Have you ever been locked out?
I’m back in Lebanon, which means jet lag that works in my favor. No temptation to stay up late (last night I went to bed just after 7 pm) and it’s easy to get up early. For a couple of weeks I will enjoy the bliss of being an early riser, ready for the day.
After getting enough sleep, the practice that most blesses me in every way is having enough time to sit in God’s presence without the rushed feeling that time is running out.
So, not long after 4 am, I made my way through the nighttime shadows of the hallway into our kitchen where I felt for the keys (that we intentionally leave in a certain place on the countertop).
Opening the front door slowly (every sound echoes loud through the stairwell of our building), I slipped out and climbed the two flights of stairs to the metal door that opens onto the roof.
The lights of Beirut shimmered through the haze of an August night and ships on the sea beyond cast their sparkles on an expanse of midnight blue.
I sat down. I listened. I talked as things came up.
Then, around 5:30 I reached for my keys on the cement slab beside me and realized with a feeling of dismay (and unbelief, because we’ve learned our lesson and know how to avoid these things) that I had grabbed the wrong set of keys.
No rush of adrenaline, panic, or utter frustration. Not even a sinking feeling. Just a complaint that this was going to be very inconvenient and uncomfortable.
At this hour, I would not be waking the neighbor downstairs to ask if I could drag a ladder to their back porch from which to climb up to our balcony.
Hoping that our friend at work who manages the copies of all the keys was home, I texted hesitantly.
“I trust you are peacefully sleeping and this will not disturb you—until you wake up…”
My phone battery registered 8%, so I turned it off with plans to turn it back on to check incoming messages every so often.
Then I returned to my spot on the roof—with zero warm fuzzy feelings.
“OK,” I said to myself. “there’s nothing I can do so I may as well keep praying.”
And with that I started walking back and forth, around and around. In the dark, I noticed a cat watching me from a balcony higher up on the building next door. A dog barked a warning and I saw a jackal run up the narrow street below and then retort in a pitiful squeaking sound. A rooster crowed as a call to prayer floated from the Mosque in the valley below.
I prayed for the people I always pray for and others as they came to mind. I meditated on some of my go-to Bible promises and passages.
Somewhere along the way, I became aware of a slight change in the shade of the sky.
Dawn?
Turning my gaze to the mountains behind me in the east, my hope was confirmed—we were turning closer and closer to the sun, and its light was already reaching for us, pushing back the cover of night.
The dawn came so gradually that I couldn’t note the changes of colors from one moment to the next, but there was change.
The experience of staying with the slow shift from pitch dark to periwinkle blue with tinges of orange pink and full-on daylight was worth the whole unplanned experience.
Time. Everything takes time.
And most change is subtle.
The time of waiting forced on me now felt like a luxurious gift—a gift that afforded me more time to adapt to my current home after being gone for several weeks, and to think unhurriedly about upcoming tasks and plans—all in the context of intentional awareness of God and a growing sense of his loving presence.
The experience didn’t bring a rush of excitement or feeling that I was now ready to go out, seize the day and swing it around by its tail. Neither did it apply pressure to take note and record any insights gained before I forgot them.
What I did experience was a profound sense of peace. Of knowing and being known. Of rest.
Which isn’t a bad way to start a day.
When I turned on my phone, I was delighted to see our friend had responded and shortly after 6:30 am I was able to get into our home.
Time is not against us. It is a gift.