Verse to ponder

I thought we could continue meditating on and memorizing the Galatians passage Leah began last week (with a bit of a skip) . New Year’s always feel so full… full of plans, full of hope, full of the unknown. As I have pondered these passages, I have thought how I would like to be full in the coming year… full of joy, full of grace, full of peace extended to others, full of God’s Spirit.

Galatians 5:22-25

 22 But the fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, 23 gentleness and self-control. Against such things there is no law. 24 Those who belong to Christ Jesus have crucified the sinful nature with its passions and desires. 25 Since we live by the Spirit, let us keep in step with the Spirit.

 

Last Year’s Christmas

Remembering last year… have a blessed Christmas everyone!

‘Happy Birthday’ was all it simply said.

The Good News declared in pink and blue icing. The two-year-old and four-year-old hands that had helped their mommy bake the cake, now helped their daddy decorate it.

Finished and sticky, Ben returns to me in the kitchen. I can tell from his eyes that his mind is occupied. I watch as he finds the words to share this weight with me.

‘But we won’t be able to have the party here,’ Ben announces, his voice certain. He looks at me, nodding decisively, ‘Jesus is too big and He won’t be able to fit under our ceiling.’

I feel nervous and my heart sinks. My instincts told me this was coming. Please Father, please don’t let him be disappointed.

Paul and I had decided we wanted all Christmas celebrations this year to be for Jesus; for Jesus alone. Our Advent had been overflowing in joyful preparations with the children… planning Jesus’ birthday party, deciding on the perfect gifts for our King, decorating our home with significant symbols of His birth.

And now, two days before Christmas, my heart is anxious. Ben had periodically asked during Christmas preparations, ‘Will Jesus really come to His birthday party Mommy?’ I had always assured Ben that, of course Jesus would be there, and supplied vague answers about how Jesus is always with us, even when we can’t see Him.

And now, I can pretend no longer. Ben is expecting Jesus to be physically present at our Christmas party, and is worried we won’t have room for his beloved, Big Jesus. I say nothing, but my heart panics protectively. How I love my son, and don’t want his Christmas to be a disappointment. Even more, I beg God that his innocent faith won’t be shaken.

Cake now completed, it is Advent, and so, we wait…

~~~~~~~~
Ben and Tya wake up Paul, Otto, and I early on Christmas morning.

‘Do you know what day it is today?’ we ask them, coaxing their growing excitement.

‘It’s Jesus’ birthday!’ they exclaim, bouncing on us, full of anticipation. I am touched by this title they give today. ‘Today…a Savior has been born to you; he is Christ the Lord.’ Luke 2:11 ‘And he will be called Wonderful Counselor, Mighty God, Everlasting Father, Prince of Peace.’ Isaiah 9:6

I play with the children, Christmas music playing, while Paul prepares our Christmas brunch. Before long, he calls us into the kitchen and I am stunned while Ben and Tya squeal with surprise.

Wonderful Paul has created a banquet for our birthday celebration.

I pause to absorb the abundance … the diagonal table laden with plates of homemade eggnog waffles, the overflowing fruit tray, the blueberries and maple syrup, the dark chocolates, our wedding wineglasses cradling fresh juice. The kitchen’s only decorations the pictures the children colored from their Nativity coloring books. I see Baby Jesus, whom they colored blue, lying in His manger, and I smile.

Our five Advent candles are burning in the center of the table. The three blue candles. The pink candle. And now, at last today, even the middle white candle- the Christ candle. Jesus’ birthday candle, taller than the rest and glowing. The candles radiate today’s joy, shining, dripping with Good News. Christ the Savior is born!

We savor the meal, candles glowing in every eye. Ben and Tya are quieter, sitting almost reverently, their eyes frequently watching the lifted flames. I give Otto to Paul and leave to collect the cake. We light one more candle on it and I lay it before these waiting hearts. These hearts that have been longing, aching to sing Happy Birthday to their King.

Happy Birthday to You
Happy Birthday to You
Happy Birthday Dear Jesus
Happy Birthday to You.

We love You we do
We love You we do
Happy Birthday Dear Jesus
We love You we do.

Our voices sing of our hope… of darkness-weary walkers who have seen a Great Light.

I watch the children… Otto is staring, unblinking at the flickering flames. Tya is leaning in, face just beaming, alternating her gaze between Paul and I. I watch Ben closely. I read his face for any trace of disappointment. I find none- thank You God. Ben’s face is intent, but warm and full of devotion. I am certain. Yes, he knows Jesus is here, among us; for that is what Christmas is. God bending to dwell with men.

You are so much more than enough, Jesus- You are our Gift. Ben knew- as if You could be contained by these fragile walls. You are too great…
Yet You are big enough to fit in the smallest heart.
Too big for the heavens, still, we make room for You within.

Happy Birthday beautiful baby Jesus…
take all the room You want.

 

Christmas ponderings and a poem

~Thank you Tammy for all your Advent posts. They have truly enriched my Advent season. As you wrote, I have especially cherished pondering Mary and Joseph’s lack of Christmas preparations- so much so that they did not even have a place to stay! This has given me permission to relax in the frenzy of preparations this year, and simply enjoy more quiet evenings together around our Advent candles, preparing our hearts.

~Two things have helped most simplify our Christmas the past couple years. One is buying presents for Jesus alone. We fill the kids’ stockings with a few small art supplies they will enjoy, and then we focus our energies on an awesome birthday party for Jesus Christmas morning. Last year Paul made homemade waffles, chocolate sauce, special juice, Jesus’ birthday cake, we decorated the kitchen- the kids loved it! The second is this year I have decided the only Christmas baking that needs to be done is Jesus’ birthday cake, and I feel healthier and more relaxed!

~The Word became flesh and made his dwelling among us…” I used to think that the most humble place Jesus could choose to be born was in the crude stable that first Christmas. What could be a starker contrast to God’s glory than the dirt, the animals, the poor surroundings? As I have been pondering God’s dwelling with men this Advent, I have been wondering if perhaps the most humble place for Him to be born in is man’s heart. I am overcome with praise to worship such a humble King! A God who, for love, not only descends to be born in a barn, but is also willing and waiting and longing to be born in my wayward heart. May each of us recognize and respond to His birth in our hearts this Christmas. “Amen. Come, Lord Jesus.”

Anna. Simeon. (Luke 2:21-40) -Meg

Eighth day

cold stone

warm arms.

Word Life

soul pierced

Flesh God.

The priests and praying

psalm marinating,

You- whispering, present

Time.

The rising and falling

cacophony, calling,

and yearn for You, to

come.

Lord- how could it be

in this sacred scene

only two would recognize You?

How I’m haunted, I tremble

      would have I?    

 

 

Yours

Suddenly a sound like the blowing of a violent wind came from heaven and filled the whole house where they were sitting.’ Acts 2:2

 

Backs to the window, couch-curled. Open books, arms entwined. Baby brother in bed, big brother playing. Tya and I reading together. The furious wind is beating against the wide front window of our country home. Fields of trees, merely flexible fronds to this invisible force. The might of its muscle is beginning to worry me, though I try to not let the children see my concern. I feel a chill as I watch these powers of nature battle for dominion. ‘For our struggle is not against flesh and blood, but against the rulers, against the authorities, against the powers of this dark world…’ Ephesians 6:12

 

The storm has prematurely darkened the day, and the standing lamp is on. I am grateful that we are surrounded by such a safe fortress. We continue reading, voices raised above the wind’s roar. Her question halts my words.

 

‘Does Jesus live in your heart Mama?’

 

I stop. I turn to her lovely lifted face, and wonder at how a three year old soul sorts out life. Constantly sifting and allowing what is needed to surface.

 

‘He does Tya, and I am so glad because I love Him so much.’

 

Her gaze returns briefly to the book, then Tya looks to me again. ‘Does Jesus live in my heart?’

 

My own heart quickens from such significance. The wind crescendos in expectation. ‘Do you want Him to live in your heart Tya?’

 

How can human voices even be uttering such eternally-weighted words? ‘Show us your unfailing love, O Lord, and grant us your salvation.’ Psalm 85:7

 

She nods and I slide her further in my lap to pray with her. I am dazed by this moment, heart and head whirling. I can only witness in reverence as this covenant is formed… I see the storm of sin parting as heaven rends. Salvation’s scarred arm reaches down to rescue her. She raises her small hand to His, and He clasps tightly to hold hers. Forever.

 

‘I gave you my solemn oath and entered into a covenant with you, declares the Sovereign Lord, and you became mine.’ Ezekiel 16:8

 

My mortal mind cannot fathom this sacrament. Yet, we sit here still, firmly couch-bound and earth-anchored. This juxtaposition only heightens the holiness. Love Himself encircles, breathing on us a new gale of grace .

 

::::::::::::::

 

The storm is passed and the day is done. Tya is coming to me with her before-bed ritual of secrets, hugs and kisses. She is gazing at her chest, her hand patting it lightly and lovingly. Again and again.

 

‘Do you know what I’m doing Mommy? I’m patting Jesus-in-my-heart.’ She nods as she speaks, emphasizing her explanation. Tya then wraps her arms around her torso, eyes squeezed shut as she tightens. ‘Now I’m hugging Jesus-in-my-heart.’

 

I gather my little girl in my arms and carry her to her waiting bed. Root and establish Your love deeply in her heart, Father. Hold fast to her. Thank You for saving her, thank You for loving her, thank You for making her Yours.

 

::::::::::::::

 

I lay awake long into the night. I strain my ears, listening for the soft sounds of each loved one breathing. Peace fills the darkness. I place my hand on my own heart. I feel the pulsing flesh beneath my palm…

 

How long you have remained with me Jesus-in-my-heart. You have been so true to me. Even when my heart was a wayward home, You were faithful. So faithful. I will sing a new song: ‘You are worthy to take the scroll and open its seals, because you were slain, and with your blood you purchased men for God…’ Revelation 5: 9

Jesus-in-my-heart, I am Yours, I am Yours, I am Yours…

 

Today, 8 am

This was not supposed to be today’s post.

 

I was working on a story last night. Almost finished, I was going to post it this morning. I just can’t see that happening now.

 

Before 5:00 this morning, I was up twice with my 11 month old, and once with my 3 year old. Then my 11 month old was up for the day at 5:00 am. So here I am.

 

I know that so so many of you have been here. Apart from love, I think that maybe exhaustion-empathy unites us most as mothers.  I even asked my husband last night if I am making an idol out of sleep. Some days… I yearn for it, think about it, long after it, desire it most.

 

So I have been feeling a critical lack of joy this morning. I have asked God so many questions, not really seeking an answer though,  just complaining. ‘How long can I keep doing this God? Could You please pave a way for my children to sleep through the night? What am I going to do?’ Done venting, I finally asked, wanting to hear from God.

 

‘Father, can You encourage me right where I am now?’

 

A gentle promise rolled in as a rippled wave to the shore. ‘Joy Cometh.’

 

This is enough for me for now Father. I have faith that joy will come, and that hope brings me joy in the now. Help me to count all sufferings blessings, because there I discover Your presence, purpose, and power.  I love how You care for me and provide for me in all my circumstances. Thank You that You can often be seen best by my tired eyes.

 

Memory…tuesday?!

Sorry everyone. I could explain that I was on holidays last week, and I am still disoriented on days, but I will just apologize and get us going on this week’s memory work!

 

I sometimes find memorizing a larger chunk of verses over numerous weeks easier, because the various verses feel less fragmented. I thought I would start us this week on the first 2 verses of  Isaiah 58: 6-12, and then if anyone wants to continue we can, or we can find something else next week. I love the whole passage, but I will be working on verses 6 and 7 this week. I will list the entire passage below:

 

‘Is not this the kind of fasting I have chosen:

to loose the chains of injustice

and untie the cords of the yoke,

to set the oppressed free

and break every yoke?

Is it not to share your food with the hungry

and to provide the poor wanderer with shelter-

when you see the naked, to clothe him,

and not to turn away from your own flesh and blood?

Then your light will break forth like the dawn,

and your healing will quickly appear;

then your righteousness will go before you,

and the glory of the Lord will be your rear guard.

Then you will call, and the Lord will answer;

you will cry for help, and he will say:

Here am I.

If you do away with the yoke of oppression,

with the pointing finger and malicious talk,

and if you spend yourselves in behalf of the hungry

and satisfy the needs of the oppressed,

then your light will rise in the darkness,

and your night will become like the noonday.

The Lord will guide you always;

he will satisfy your needs in a sun-scorched land

and will strengthen your frame.

You will be like a well-watered garden,

like a spring whose waters never fail.

Your people will rebuild the ancient ruins

and will raise up the age-old foundations;

you will be called Repairer of Broken Walls,

Restorer of Streets with Dwellings.’

 

There is so much in these verses, I find it dizzying and it scatters my thoughts. At first glance I feel ashamed how little I am doing of the justice-work and compassion-work that these verses describe. Then God reminded me of the three little hungry bodies I am feeding around the clock. And the three beautiful, naked bodies I am clothing each morning. It transforms me to see these tasks as they truly are… sacred.

 

I have been watering our garden through this drought, and as I want my garden to be well-watered and produce life, I also yearn for a well-watered soul that God can grow His glory in. I eagerly anticipate meditating on, and learning what it means to be a ‘Repairer of Broken Walls’ and ‘Restorer of Streets with Dwellings.’

 

I cannot ready myself for these three unfathomable words… ‘you will cry for help, and he will say:

 

Here am I.’

 

May the ‘Here am I’ God bless you this week as we bask in these verses together. Meg

 

June 7

His question catches me off guard. Completely.

 

His fifth birthday party is now ended. I’ve tidied and wondered at how five years could have already passed. I joy and ache and wonder who will he be in another five. ‘O Lord, make me know… the measure of my days; let me know how fleeting I am!’ Psalm 39:4

 

Father, teach me to measure his days. I don’t want to be caught off guard.

 

His question remains. He sits on his bed, pajama- clad, birthday day done. ‘Mama how old am I going to get?’ he pauses. ‘Am I going to have a quadrillion birthdays?’

 

It crushes me, fills me with dread. I am suspended in this moment, unable to respond. I kneel to him, despairing to be sharing his mortal malady with him on his birthday. I’m not ready to share this solid secret of humanity with him yet… yes Ben, you will die… no, I don’t know when… this much I know is true. ‘What is your life? You are a mist that appears for a little while and then vanishes.’ James 4:14

 

I stroke Ben’s entire length with my hand. His beautiful head, his lengthening limbs, his racing boy-feet. I admire how this five-year-old clay has formed. I marvel at the Potter and the clay, at Creator and creation. Each day he is changing, with every whirl of the wheel, the Potter is touching him, molding him, body and soul. I awe at how malleable is this sacred, sculpted clay.

 

Father, how can I tell him of his mortality on his fifth birthday?

 

Leaning toward him despite the stabbing in my soul, ‘Ben…’ I begin hollowly. I am at a loss for words, knowing the grim news that is choking me. ‘Ben…’.

 

I breathe.

 

 Something catches my heart, pivoting it profoundly. The Spirit leads, and I find foreign words uttering forth. My eyes fill with the fullness of this whispered truth.

 

‘Ben, you are going to live forever!!’

 

Ben thrills, blue eyes widening as he considers this fact. ‘Whoooooa.’ Longing for more good news, he asks again, ‘Does that mean I will never, ever die?’

 

The Spirit again supplies the words I could not express. ‘Ben, the Bible says that anyone who loves Jesus will never taste death.’ This much I know is true.

 

Ben lays into his bed satisfied, assured and at peace. Covered and comforted by this promise.

 

I gaze once more at my five-year-old son. ‘…for he knows how we are formed, he remembers…’ Psalm 103:14 I am awash in gratitude for this remembered-clay. I am intensely aware how loved he is by both Potter and parent. My soul, still saturated, prays to God a parent’s plea…

 

Father thank You for this boy. Fan and protect his faith. Give us wisdom to guide him. Grow him into a man who will love You and serve You.

 

Happy birthday beautiful boy. How good of God to make you.

 

Weighted Words

I wince at the adjectives I would use to describe much of my prayer journey. Discouraging, guilty, lop-sided, awkward… and the continual commitments of mine to ‘do better’. His voice has seemed a colossal enigma. God gave me the gracious gift this past Lent of participating in a 40 day prayer vigil with a community of believers. During this time God taught me about listening to Him, what His voice sounds like, and how to simply… enjoy Him.

It is becoming easier, less halting, to ask Him questions, to hear Him. He is showing me that His voice is gently weighted; it sinks down to the calling depths. Softly weaving, substratum-seeking. His voice cannot surface float. It cannot be controlled or contained, only experienced and enjoyed.  ‘He sends his word and melts them; he stirs up his breezes, and the waters flow.’ Psalm 147:18  It flows where He wills, immersing completely. His weighted words settle. Deeper and deeper. 

The children and I are stepping outside to bathe in God’s beauty. As we invite Him to join us, I will be listening for His answering voice…

God, show me what you are like.

Do you have a gift for me today?

Who can I encourage today?

What in me brings you joy?

What dreams do you want to awaken in me?

What’s on your heart God?

Would this whole community join us? How did God speak to you today?

 

Spring

It has been marinating within all week. Has spring always felt this new? This alive?!

It flooded as I held my new niece, born Tuesday, life-sodden. Its sweet hum wove through us the afternoon outdoors, collecting old branches to make room for the new. Its budding secret is shared with my baby as he crawls on grass for the first time. It is in our tomato seedlings, still tiny, but life-reaching. It is on the breeze, in our laughter, vibrating through us unceasingly.

Soul-soil too little shined on is now exposed. Hope grows in the light. What has been veiled becomes known, and warmth reigns.

All this life and beauty has me falling greater in love with its Author.

And I want to chase this Life-Giver, Life-Sustainer through the warmth…barefoot.

(In honor of my new niece and all new life, I am posting my baby’s birth story, born last August. May our souls be encompassed by rebirth).

:::::::::::::::

A Mother’s Stream of Consciousness

The portal began crackling at three in the afternoon…

The children and I heading to the garden to pick August’s overripe peas. The sun scorching, pinpricks of light escaping the portal’s entrance. An intense promise. My sandaled toes bare and painful in its presence. Surely such heat must be a sign. The wind gusting, providing a cover for my repeated thoughts… change is coming, change is coming- with each unpunctual contraction.

The children race busily around me. Damp with heat exertion and garden fun. Dirt clinging to them. Do they know the immensity of what today will bring?

My soul offers the warm invitation: Come Baby, come.

Returning home, aware that only I know this deep secret, I call Wonderful Paul. Hurry home, come quickly. I call again. Don’t hurry too fast.

The children and I shell our bounty of peas at the kitchen table. The scent of the peas reminding each contraction of what began at the garden. Ben, speaking so sweetly of the happiness of shelling. Tya, fingers not yet dexterous enough to shell, so instead, sweetly pushing tiny fistfuls of peas into her mouth. So innocent and unaware. How can we speak so ordinary when on the verge of extraordinary?

Paul returning home, shining with promise at the door. It is still our secret alone, but we begin to share it with others.

Intensity quickening. Fogginess creeping in, thoughts thicken. The world narrows- a world where I connect with God alone, and this deep earthly pulse pushing me forward. Focus. Paul helps me walk the circle laps of our home. The table and counters stopping points and goals. Each lap bringing a new verse and a new promise.

…the Lord said, “When my glory passes by, I will put you in a cleft in the rock and cover you with my hand until I have passed by.” Exodus 33:22

Find me a safe place Father for this glory. Hide me in a rock, cover me with Your hand.

The quickening forces us to our familiar bed. I blink, see our dimly lit room. What a safe place to experience this intensity. Wonderful Paul lays behind me, wrapping me in his arms and covering me with comfort. He groans with me. We groan what words cannot express.

The fan is on. Paul placed it strategically. It is a soothing salve. The soft breeze bathing God’s promise. ‘You are my hiding place; you will protect me from trouble and surround me with songs of deliverance.’ Psalm 32:7

Increasing. I am mute, mind afire. The only language spoken is one of groans; louder and originating from ever-growing depths. Our beautiful midwife telling me yes, this must happen. She touches me and a wave of absolute surrender allows my body to complete this calling.

‘As deep calls to deep…’ Psalm 42:7  The deepest part of me crying out to the deepest part of God.

Hide me God.

Silence.

He came. Barely a cry, he came.

Into his Daddy’s loving arms and placed in mine. Joy. Laughter. Tears. Relief. Resplendence. And we gaze on God’s declaration of goodness, over and over…

Wonderful wonderful Paul joins me in bed, and this circle is completed. We are encompassed, delighting in this pure, generous gift. Surely Bethlehem’s star is shining above this tiny room tonight. We bask in heaven’s fullest life-portal. God’s life radiating around and through us. Paul drifts to sleep in these moments of peace.

I cannot sleep, for I hold God’s very Answer, sleeping folded in my arms. The answer to that deep, soft echo. The shadowed question… whispering, reverberating in each soul. God has answered it, here, tonight.

Is God good?

Yes. Oh, yes…

No, I cannot sleep. My soul is too full, overflowing. I must offer this excess in praise, or the very rocks will cry out. My soul quietly searches to express this overflow, but no words can contain this fullness. Still, I offer up my praise:

‘I waited patiently for the Lord; he turned to me and heard my cry. He lifted me out of the slimy pit; out of the mud and mire; he set my feet on a rock and gave me a firm place to stand. He put a new song in my mouth, a hymn of praise to our God… Many, O Lord my God, are the wonders you have done.’ Psalm 40

 

Timed

 

Have you ever longed for something with a passion you couldn’t even begin to comprehend? With a wildness too deep to dare to unravel?…I remember where I was, ten years ago, when I heard it read for the first time…

 

:::::::::::::::::::::::::

 

The church was one of the oldest in the downtown area. I didn’t usually attend there, but was awed by its aesthetics; high cathedral ceilings, worn wooden pews, stained-glass windows that forged a dark fragrance within. It seemed to contain an ancient wisdom. I did not know many people at the church, and I liked the rest and quiet that found me there.

 

Toward the end of the service, a gentleman rose and read the most soul-stirring poem I had ever heard. A tide of longing washed over me as he read. As I sat alone, something deep within swelled, and it sped my heart and caught my throat. It spoke to someplace raw; resonating till it hurt. My overwhelming choked me. After the service, I, uncharacteristically and intentionally, found the poem’s reader.

 

‘That was a beautiful poem you read,’ I politely, casually told him.

 

The disconnect was jarring. What was I saying? My words, my voice, my face, completely masked my deep desire. It was as if I knew instinctively that I had to cloak and protect such intensity. It was too much to bare and could not be exposed. It was too vulnerable, would even feel shameful to share. Its intensity unsettled and alarmed me.

 

‘Yeah, I really like her poetry,’ he responded back.

 

Desperate, wanting to beg to know who wrote such words. My soul was too flushed and frantic, and so my words cruelly belied me, yet again. ‘Yeah, well thanks.’

 

How could I be so feeble? So false? So detached? I left the church and walked alone into the cool, dark fall evening. Descending the stairs, I was hollow. I had been handed a glimmering gift, and I had squandered it. Grieved, I walked away empty-handed…

 

:::::::::::::::::::::::::

 

I immediately started searching for this nameless, faceless poem. I only knew that its author was a female, and most probably Christian. Hours of google-searching unfolded, fruitless. I would type: ‘christian female poet’, and wade through the infinite results. Occasionally I would meet some literary scholar, and I would vaguely describe the poem, inquiring if they knew the poem or its author. I was always casual, forever concealing this once-heard poem’s great, absurd significance to me. But nothing. For years, I would sporadically continue my searches.

 

Four years later, I was married and with my first baby boy. One still summer afternoon, I was cradling my baby, sitting on my bed. The soft summer breeze soothed and surrounded us from the bedroom’s open window. Relaxing, I thought I would idly pass this time as my son slept.

 

As so often before, I typed what I could faintly recall from the title. As the results appeared, I was jolted into the moment, every sense heightened. The first entry was the poem, the poem, written in its entirety, from a recent newsletter.

 

My whole self trembled as I could finally read the wonder of the words. Captured, taken, exhilarated, I read the poem again, and again. I drank it. I let it soak into and saturate my soul. It filtered in through the cracks to the remotest reaches. I thanked God over and over for this re-given gift. This time I clutched it tightly.

 

The words, the author’s name, were so sweet to speak, and I woke my son to rush to the nearest bookstore. I bought all three of her collected works. After four years of searching, I would be extravagant.

 

:::::::::::::::::::::::::

 

Detroit… Chicago… 8 a.m. … Platform 5 -by Margaret Avison

 

We queue in long young shadows

for the 8:00 o’clock bus

to the far country.

It finally shows

up at 8:30.

 

One, when he delays

has good cause:

outrageous care, still hopeful promise.

 

Does he delay?

the timetable is not posted.

The depot is where each is engaged till then.

 

Why have we less, then, trusted

this perfectly punctual

perfectly considerate

perfectly timed coming

 

than- at 8:27- we still unquestioningly expected

the 8:00 a.m. bus to the far country?

 

:::::::::::::::::::::::::

 

These past few weeks it seems significant, that once again, this poem has been a specter to me. Gently and steadily, stealthily, stalking.

 

It has me pondering God’s timing in my life. Do I truly trust that He is a punctual God? I find myself so easily impatient for His timing, His coming. I want to wait for Him, but I also want to watch for Him. I too well know the ache of mourning a missed poem, a missed opportunity. Wait. Watch.

 

I am feeling a holy discontent; not frantic, but certain. I have tasted and feasted and beheld that the Lord is so very good. Now, as He rises, I yearn to follow Him away from the table, as He navigates down the narrow path. My husband and I have begun to seriously talk about what this might mean for us, and while nothing concrete has yet emerged, I pray we are growing closer and closer to following our Beloved Lord. Becoming more like Him. Giving of ourselves. Following Him to the far country.

 

Lord, today, we rise, follow, and queue in Your shadow…