Leon Hue joined IUP biology’s department after teaching at State College High School back in the day, about the same time I arrived here as a college student. He soon found certain faculty members regarded him as “that high school teacher.” Years later, he told me the following story with obvious delight.

Walking through White’s Woods, Leon had discovered a small, new beaver dam. A nature lover, he reported his find to his colleagues who laughed and said, “He doesn’t know a beaver from a ground hog!”

Leon returned to the woods and found the dam expanding over White’s Run, with more downed foliage as evidence. He stuffed wood chips into his pockets and deposited a smattering in the mailbox of each biology faculty member who had laughed at his find. One by one, they reached for their mail and said, “What’s this?”

“Look for the teeth marks!” Leon said. “Don’t you recognize beaver marks when you see them?”

I came across Mr. Hue’s story in one of my old journals and laughed. I remember him as a naturalist, a bird and animal lover, and a wood carver. That those qualifications weren’t enough for his colleagues to believe him when he said found a beaver dam isn’t surprising. It’s often hard to see truth when it’s smack dab in front of our noses. Sometimes we ignore evidence and later wonder how we overlooked it. Other times, we fail to recognize people for who they really are.

In the biblical story of Easter, Mary went to the tomb on Sunday morning and at first didn’t recognize her rabbi and Lord. Until He broke bread with them, other followers failed to realize who He was as He walked with them on the road to Emmaus. Thomas demanded he touch Christ’s wounded hands and side before he would believe the outlandish tale of a “Risen Christ” that his friends blurted like mad men. I most likely would have been among the doubters. Show me evidence—beaver teeth marks—and then I’ll believe.

This Lent our family has engaged in a new battle with metastatic breast cancer, but don’t think for a moment that makes the season one jot less joyful. I recall the wonder of stepping into a cold, empty tomb in a Jerusalem garden where a large circular stone had been rolled away. The Good News doesn’t become less when we face a crisis, it becomes more.

More needed. For the dawning of every new day.

More startling. In a world that no longer believes miracles happen, the Good News is a well that never runs dry.

More anticipated. Winds may wail at night, yet the undeniable fragrance of spring is in the air, setting my future and yours against the vast backdrop of eternity.

In precariousness times, the Good News proclaims this unwavering certainty: He lives. The Risen Lord reigns on His throne. Of what then, should I fear?

In The Chronicles of Narnia a creature named Mr. Beaver answers a child who asks if the terrifying Lion, Aslan (who typifies Jesus), is safe to be around.

“Safe?” Mr. Beaver said; “… Who said anything about safe? ‘Course he isn’t safe. But he’s good. He’s the King, I tell you.”

Many a night that Lion has trotted with majesty into my semi-conscious when I’m on the edge of sleep. He comes as the Lion of Judah, encompassing my field of vision, His fierce goodness filling my being as I drift off.

It’s risky business to follow One who calls us to nothing less than total surrender. St. Paul wrote from jail, “Fellow believers, I count not myself to have apprehended: but this one thing I do, forgetting those things which are behind, and reaching forth unto those things which are before, I press toward the mark for the prize of the high calling of God in Christ Jesus.” (Philippians 3:13-14).

I’ll never fully grasp what it means to be apprehended by the love of God, wrapped in the unending fabric of His care. I found a note in my old journal saying it’s not what we do for Christ, but what we do with Him that determines our grace walk.

How do I recognize the Lion of Judah? Not by His roar, but by His silence. If I were to look, I’d see rope burns on His paws. He pads into my life as both Lion and King when I’m most tired and vulnerable, reminding I have more than human helpers. Ten thousand times ten thousand angels stand with us, friends.

Do I feel safe in His presence?

Not always.

Do I feel loved?

Completely.

He’s the King, I tell you.

All will be well.

TextingThruRecovery/Indiana Gazette

(empty tomb image accessed from fineartamerica.com from Pixel, Lions accessed through Pixel 4.20.19)