Hazon
When I published my last piece, A Dark Night of the Soul — Oh Happy Chance!, I held genuine hope that my dark night was ending and life was about to rebound and redound to a new dawn of renewed purpose, increased provision, and much-needed peace. Sadly, It seems my happy chance was still intent on playing its relentless game of hide and seek in the desperately long shadows of my soul.
Before writing Dark Night, I had taken eight months off from writing; which is just a nice way of saying that I quit. Trust me, my extended pout did not yield any sense of rest or relief. And now, as I look back at all that wasted time, I feel only regret and remorse. This is why writing a personally vulnerable piece like Dark Night was a very big deal for me at the time.
It was my best attempt to obey my call, sew new seed, and hope that my dawn was finally breaking.
However, just three days after publishing Dark Night on December 17, 2023, I was informed that our contract for 2024 would not be renewed as promised. This meant that for the second time in three years, the small business I’ve run for the past ten years would be forced to a screeching halt. But the most heart-wrenching part was: I had to let my employees go one week before Christmas.
Needless to say, these unexpected events sent me back into the dark night of despair I thought was finally lifting. As I scrambled and networked to secure new contracts, I also was forced to do the unthinkable: Update my resume and look for a job.
After two months of fruitless searching, I decided to at least get my fitness back on track. Having raced competitively for a large chunk of my adult life, it was time to get the engines going again.
But the day after a rigorous bike ride, I found myself barely able to carry my golf bag up the first fairway. As I heaved and wheezed to catch my breath walking up a small hill, I could hear Norm Macdonald’s impression of Johnny Carson calling 911 while having a heart attack. “Ah, I feel like there’s a yak on my chest.”
Implausibly, it reminded me of the Atrial Flutter I had two years ago after catching Covid for the third time. But I quickly dismissed that idea because my cardiologist told me the ablation should prevent it from ever coming back.
After practically crawling to the 18th green, I rested a few days before getting on the bike again. Barely able to turn the pedals, I found myself collapsed on a stranger’s lawn 10 miles from home. “Are you OK?”, I heard the homeowner yell. Between chest-heaving gasps, I squeaked, “I’m fine, just out of shape.”
A few hours later at the Walk-in Clinic, my EKG directed me straight to the ER. Do not pass Go. Do not collect a salary. Round two of Atrial Flutter had uninvitedly joined the pity party.
Feeling like George Costanza and Job had a kid, I talked them out of admitting me and my loving, long-suffering wife drove me home. With the melancholy of Eeyore, I reached into the mailbox as I entered the house. There in my hand was the next surprise-inside everyone is afraid to find; a letter from the IRS. “Adjustments have been made to your 2022 return”, and they wanted $29,000.00 before the end of the month.
Ladies and gentlemen, in the unlikely event the cabin loses pressure, an oxygen mask will drop in front of you. Secure the mask over your face and breathe normally. Unless of course, you have Atrial Flutter.
Incredulous, I tossed the letter on the counter, nodded toward the tympani player pounding away on my rib cage, and eked out a snarling chuckle. My dark night was over and my promotion had come through: Enter the jet-black ink eclipse of the soul.
That night, we had dinner at a friend’s house. As I pretended to admire their recent renovations, my eyes locked on a driftwood-styled wall hanging. “The Older I Get, The Better I Was.”
Having spent all of my adult life accomplishing some of the most audacious and gutsy goals few have dared, I suddenly found myself admiring my life through the rearview mirror. There was nothing to see in the windshield ahead. For the first time in my life, I couldn’t see anything in front of me.
. . .
I commuted for years on the train line from CT to Manhattan. Anyone who has conformed to this awkward, anti-social subculture at one point in their life knows three things: You don’t talk to anyone, you don’t look at anyone, and you never allow the edges of your newspaper to drift into your seatmate’s cylinder of space.
The morning commute is a pattern-worn routine of well-rehearsed repetition that is fine-tuned to the second with fierce precision. I would wait on the platform in the same spot with the same scrum of commuters every morning. One businessman in particular had my attention for months. He had no idea that I intently and quizzically studied him every single morning until I learned his secret.
Without fail, this man always knew precisely when to pick up his briefcase for the arriving train. Without announcement on the loudspeaker or blow of the whistle, without a glimpse of the engine or hint of the headlight, somehow this guy always picked up his attache a split second before the train appeared at the far bend. Each morning I grew more curious and slightly furious: How does he know?
It was almost as if the engineer waited for this guy to lift his bag before taking that far turn toward us. I tried everything. I strained to listen for the engine or feel the vibrations under my feet. But no matter how hard I tried to decipher his secret, I would step through the open doors befuddled every time.
Then one morning, after months of scrutinizing this unaware wizard, I caught his tell. I noticed his gaze was transfixed upward, almost as if praying. So I did the same. And sure enough, there it was! A slight hop of the electrical cable! As soon as the cable was nudged from its static state, he leaned over, picked up his bag, and the train appeared around the bend.
This was no magician’s secret, no mathematical computation, and no secret sauce. He saw it. He set his eyes above, didn’t waste time looking at anything else, and he saw it before it happened. There was nothing mysterious about it because anything is possible — If you can see it first.
. . .
Without a prophetic vision, the people perish.
~ The Book of Proverbs, 29:18
The Hebrew word used here for prophetic vision is Hazon. It can be translated as prophecy, a divine communication, or a vision in an ecstatic state. And the one I particularly love: A vision in the night.
Some Rabbinic Scholars use the Law of First Mention when performing word studies in scripture. The first appearance of a word can provide profound insights into its meaning. Hazon makes its first appearance in the first book of Samuel:
Word from the Lord was rare in those days; revelatory visions (Hazon) were infrequent.
~ I Samuel, 3:1
What leaps off the page to me in this passage is that prophetic visions from The Lord should be the norm for the followers of God. The writer keenly and intentionally juxtaposes the lack of vision among the people with a nation churning in chaos.
Before I stepped on stage at my first open mic night, I saw myself doing it first. Before I set out to climb high mountains, I saw every summit and trained every chance I got. Before I raced my first triathlon, I saw myself in Hawaii racing in the World Championships.
Before we planted a church, a group of us talked and prayed about it. The Lord continually showed us what to do, step by step. Before I started my own business, I spent hours on the kneeler in my office praying and strategizing. I saw it, and then I did it. And when I sit down to write, I see the end from the beginning.
Don’t hear me wrong, this is not merely mental visualization. Although, The Lord has given us the mind of Christ. I am talking about the careful curation and cultivation of the desires of our hearts by lifting our gaze, waiting for the Lord to breathe on it, and then going after what we see with everything we have.
But no matter how long I’ve looked upward this past year, the high-tension wire wouldn’t budge, there was nary a puff of His breath, and a sense of perishing was harder and harder to shake.
Until three weeks ago.
We went to our home group like any other week, except I was in such a low place I was reticent to fake any chit-chat. It was a wonderful evening and at the end, my friends gathered around me, laid their hands on me, and prayed for my heart to be healed.
They will place their hands on the sick, and they will be well.
~ Gospel of Mark, 16:18
I can not tell a lie. I didn’t sense a soaring sense of faith within me and none of the hands burned as they touched me. But it was a beautifully sacred time.
The next morning I was in my cardiologist’s office hooked up to the EKG. The nurse said, “Why are you here?”
My EKG was perfect and my resting heart rate was back to normal! Like a fire hydrant that had its cap knocked off, I sprayed the news of the miraculous power of God everywhere and on everyone! It was the Oh Happy Chance breakthrough I had been waiting for.
Unimaginably, just one week later while on a run, I felt my heart flip back into A-Flutter. And even though I can not explain this phenomenon with theological satisfaction and my surgical procedure has been scheduled, the brilliant light of that breakthrough has displaced the jet-black ink eclipse in my soul. That, combined with counseling sessions where we are going after any tactics of spiritual warfare waged against me.
So here I sit in my second comeback in writing. I’ve kept my blades sharp by posting musings on Twitter, (And I must be doing something right because my Tweets cost me a recent job offer.)
I still have a lot to say, and I want to continue finding new ways to say it. Hopefully, in the months ahead, Winepatch will expand as I look for ways to reach more people with the leaven of the Kingdom.
I’ve picked up my briefcase because I’m starting to see it . . .
