Tunnel Vision

People often ask me where I'm from since David and I came here from Charlotte to plant Wellspring Church. I am actually from Roanoke. It's always interesting when I’m out of town and meet people, and I tell them I’m from Roanoke, I often get in reply, “Oh, the Lost Colony -- that place where the settlers mysteriously disappeared!” And I have to correct them and say, “No, that’s Roanoke Island off the coast of NC. Roanoke Virginia, is the place where all the college graduates mysteriously disappeared (ba-da BING!). . . I know, I know, that’s harsh. After all, I came back to Roanoke after nearly 10 years away. I lived in the DC area for a few years (where I met my sweetie), and then Charlotte for 7 years. And here I am, back in the beautiful Roanoke Valley!

Much of my family is still in this area, and I love having that connection for my own kids. It's really neat to be able to share my own childhood experiences with them -- that many of the elements of my childhood are now their own, like the Mill Mountain Zoo, the Star, the downtown Farmer's Market, the Roanoke Wiener Stand, etc. They love hearing stories from my past, David's past, and especially from Grandma. My Mom has some really cute memories, and her grandkids are always prodding her to amuse them with the many recounts of her childhood.

One of the favorite stories takes place when my Mom was around 4 or 5. Her mother had just completed a home-made, three-layer, coconut cake for a church event. As they were rushing around getting ready to leave, my Mom admired the cake sitting on the dining room table ready to be transported. It was beautiful! It was big! It was fluffy! It was sweet! How she longed to taste the icing -- just a little, teeeeny taste. Surly no one would be the wiser. So, very carefully she took her finger and sampled a tiny bit of icing. She looked and noticed that her finger had left a small indentation. (Now, this is one of those times we have that come as close to an out-of-body experience as we'll ever get). My Mom went into sort of a trance. She touched the spot where her finger had been and took another small taste. She became fascinated with the impression her finger was leaving in the cake, "I wonder how far I can dig?" she thought to herself. And then it happened. The click-clack of her Mother's shoes approaching on the hardwood floor suddenly snapped her out of it, and she was staring at a finger-sized tunnel nearly halfway through the cake's side! She had become so transfixed by her little excavation project, that reality had been temporarily suspended! Truly, my Mom had experienced "tunnel vision!" Now what?!

Well, she reacted as most 4-year-olds do when faced with the impending consequences of their own sins -- she ran! Outside she bolted and plastered herself flat against the back side of their shed, with her heart pounding out of her chest! It wasn't long before she heard that back screen door fly open with a SMACK! and the high-pitched, anger-invoked, quivering voice of her Mother shouting, "Carolyn!!!" Through the back yard my Grandmother stormed, like a mad, snarling beast, and my Mother can recall hearing the SNAP! of a branch being torn from the nearby weeping willow (affectionately known as the "switch" tree)! The friendly, charming neighborhood of Sunset Village was now a dangerous place, for next door, Mrs. Eller was hanging out her wash. She had observed my Mother's flight and the subsequent pursuit of my Grandmother. "Lib! She's behind the barn!"

I don't think I have to elaborate any further, and can leave you, dear readers, to fill in the blanks from this point forward. This is not only a great childhood story, but it's a picture of how we ourselves often get "tunnel vision" and forget reality -- God's reality. We become transfixed by the world -- by something so seemingly attractive and innocent that before we know it, we've fallen into sin and, now what? Like my Mom, we typically run, thinking somehow we can escape the gaze of God and any reprocussions from our actions. My mother would certainly have gotten punished regardless of whether or not she had chosen to confess versus run, but I have a feeling that the wrath of my Grandmother would have been much less faced with a contrite, humble and repentant child. Instead, she had to chase down the offender, and the rubuke was harsh. Personally, I'm taking this lesson to heart. I'd much rather confess my sins to God and face His loving discipline than attempt to hide and experience the inevitable rod!