One of my memories burned deep into my childhood comes from church singing the hymn, My God and I. Being an A Cappella church, the singing without instrumental accompaniment meant that voices were showcased. Sometimes it sounded like heaven, and other times . . . well . . . it didn’t. But when large groups of people were present, we sang this hymn as the sopranos led the verse first, the altos came in with the second verse, and the bases carried the third while the entire congregation sang the reframe.
“My God and I go in the field together • We walk and talk, as good friend should and do • We clasp our hands, our voices ring with laughter • My God and I walk through the meadow’s hue”
The lyrics draw a peaceful picture capturing an idyllic scene drawn from the Garden of Eden. Though the line should appear in Genesis 2, we find the line appearing as a set up for the fall of man. Adam and Eve have tasted the forbidden fruit and felt the shame and guilt of their sin. They were exposed, in more ways than one. It was then that they heard the rustle of leaves and the voice of God, calling to them as he was “walking in the garden in the cool of the day” (Gen. 3:8).
Since the beginning, God sought out companionship with the man and woman. Try getting your head wrapped around that concept: the Creator of the universe stepped into creation; the infinite visited the finite; the transcendent one engaged the ordinary; the incomprehensible became incarnational so that he may fellowship with the man and woman. They were usually waiting for him, and that’s worth highlighting. God came to the couple because he wanted to share, to laugh, and to embrace the moment with the two. When together, all was right with the world. That oneness was severed, but not because God wanted it to end.
Fast forward a few generations and we’re introduced to Enoch, the great-grandfather to Noah. The Genesis pattern for genealogies is to present the person, tell how many years he lived before fathering a child, then reveal how many more years he lives before he dies. The pattern holds consistently until Enoch is centerstage. At age sixty-five, Enoch became a father and then lived another three hundred years. Instead of facing his death, Scripture tells us that, “(he) walked with God, then he was no more, because God took him away” (Gen. 5:24).
As Fred Craddock describes, one day Enoch and God were enjoying an afternoon walk. At some point they noted that it was getting late and had failed to realize just how far they had journeyed. God, who was thoroughly enjoying his time with Enoch, because all was right with the world, turned to Enoch and said, “We could turn around and go home.” After a pause, he continued, “but since we are so close to my home, why don’t you just come home with me.” And he did.
Jumping ahead, Abraham and Isaac would endure their own walk together. I cannot even begin to the fathom the journey the father and son made as they trudged up the mountain. Their feet must have felt like lead. They carried fire and wood, but no sacrificial lamb. If Isaac, the child of laughter, wanted to talk and inquire of his father, I sense that a quiet silence encompassed Abraham as he was speechless, trying to comprehend God’s command to sacrifice the boy. Even if God would resurrect his son (Heb 11:19), how he could drive the knife into his son’s chest, was beyond belief.
But the ending of story was rewritten as God now knew Abraham loved and obeyed him more than his only son. God provided a lamb. And now the father and son came down the mountain together. If I could have, I would have had a drone fly above them to zoom in closer to hear their conversation. We might hear their joyous laughter, their steps lighter, and Abraham’s assurance of the goodness of God, for in the moment, all was right with the world.
My dad worked thirty years for Greyhound Lines; twenty of those years were spent in the downtown Portland, Oregon terminal. We were a one car family, so he rode the city bus, Tri-Met, from home to work and back again (we lived over five miles from the depot). Tri-Met didn’t go by our house, so he had to walk to the bus stop, usually on 55th and Belmont, a good half mile from home.
I remember being too small to walk down the stairs to our street to wait for dad, so I sat in the front yard as he emerged from the steps that led from the sidewalk to our home. When I was a little older, I sat on the retaining wall at the sidewalk to wait for dad. I remember the first-time mom allowed me to walk to the corner, where I stood on 55th and Oak Street to wait for him to emerge around the corner from Stark Street, a major traffic thoroughfare. When I was older, I was allowed to venture around the block (actually cutting through our neighbor’s yard). Without crossing the street, I sat on the sidewalk on Stark Street, watching what looked like a mountain before me, waiting for dad’s image to appear on that hill. Finally, the day came when I was old enough to cross Stark Street and climb the hilly 55th Street to Belmont and wait for him to step off the bus to escort him home. Dad always greeted me with the biggest smile and wave.
The anticipation of waiting for dad was like waiting for Christmas. Every second felt like an hour. While standing at the bus stop on Belmont, you could see the bus half a mile down the road. Sometimes the bus wouldn’t stop, or if it did, dad wasn’t riding that bus. I’d have to wait another ten minutes before the next bus came by. As the time passed, all I could do was think about seeing my dad.
When he finally emerged from the bus, dad’s joyful expression on his face was as bright as the sun, and his smile stretched from ear to ear as if this was the first time he saw me. At that moment he was bigger than life itself, and I was the center of his universe. I’d take his lunch pail; he’d take my hand. And with a bounce in our steps and without any care in the world, we’d walk home. I don’t remember anything we talked about, but that doesn’t matter. For the fifteen-minute walk from the bus stop to home, all was right with the world.
And in the background, you might be able to hear the echo of the chorus singing,
“And he walks with me and he talks with me • and he tells me, ‘I am his own’ • And the joy we share as we tarry there • none other has ever known.”
Soli Deo Gloria!
(i.e., only God is glorified!)
* While I often made this trip alone, other times my sister, Deanna, joined me on this adventure.