"On Close Encounters of the Small Kind"

Rubbing my hand across my arm as I crawled out of bed, the day began with gratitude that I had only been stung once.  Most of my bicep was still swollen and red, hot to the touch, but the itching had finally stopped at some point during the night.  The day before I had a “Close Encounter of the Small Kind,”  when I was stung by a tiny little insect, a bee.

The cycle of nature, including the gardening cycle, is running at least a month early this year.  Winter came and went, barely making itself known.  There is no snow pack in the mountains, the base which provides the water source for Oregon’s reputation for lush vegetation.  That lack has us all wondering what is going to happen as summer comes into full play.  In addition, a lengthy, ferocious heat wave is quickly turning life brown.

“A month early”—my mind has been processing that thought for quite a while, as I consider the habits of bees.  A serious encounter with wasps two years ago when I dug into a nest has had me on edge ever since.  They often get nasty toward the end of summer, but this year everything is “a month early.”  Even though I have been in an alert mode, it is not helpful when they build their nests in the ground, visible only when they have been disturbed, a virtual natural land mine with the potential to explode upon contact.  I had my first encounter of the season yesterday, and it’s not even July yet.

Oftentimes, we apply the marker a "big" deal to catastrophic events that would alter and affect our lives and its very existence: natural disasters, fire, life-threatening diseases or health concerns, loss of job and income, stock market crashes, calamitous accidents.  I maintain, however, that life can be just as markedly touched by what can only be viewed as a "small" thing.

Many years ago, my family headed to a small local airport with my son so he could return to school in Southern California after having spent Christmas at home.  The car, a boat of a station wagon, wasn’t behaving well, so after saying our goodbyes at the airport, the decision was made to head to my parents, 45 minutes away, rather than continue the trip back home, a much longer drive.

It had been spitting snow as we left the airport, and the further we traveled, the more inclement the weather became; the further we traveled, the more sluggish the car.  Darkness had come, and we were on a side road rather than the freeway.  It was obvious wisdom was keeping people in their homes instead of venturing out on the road as there was no traffic.  Blizzard-like conditions prevailed with snow blowing sideways and visibility at a bare minimum.

After having traveled just a few miles, the car came to a halt.  Three children and two adults, stranded on a country road in the midst of what turned out to be a wicked blizzard, gnarling traffic and grinding the valley floor to a halt for two weeks before the ice and snow melted.

In a time before cell phones, we had no plan.  This one caught us by surprise.  There were no blankets in the car, no flashlights.  It was dark and cold, getting colder and bleaker by the minute.  The light of a house was barely visible in the distance, and my husband made the decision to walk for help.  Just then a truck with a horse trailer drove past, coming from the opposite direction.  We assumed they had just driven on by, but instead, they had gone down the road to find a place to turn around so they could come back to help.

And help they did!  They transported us to their warm home, fed us leftover Christmas dinner, and housed us for the night until a family member could pick us up the next day. 

The car was taken to a local mechanic for repair.  The diagnosis:  there was a fly in the carburetor, a "flyberator," as labeled by one of my daughters.  My knowledge of automobile mechanics is minimal at best, but from what I understand, it is impossible for a fly to get into a carburetor.   And yet there it was.

One little fly—and our lives were altered and affected, with the potential of serious ramifications.
 
There is a point and purpose to all things.  I am of the belief that the chance timing of a vehicle on the road in a snowstorm and the open, kind, generosity of strangers was the result of the care and provision of my Heavenly Father.  I would suspect three little girls, now grown women, feel the same.  I know the adults do.

Today I drove by the place where we were stranded almost 35 years ago.  I always remember what happened, and I am always grateful.  I never take that experience for granted. 

My challenge to you is that you begin to view all experiences in life with a new perspective, a different point of view, with spiritual lenses and not just natural.  One bee sting, not several; a single fly--It's not just the "big" things in life, but the "small" ones as well that are given to us so we might learn, so we might grow, so we might experience God in our everyday lives. 

"ALL things are spiritual."