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Praise You, Lord!

The temperature out here on the back porch is getting there. Don’t get me wrong: My hoodie certainly helps, but I could sit out here a while and be comfortable. I give thanks too for the screens. I can hear a wind, but I don’t notice it. At any rate, this is a vast improvement – it’ll do.

I just need to get myself set-up here, and I’ll be ready. Drink, tamper, and lighter go on this little cooler; my tablet and current book go on the Minnie-Mouse table. Well, I’ll hear about that later. For now, my chair welcomes me back with the same crevices for my posterior as I remember.

That wind fails to flicker my lighter as I set flame to the tobacco in my Oom Paul pipe. Still, the trees sing in the wind with the accompaniment of a few crickets. In this moment, there’s even more gratitude, because the cicadas haven’t emerged yet. I have only the drifting smoke on a bearably cool night.

Such is, surely, the start to a delightful evening of quiet reading and reflection with You, Treo. I, finally, return to a view of the trees, so You and I can just sit here to chat. Judging from my news feed, You’ve got a lot going on, and I continue to try and keep pace with my two young ones – by Your grace. I’m sure we’ve a lot to discuss. Whenever You’re ready, of course.

I hear the sliding glass door to my left open with a huff, and stomps trace a path to the loveseat across from me. Treo joins me with a plop onto the loveseat. He says, “This is neither your closet or your basement – the so-called ‘hermitage’.” (Matthew 6:6)

While not the beginning that I hoped for, I announce, “Welcome to the summer hermitage.”

There’s a scoff before Treo says, “There’s no way it’s summer here – look at the way you’re dressed.”

“Now, that’s a fair point,” I say. “It is a little cool for my liking, but this wonderful porch (that You’ve provided) shields from the wind, and my hoodie keeps the cold comfortably out. Sorry, my Lord, but the weather has warmed enough, and I’d rather be on this porch with You, so here I am.”

Treo says, “But, that’s kind of my point: It’s not really all that warm – by your standard, I mean.”

“All right, I’ll grant You that it is not as warm as I would like,” I say with palms facing Treo, in an effort to calm the situation. “However,” I say, “It is much warmer than it has been. I mean: I don’t need extra layers to be out here, except my hoodie – of course. Sure, it’s not exact, but maybe it’s in the ballpark?”

“That’s all fine, well, and good.” Treo says, “But, you still don’t seem to grasp this ‘go into your closet to pray’ concept.”

I look around the porch with a raised eyebrow and say, “Wow, coming in hot tonight, huh?” My Lord gives me a single, assertive nod, so I go on: “You know well that I’m simply going to rehash the point from last time: I’m as much in my space as I’m going to get. Plus, there’s the added benefit of being among Your creation here on the porch. Also, I think I just heard an owl, and that definitely puts me in the mind to chat with You.”

“But, doesn’t that kind of drive home my point?” Treo says, “You admit that the creation is not your own; I highly doubt that these dolls are yours, and I know the pillows and blanket aren’t yours. So, again – how does this become your space?”

“Obviously, You are correct, my Lord; I have not exactly taken the most literal interpretation.” Then, I salute Him with my pipe, circle my other hand around the small cooler with drink, lighter, tamper, and one blackened cup holder, before a hard shrug with a stare over my glasses. I say, “There’s plenty here that makes this space as much my own as any other. Besides all that though, the fact is that I am in a space that raises my heart as well as my mind to You, and we’ve got as good (if not a better) a chance of chatting as anywhere else, especially my actual closet. So – here we are, just the two of us.”

If Treo had a beard, He’d rub it here. It’d be an act of weighing the inaccurate adherence to Scripture against the indulgence for my simple attempt to practice it. This consideration stretches a silence between us. Although, the crickets, an owl, and the dogs seem content to fill it, and I choose to imagine that they plead my case.

Before the silence can derail the conversation, I ask, “All right, Treo, what’s really on Your mind?”

I picture my Lord waving a finger in my direction before learning His elbows on His knees. He declares, “I’m glad you asked.” Then, He settles His back against the loveseat, like a boss evaluating my performance review. “I want to talk about this ‘Treo’ thing;” the words come slowly as though they’re picked a second before being said.

“Yeah, okay – what about it?” I had this theology professor once, and he made us present our paper theories before writing the paper. I think my question to Treo has the same tone as asking that professor about my paper topic.

“Well, it’s just a bit odd; don’t you think?”

I answer, Of course it’s odd; what else would You expect from me?”

Treo’s chin chops to His chest, and it lingers there for a good, solid moment before several nods. (Whether this is a resignation or the asking of the question “but why odd like this” – I’ll let the reader judge.) Treo says after a huff, “You know, if anyone reads this, they’ll take issue with you calling Me by some new name. What have you got against my other names anyway? There ought to be enough for you to find one that works.”

My eyes close before my head bobs from side to side. “That’s a fair point,” says I. “There’s nothing in this against Your other names. The centuries have given me hundreds of names that I address You by.”

“So, why add another? Just use one of them.”

“I don’t know – simply came out in the conversation.”

Treo cocks His head to one side and stares at me through squinted eyes. ”Now, Joe, remember who you’re talking to,” He instructs. 

“Fine,” I say after a long sip from my drink. “Although, sincerely – I did think that the conversation became much more familiar than my usual reference to You as ‘Lord.’ In other words, I felt the dialogue needed a more familiar term than ‘Lord’.”

I pause to look at Treo in hopes that explanation would satisfy. Instead, He leans forward while circling a finger toward me, so I stare into the woods outside my back porch. After collecting a couple thoughts, I say, “Well, the conversation in my last story reminded me of John 15:15, where You call Your disciples ‘friends.’ That got me thinking about St. Peter, and I’ll bet he had a nickname for You. I know he was the first to call You ‘Lord,’ but he seems like the type to have a nickname for everyone. So, in that moment of friendly conversation, I thought I’d throw one out.”

My Lord flinches His chin to His chest with lips pressed together, as if He considers asking for more. The movement draws my attention, briefly, back to the porch. I hold my index finger in His direction, while I look back at the forest.

“Another thing: ‘Treo’ is not a new name, but rather, it is a shortened translation of my favorite name, ‘Guide.’ I have met a few guides on the numerous trails that I’ve hiked, but generally, I avoid them. Most have a script that is dogma, so they will not turn from it, regardless of who they encounter. A few, though, helped to make truly memorable hikes. Not because they didn’t have a script, but they knew how to adapt it.

“You are that exceptional guide. You had twelve Apostles and managed to give each of them a different encounter based on their self. You didn’t change the script – only adapted it to the particular traveler.

“So, I took ‘Guide’ to a Gaelic dictionary and found ‘Treoraí.’ Which, when shortened to ‘Treo,’ looks like it might sound like ‘tree,’ and that, as You can tell by where I’m staring, is one of my favorite things that You created.”

Treo exhales for a good minute and says, “That’s a lot. Looks to Me like you went around the world to come up with a defense of staying inbounds.”

I bob my head with a grimace. “Yeah,” I say,” isn’t that kind of the point? I travel with You around Your world on the path that You laid out for me.”

Treo asks, “But isn’t that the exact problem that people are going to have? I mean: You’re just going your own way.”

My attention snaps back to the porch, as my hands jerk in front of me with palms facing Treo. I speak quickly: “I pray that is not literally what I’m doing. May I always be on Your path for me. Is that not the history of Your Church (in part)? You’ve got Peter with Paul, Dominic with Francis, Luther with Ignatius, Lewis with Chesterton, and even John Paul II with Billy Graham. All, apparently, great Saints and perhaps more obviously Saints with different paths.”

“So, instead of inventing your way, you’re making it your own?” Treo says behind squinted eyes and slow nods.

With arms over my head, I shake my head. “That’s closer, but I don’t even want to ‘make it my own.’ Let’s consider Matthew 6 and 26. In the former, You teach us to pray in simple, familiar terms, and in the latter, You practice that teaching in a very tough moment. Every piece of Matthew 6 is in Mather 26, yet the two are not identical. Matthew 26 is one path within the whole of Your journey on Earth, and Your path for me is but one path among the whole of Your Church. I’m simply experimenting on our path together, Treo.”

I get, for the first time all night, a smile from Treo. Now, it’s a wry, grinny sort of smile – but a smile nonetheless. It reminds me of the smile that comes right before “hey, y’all, watch this.”

“I suppose,” Treo says, “that’s really the best I could ask for. So, let’s do it. Let’s keep experimenting together.”

A deep inhale with an equally long exhale drops my shoulders from my ears – where they’d been for most of this conversation based on the ache in them now. I raise my glass to salute moving forward together, but there is no liquid in the glass.

So, I say, “Well, I’d love to travel on, but I’m out of refreshment. I’ll be right back.” I dart inside with my glass. I can’t wait to see what’s next, but first, I best focus on the refreshment.