes floated over and around me, lapping my face, my skin. I basked in this one expectant bubble of forever. The Voice came again.
“Follow the Wind, Tom! Will you follow the Wind?” It was as though God Himself was inviting me to a game of hide-and-seek. My rather realistic response was, “But I don’t know where the Wind is going.” Just as quickly, just as subtly as a butterfly flitting across my heart, He said, “You don’t need to know where it is going; you just need to follow!”
I looked around: the sun was in the same position, low on the horizon as it is in Norway even in the summer months; the breeze still held its warmth as it passed over the surface of the fjord. Somehow things felt transformed, as one would expect when a moment of time is intruded upon by the Eternal. I peeled myself off the dock, braced myself for the chaos awaiting me of over-tired kids snickerdoodled with sand and a heap of suitcases that would need to be tetra-puzzled into the car if they were all to accompany us home.
And I took with me His words and my misinterpretation of those words filtered through my own interpretation of the future. For the Wind would surely blow in the direction that seemed so obvious to me: get myself through my upcoming final exams, grab my hard-earned diploma in psychology and race toward a prestigious graduate position at a prestigious Danish research institute forming me into a prestigious clinical psychologist with a prestigious practice and income, for His glory.
The Wind did not blow according to my specifications. The Norwegian Board of Psychology does not allow one to become a psychologist if one does not fulfil their stringent requirements, which include entering their program at the age of eighteen. I was slightly beyond the age limit, so I had to set my sights elsewhere: Oxford and Cambridge were two options given by my counsellor. Moving the family was out of the question in light of our family situation. But then I came upon the possibility of ‘commuting’ to a certain university in Denmark by ferry from Norway. Doing graduate work in Denmark would qualify me to apply for a licence to practice in Norway. It sounded well and good and a visit with the psychology research department at the University of Aalborg had been altogether positive, but there was a hitch: the registrar’s office at the University did not know what to do with an American applying from Norway, since they had two different application processes for the two countries. Must I pass a Danish proficiency test? Sometimes yes, when I was viewed as an American, and sometimes no, when I was viewed as a Norwegian. At the end of a confusing string of emails and phone calls the Registrar concluded that the bachelor’s degree I received in Norway lacked two required courses. I was also informed that, should I complete these two courses, there would be no guarantee that I would be accepted to the University since my application would be reviewed anew. The two courses were only available in Denmark; we would’ve had to move the family there for me to take two ridiculously basic courses which may or may not have helped me fulfill the university’s ever-shifting entry requirements.
The professor I visited in Denmark called me weeks later and wondered why I wasn’t attending the university. I rolled my eyes on the other end of the line and simplified the story as best I could for her to comprehend the idiocy of the application process. She informed me that she had actually been part of the decision in requiring those two extra courses. And she wondered why I wasn’t coming? I informed her I would have to look elsewhere for a graduate program, adding as a final grace note that it was ‘their loss’ that I wasn’t coming. I hung up the phone and sulked. And sulked. And sulked for months on end.
Did you know that the Wind, that the Spirit can brood? It was as if He had led me into a clearing in an intensely thick forest, and He was circling, circling, waiting, because the clearing in the forest had no outlet.
I found myself working at the same mind-numbing job at the half-way house. Cleaning up after and tending to the bleeding wounds of drug addicts when I could be working on my masters’ thesis? Madness! The place was fine while I studied psychology: my primary job description was to take care of off-chance emergencies; but on normal days I had so much empty time on my hands I was actually ‘paid’ to study for my classes! I was then given the ‘honor’ of a full-time position which only increased the academic vacuum I found myself in.
I got the idea that I could at least do some writing while sitting there waiting for something to happen. One could only read the newspaper so many times or see so many repeats of ‘McGyver’. So I began taking my laptop and doing some writing on the job, which my boss ultimately frowned upon. “You need to be fully available for whatever may happen”, was his reason. Double madness! Grudgingly keeping my laptop home I dusted-off my Norton Anthology series and began reading all of those epic works I bought Cliff Notes for earlier in life. I almost made it through Beowulf when in an off-chance quiet time I heard the Wind say, “The field of psychology would not have been good for you.”
His words hit me like a baseball bat turning me around several times until I was facing my situation from a completely different angle. I allowed myself to say, “I never really thought of that!”
I had been on a personal Crusade to conquer for Christ the godless Beast of Psychology. I saw myself weaving through the professional obstacle course that is set to obliterate any psychology career should one mention the mere possibility that God may, indeed, exist, racing toward the goal of placing Jesus in His rightful place as Lord and Healer of the Psychologist-Oppressed and slamming my name through the goalposts of fame while a flutter of public accolade and book deals glittered around me like confetti at a ticker-tape parade.
It was not to be, and I saw it so clearly. Pursuing a clinical psychology practice was noble and even a logical progression from my earlier studies, but it wasn’t ever what He had in mind. I’m still not quite sure why He had me study psychology, to be honest, except for the possibility that He gave me my heart’s desire to finish a degree 30 years after most others finish theirs; but I know that I hadn’t sinned in thinking that I was to go into psychology. Maybe the vision of book deals landing at my feet was flitting with sin, but even so. So I stood there, the bands packing up their instruments and the television crews rolling up their cords, and there was Jesus. He was standing there, struggling to remove a piece of confetti that somehow got lodged in his hair, waiting for me to disregard the din of the adulating crowd and to look for him somewhere behind the concession stand. And there He was.
And we were suddenly back in the forest-green clearing in the woods, the Wind swirling, intensifying, gaining momentum and strength and I watched the Wind bypass any intention of making a path through the woods and instead shoot straight Up where the big outstretched hand of Daddy God was so there and so comforting and waiting for me to reach to Him so that He could pull me out of my hopelessness and into His light and care.
And this was really the prelude to the Toaster Story.
I did as I was told, though in a rather laconic sort of way: I leaned forward against my arms behind me and allowed my feet to dangle in the cool North Sea inlet. Soon the most luscious of breezes floated over and around me, lapping my face, my skin. I basked in this one expectant bubble of forever. The Voice came again.
“Follow the Wind, Tom! Will you follow the Wind?” It was as though God Himself was inviting me to a game of hide-and-seek. My rather realistic response was, “But I don’t know where the Wind is going.” Just as quickly, just as subtly as a butterfly flitting across my heart, He said, “You don’t need to know where it is going; you just need to follow!”
I looked around: the sun was in the same position, low on the horizon as it is in Norway even in the summer months; the breeze still held its warmth as it passed over the surface of the fjord. Somehow things felt transformed, as one would expect when a moment of time is intruded upon by the Eternal. I peeled myself off the dock, braced myself for the chaos awaiting me of over-tired kids snickerdoodled with sand and a heap of suitcases that would need to be tetra-puzzled into the car if they were all to accompany us home.
And I took with me His words and my misinterpretation of those words filtered through my own interpretation of the future. For the Wind would surely blow in the direction that seemed so obvious to me: get myself through my upcoming final exams, grab my hard-earned diploma in psychology and race toward a prestigious graduate position at a prestigious Danish research institute forming me into a prestigious clinical psychologist with a prestigious practice and income, for His glory.
The Wind did not blow according to my specifications. The Norwegian Board of Psychology does not allow one to become a psychologist if one does not fulfil their stringent requirements, which include entering their program at the age of eighteen. I was slightly beyond the age limit, so I had to set my sights elsewhere: Oxford and Cambridge were two options given by my counsellor. Moving the family was out of the question in light of our family situation. But then I came upon the possibility of ‘commuting’ to a certain university in Denmark by ferry from Norway. Doing graduate work in Denmark would qualify me to apply for a licence to practice in Norway. It sounded well and good and a visit with the psychology research department at the University of Aalborg had been altogether positive, but there was a hitch: the registrar’s office at the University did not know what to do with an American applying from Norway, since they had two different application processes for the two countries. Must I pass a Danish proficiency test? Sometimes yes, when I was viewed as an American, and sometimes no, when I was viewed as a Norwegian. At the end of a confusing string of emails and phone calls the Registrar concluded that the bachelor’s degree I received in Norway lacked two required courses. I was also informed that, should I complete these two courses, there would be no guarantee that I would be accepted to the University since my application would be reviewed anew. The two courses were only available in Denmark; we would’ve had to move the family there for me to take two ridiculously basic courses which may or may not have helped me fulfill the university’s ever-shifting entry requirements.
The professor I visited in Denmark called me weeks later and wondered why I wasn’t attending the university. I rolled my eyes on the other end of the line and simplified the story as best I could for her to comprehend the idiocy of the application process. She informed me that she had actually been part of the decision in requiring those two extra courses. And she wondered why I wasn’t coming? I informed her I would have to look elsewhere for a graduate program, adding as a final grace note that it was ‘their loss’ that I wasn’t coming. I hung up the phone and sulked. And sulked. And sulked for months on end.
Did you know that the Wind, that the Spirit can brood? It was as if He had led me into a clearing in an intensely thick forest, and He was circling, circling, waiting, because the clearing in the forest had no outlet.
I found myself working at the same mind-numbing job at the half-way house. Cleaning up after and tending to the bleeding wounds of drug addicts when I could be working on my masters’ thesis? Madness! The place was fine while I studied psychology: my primary job description was to take care of off-chance emergencies; but on normal days I had so much empty time on my hands I was actually ‘paid’ to study for my classes! I was then given the ‘honor’ of a full-time position which only increased the academic vacuum I found myself in.
I got the idea that I could at least do some writing while sitting there waiting for something to happen. One could only read the newspaper so many times or see so many repeats of ‘McGyver’. So I began taking my laptop and doing some writing on the job, which my boss ultimately frowned upon. “You need to be fully available for whatever may happen”, was his reason. Double madness! Grudgingly keeping my laptop home I dusted-off my Norton Anthology series and began reading all of those epic works I bought Cliff Notes for earlier in life. I almost made it through Beowulf when in an off-chance quiet time I heard the Wind say, “The field of psychology would not have been good for you.”
His words hit me like a baseball bat turning me around several times until I was facing my situation from a completely different angle. I allowed myself to say, “I never really thought of that!”
I had been on a personal Crusade to conquer for Christ the godless Beast of Psychology. I saw myself weaving through the professional obstacle course that is set to obliterate any psychology career should one mention the mere possibility that God may, indeed, exist, racing toward the goal of placing Jesus in His rightful place as Lord and Healer of the Psychologist-Oppressed and slamming my name through the goalposts of fame while a flutter of public accolade and book deals glittered around me like confetti at a ticker-tape parade.
It was not to be, and I saw it so clearly. Pursuing a clinical psychology practice was noble and even a logical progression from my earlier studies, but it wasn’t ever what He had in mind. I’m still not quite sure why He had me study psychology, to be honest, except for the possibility that He gave me my heart’s desire to finish a degree 30 years after most others finish theirs; but I know that I hadn’t sinned in thinking that I was to go into psychology. Maybe the vision of book deals landing at my feet was flitting with sin, but even so. So I stood there, the bands packing up their instruments and the television crews rolling up their cords, and there was Jesus. He was standing there, struggling to remove a piece of confetti that somehow got lodged in his hair, waiting for me to disregard the din of the adulating crowd and to look for him somewhere behind the concession stand. And there He was.
And we were suddenly back in the forest-green clearing in the woods, the Wind swirling, intensifying, gaining momentum and strength and I watched the Wind bypass any intention of making a path through the woods and instead shoot straight Up where the big outstretched hand of Daddy God was so there and so comforting and waiting for me to reach to Him so that He could pull me out of my hopelessness and into His light and care.
And this was really the prelude to the Toaster Story.
I'm still waiting for Toaster II! :-) Reading this took me back to the days when you and I exchanged letters around the globe; they were always long, deep, full of soul and heart, and left one with a satisfying sigh and desire to respond in kind, a good cuppa and a comfortable chair, a quill pen and good stationary at hand.
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