I love the -ber months from September through December. My favorite season is October. In my memories, all things autumn are encapsulated in that one month, October.
One crystal, sunlit morning, I left my house for work. As I walked to my car, I noticed the front left tire was perilously low. Great. Just great. Come on, God. I need to just get to the bottom of the hill. The local convenience store, complete with air pump, sat conveniently three miles down the road.
At the bottom of the hill, I heard the all-too-familiar rattle of a tire going flat. I knew it was too far for me to try to make it to Bear Creek Country Store, where I could have shoved down my stress with a bacon, egg, and cheese biscuit. God, come on!
The next-closest safe zone, as there is no shoulder on Ferndale Cutoff, is the 4-H center. I pulled into their parking lot and climbed out. The tire was a tragedy. I walked to the back of the car and lifted the hatch. A distinct tightness snaked into my shoulders, and I felt a distressing, foreboding, nameless dread, almost nausea. As I lifted the panel in the back of the car, I remembered: no spare tire. Even worse, I’d taken the jack out while cleaning the car a few months earlier, and it was sitting in my sunroom. Don’t judge me!
I walked back to the driver’s seat and sat there swigging a bottle of A&W root beer from a brown paper bag. I was close enough to the veterinary clinic where I worked that I decided to walk there. I figured I could make some calls and find a tire place who could send someone to come take the tire off, run the shredded tread to their store, put a new tire on the rim, and bring it back. Easy enough.
Half an hour later, I walked into the clinic, told the staff what was going on, and made the calls. Come to find out, no one offered the service I needed. A person had to physically take the tire in, which made no sense to me. How can you take the tire in if it’s flat? They acted as though everyone had a spare tire and a jack in the back of their car.
The only thing I could think to do was walk toward home—three miles away—to grab the jack, come back, take the tire off, and figure out what to do from there.
I began my walk.
Almost immediately, old patterns began to seep into the vulnerable corners of my mind. All-but-forgotten tapes began to play. You are so stupid. Why did you leave the jack out of the car? Why haven’t you figured out a way to get a spare tire? You are completely irresponsible. Worthless.
Before I let it go too far, I determined that I would not allow the Enemy to turn the experience into a martyr or bonehead attitude of despair. I asked the Lord to walk with me and help me see his specific plan in that situation.
I told him I would sing. I told him I would sing and smile the whole way, even if part of the way it was a forced grin, which may or may not, in retrospect, have looked creepy to cars passing by. I thanked him that instead of four wheels that went flat, I was walking on two legs with a motor that had lasted almost ten times longer than the one in the car. I needed the exercise anyway. I thanked him that my paycheck had been direct-deposited the night before, so I could pay for a tire. I began to sing one of my favorite songs by Plumb, “Exhale”: “It’s okay to not be okay. This is a safe place. This is a safe place. Don’t be afraid. Don’t be ashamed. There’s still hope here. There’s still hope here.”
Suddenly startled, I felt something brush against my neck. Out of the corner of my eye, I examined a lonely red leaf as it floated past my shoulder and silently landed on the warm pavement at my feet. I glanced up to study the towering oaks and prickly pine trees that spread their canopy of branches over the cutoff. I watched the sparkle of sunlight as it danced and reflected on the asphalt around me and marveled at a Creator who, season after season, placed every leaf individually on every tree on the planet.
I stopped, pulled out my phone, and took a couple of pictures.
I used to think he made all this beauty just so I could enjoy it. But the truth is, if I sat on my deck at home and spent all summer counting the leaves on just one of the trees in my yard, I’d never be able to finish the job. It would be impossible. And that’s just one tree. Yet every spring, God faithfully replaces every leaf on every tree—not for me to enjoy, since I too often take the leaves for granted, but to show his glory.
I listened to the rustling of the leaves as the wind passed through them, applauding the One who strategically placed each one of them. I thanked him for decent enough eyesight to see his glory all around me. I even clapped a little myself. Hey, God!
You will go out in joy and be led forth in peace; the mountains and hills will burst into song before you, and all the trees of the field will clap their hands
—Isaiah 55:12 NIV
I couldn’t help but think, as I watched a few more leaves fall in front of me, of a scene from one of my favorite theatrical productions, Cyrano de Bergerac.
Cyrano has received a mortal wound on his head from an enemy. He has made his way to an abbey to see the lady he’s secretly been in love with for many years. Roxane has never known of Cyrano’s love for her. She’s also unaware of Cyrano’s wound. They are talking, mostly of trivial things, when the autumn leaves begin to fall. Roxane notices them in the failing light and says, “They are Venetian yellow. Watch them fall.” Cyrano replies, “How well they fall. In this short journey from the branch to the earth, they succeed in showing a final beauty, and in spite of their fear of rotting on the ground, desire this fall to assume the grace of flight.”
I sang, “Oh God, we breathe in your grace. We breathe in your grace and exhale. Oh God, we do not exist for us but to share your grace and love and exhale.”
A buzzing from the side of the road interrupted the moment. It didn’t quite fit the reflective posture I was creating and the peace I was beginning to experience. I searched the brush to find the source of the unwelcome intrusion.
Across the ditch, I saw a hummingbird—my favorite bird. They’re fascinating little critters. Their wings can beat seventy times per second, in the shape of a sideways 8, like an infinity symbol. They are able to fly forward or backward, and they can hover like living helicopters, which was what I thought that little feller was doing. I love to watch them. I stood and marveled at how the delicate creature could stay so still in midair.
But something wasn’t right. It took me a few seconds to finally realize he wasn’t hovering at all. In fact, he was writhing, frantically struggling to free himself from a spiderweb.
Not sure where the spider was, I moved quickly. As I got closer, I could see he was becoming more and more frightened. I walked closer to figure out the best way to release him.
Finally, I put an index finger on each side of the web and pulled the sticky threads back. Although that action ultimately freed him, it acted more like a slingshot, catapulting him through the air, until he found his equilibrium again a few yards away. He stopped and hovered. He turned, and we considered each other for a few precious moments before he pivoted in midair and disappeared.
I thought, Well, Lord, I know you regard your creation. You watch and care deeply over every single creature. You said, “But ask the animals what they think—let them teach you; let the birds tell you what’s going on. Put your ear to the earth—learn the basics. Listen—the fish in the ocean will tell you their stories. Isn’t it clear that they all know and agree that God is sovereign, that he holds all things in his hand—Every living soul, yes, every breathing creature?” (Job 12:7–10 MSG). So if my having a flat tire is part of your plan to save this smallest of your mighty hand, then I gladly find your glory there. Thank you for letting me be here at just the right moment.
I sang, “Just let go. Let his love wrap around you and hold you close. Get lost in the surrender. Breathe it in until your heart breaks; then exhale.”
I continued on my adventure for no more than five steps. I was still pretty much wrecked from the hummingbird moment, and tears were flowing, when my phone rang. It was Cliff Peck, my buddy the veterinarian. He said, “What are you doing?”
I said between sobs, “I just got to save a hummingbird.”
“What? Where are you?”
Gathering myself together as best as I could, I said, “I’m just taking a walk.”
“Well, where are you walking? The girls said you have a flat tire.”
“I’m about halfway up the hill.”
“Up your hill? Where’s your car?”
“Look. Dude, you have to work. I’m a big boy. I can handle this.”
“Is the flat fixed? Where’s the car?”
“It’s back at the 4-H center. Seriously, go to work.”
“Well, where are you going?”
“I’m going home to get my jack.”
“Your jack is at your house? And you’re going to carry it back down the hill all the way to the 4-H center? And then what?”
“Well, I’m going to figure it out from there. Go to work.”
“Okay. Well, head back to the 4-H center. I’ll meet you there.” He hung up.
He drove up the hill and picked me up.
Cliff, never shying away from finding ways to help others, said, “I’m off today. We’re going to Texas, and Deane has some work to do on a podcast before we go. She’s busy. So I’m good.”
I said, “I’m sure you have more important stuff you need to be doing to get ready to go.”
He looked over at me, feigning exasperation, as if I should have known better. “Tim, this is what friends do.”
The good doctor turned around and took me back to my car. He had his jack with him. Weird, I know. He got down on his knees, and while he took the tire off, we remembered a specific flat-tire scene from A Christmas Story.
Cliff took the tire off, threw it into the back of his truck, drove me to Sam’s, ran some errands, picked me and my tire up, drove back to the car, got back down on his hands and knees, and put the tire back on. Then he climbed into his truck and turned it around to leave. As he drove off, he rolled down his window and yelled, “Put your jack back in your car!”
A few minutes later, on my way to work with a brand-new tire, I thought about Cliff and the hallowed ground I stand on in the presence of such a godly servant’s heart. I thought about the God whose bountiful, inexhaustible generosity is clearly evident in the forever family he has mercifully lavished on me. I thought about the brilliant creativity of the great Star-Breather on display in the expert uniqueness of a single leaf that brushed against my shoulder. I thought about the aerodynamically impossible design and strength of the fragile, delicate hummingbird flying with purpose from flower to flower, remembering every single dew-holder he has gathered nectar from. I knew he would drink as much sweet dew as his slight frame could hold, preparing for his long, lonesome, arduous twenty-hour flight across the Gulf of Mexico to vacation for the winter in warmer climes. I thought, Not even Solomon, in all his splendor, is clothed as richly as I am.
I breathed in, and I exhaled.
