Into the Storm

With the rain coming on quickly and hard, there would be washouts; travelling any distance, especially at night, would be dangerous. It was too late to head back up the mountain to my cottage, and the village from where the workers had come was also not within safe walking distance. All my familiar paths would be life-threatening. Only the unfamiliar, downstream path might bring me to safe lodgings. It was the only risk that held a chance for safety. In moving up from the banks of the river and turning downstream, I stumbled upon what I had not seen earlier in the day: a narrow, well-worn path. It would lead somewhere; I just hoped "somewhere" was close.

I pushed against the growing force of wind and rain and continued moving forward. I could barely see in front of me, except when the lighting flashed. The land around me was uneven; sometimes I was climbing uphill, then without warning the path would turn steeply down. Often I heard rushing water pour across the path behind me. Once I heard it almost on top of me and felt its spray, seemingly from beneath me. I couldn't tell the course it took, but I felt the walking path beneath my feet and continued on.

The wind and rain suddenly lessened when the path lead me into the face of a rock wall. Surely the path didn't just end here, I thought. I bent down, feeling for the rut with my hands: nothing. I felt the face of the rock wall; there were large stones firmly wedged into deep cracks in the wall. I followed them up with my fingers. In a brief flash of lighting, I saw, just above my head, a large opening in the rock. With the wall sheltering me from the driving wind, I climbed the slippery steps, leaning against the wall, clinging dearly to each chock until I reached the opening.

The cleft was deep and dry. I backed up against the inner wall, gathering my wet cloak around me for comfort and stared out into the storm. I was exhausted, miserable; I had no idea where I was; but for the moment, I felt safe. I closed my eyes to the world around me.

"Oh, Shepherd," I whispered, "come back for me."


Next Post in Series: A Dream
Previous Post in Series: Building the Bridge

My Provider

After a discussion yesterday on the desire/need God plants in males to provide & protect, I realized God Himself has that same desire/need with the expectation that we, in turn, gladly receive. Here is a short quote from Andrew Murray: "Just as this is the very place and nature of God, to be unceasingly the supplier of every want in the creature, so the very place and nature of the creature is nothing but this -- to wait upon God and receive from Him what He alone can give, what He delights to give."

Building the Bridge

From behind, I heard a familiar voice call my name. Turning, I recognized people from a nearby village.They had come down the mountain, bringing materials to build a bridge. My heart lept! I ran to them. A bridge.... We wouldn't have to ford the river after all! With a whistle on my lips, I plunged right in, helping carry the wood planks with my new friends.

But soon, I heard cutting remarks and impatient, harsh words. At one point, I heard unkind joking; glancing towards the speakers, I saw them scorning a woman.  Tears glistened in her eyes;  fire flashed across her face. Had these people lost sight of the importance of their work that they would cut one another down? This was no way to accomplish the work. The woman saw me looking at her; I smiled, she looked down -- embarrassed.  Perhaps she felt everyone thought unkindly of her. I turned to approach her, but a hard blow to my head sent me staggering backwards; I crumpled to my knees, the ground spinning around me.

"Hey, what happened here?" It was the foreman.

Angry voices responded. "She walked directly into the path of the planks!" "It wasn't our fault!" "She wasn't doing her job!" "She's causing problems!" "She's disrupting the work!"

"Who is she anyway? She's not part of my crew. Does anyone know her? Move her out of here and get back to work."

Someone lifted me to my feet and lead me away from the work area to a boulder close to the river. The coolness of the rock felt good against my head. The workers continued arguing and yelling; the sounds all melding together as I lost consciousness.

When I awoke, night had fallen. Someone had lain a cloak over me while I slept and had left a canteen for me. Tasting the coolness of the water, I remembered the healing stream from the mountain, and I felt the throbbing in my head subside. As my eyes focused into the darkness, I discovered the workers had gone and taken everything with them; not a single tool or plank of wood remained. There would be no bridge now.

"Shepherd?" I called out. There was no answer. He must have left me when I turned to the building of the bridge. He had been facing the workers as they approached the river. He would have seen them, known they were coming to build the bridge. Yet, he had spoken of taking the long way, of fording the river downstream. He had invited me to join him the moment before I turned away. But, someone had called my name. Even now, the familiarity of their voice stayed in my mind, but I couldn't place it. The Voice had known me, yet I hadn't known any of the workers personally nor had anyone come out to welcome me when I joined them. What did it matter now? I had turned away from my beloved Shepherd because I didn't want to face the dangers of the river downstream. And now, I was alone.

A stiff breeze blew across my face; clouds were rolling in.


Next Post in Series: Into the Storm
Previous Post in Series: The Invitation

When the Brook Dries Up

Do you find that certain times and preachers in your life have a distinctly sweet spot in your heart? For me, one of those times was the Normandale Baptist tent/revival meetings during the mid to late 90s when John Hartzell was our gentle shepherd. One of the preachers Pastor Hartzell brought in for these meetings was the late Derick Bingham of Northern Ireland. This godly man with his poetic spirit reached my heart as would a bouquet of simple, yet intricately beautiful wild flowers.

I've pulled out the tapes from his August 1999 series, "Just When We Need Him Most: a study of the life of Elijah." This morning I listened to the 2nd message, "When the Brook Dried Up." In essence, between the high points in life when we see God's hand and know His purposes, He calls us to sit by the banks of the life-giving brook as it dries up.

Will I trust God as His good gifts dry up? Will I trust Him as I see my personal dreams die? Will I trust Him when I don't know what lies ahead? Will I trust Him in suffering?

Be careful, Myself, to trust God's unseen hand, for it is active and mighty! This is His preparation time for me before He calls me to climb the next great height. Use this time to learn "to love what He loves, to hate what He hates, to think as He thinks, to see what He sees, to be concerned with what concerns Him" (a close? quote of A.W. Tozer).

Derick was known for introducing new songs to our congregation. In this message he had us sing "For the Joys and for the Sorrows/For this I have Jesus" by Graham Kendrick.

For the joys and for the sorrows, the best and worst of times,
For this moment, for tomorrow, for all that lies behind;
Fears that crowd around me, for the failure of my plans,
For the dreams of all I hope to be, the truth of what I am:

For this I have Jesus, for this I have Jesus, for this I have Jesus, I have Jesus.

For the tears that flow in secret, in the broken times,
For the moments of elation, or the troubled mind:
For all the disappointments, or the sting of old regrets,
All my prayers and longings, that seem unanswered yet:

For this I have Jesus, for this I have Jesus, for this I have Jesus, I have Jesus.

For the weakness of my body, the burdens of each day,
For the nights of doubt and worry when sleep has fled away;
needing reassurance and the will to start again,
a steely-eyed endurance, the strength to fight and win:

For this I have Jesus, for this I have Jesus, for this I have Jesus, I have Jesus.

A Quiet Place

I found a quiet place by a stream today, slightly off a woodland path. I had been on a power walk to release stress. But, having wandered into this little haven, I found myself falling asleep though I was standing with perfect balance and eyes open. The stress melted away. I awoke to little sounds: the trickle of the stream, a squirrel on a branch, a bird in the bush. So quiet. So restful. I rode a cloud home, breathing.

A Friend's Recitation of Grace

Eight years ago I went off on my first travel adventure to His Mansion in New Hampshire, a ministry assisting young adults who are in a spiritually vulnerable time of life and who are brave enough to reach out for a helping hand. I will always remember my six weeks in the fall of 2004, working among these beautiful people. A friend I met there is working through her FB list, writing essays honoring each friend. It was my turn today. Thank you, Wendy, for this sweet dessert.

#149 Heidi Johnson could say she brought her ministry to His Mansion, and she could say she found it already there. After she finished the Healing in Context of Community course, she continued on for the six-week practicum, adding the feat of producing her Joseph play to the full schedule of living with the women as an intern. I could say she was my first work-crew leader, but really she was my first artist in residence. Between the constructing and collaborating of her creative drama, and the woods where she'd disappear for hours climbing the mountains, she was revealing, showing, even signaling the importance of weaving together her love of nature, her love of people. Watching her between these two worlds, I remember the small comforts she treasured in the midst of long hours: the silk house slippers folded into her bag for indoors, the scarf her mother sent when the wind whipped up Wolf Hill Road, the cup of tea in her hand as she sat in a rocking chair near the window of the women's dayroom. And I remember the hardiness of embracing nature, work, activity, a core of resilience that bent without complaint. "Let's take a walk up to the cell tower before class!" she'd say. "We only have fifteen minutes! Can we?" Up and down, there and back again, we were dropped off to class out of breath and successfully flushed with oxygen. What was she teaching us, tromping along mountain streams, setting up stage practice in the few free hours? For me, the lesson remained a mystery, and for a long time it wasn't as important as Heidi herself, who is also a bit of a mystery. Perhaps biased by her poetic soul, and perhaps swayed by the fact that I still need these moments that she embraced among us, I have found a way to embody them for myself in a world of grasses on an inland ocean: it is the importance of remembering and forgetting. On the hill, Heidi risked remembering that each of us had talents, creativity, and skills, whether for drama or work crew, and she cared about us even more than about why we were there. Some had possibly forgotten that, in the midst of changing their life for a new place, new schedule, new living situation, they were still, well, people. Walking in the woods, Heidi helped us forget for a while that we were residents, that we were in New Hampshire for any other reason but the colors of fall, the sight of rushing water, the snaps and thuds of adventure. Forgetting made room for more remembering. Remembering grew stronger with supportive kindness. Forgetting took more forms--telling, writing, praying--remembering took more forms--pausing mid-work for a drink, laughing at the meal, sending a letter, sharing a dream. Forgetting became letting go, the way a bent branch is released slowly to avoid hitting the next person on the trail; remembering became receiving and acting, a place to focus, a step of self-expression. Both of these look now like the warp and woof of faith, but I remember them mostly as Heidi's art form, especially the time we spent reading Robert Frost's "The Master Speed," remembering it over the years as the first time in a long time that I remembered what it was like to be me. Thank you Heidi! Blessings on your writing, travels, and love of nature. My deep admiration and love.

Faith in the Storm

God never moves without purpose or plan
When trying His servant and molding a man.
Give thanks to the Lord though your testing seems long;
In darkness He giveth a song.

O rejoice in the Lord, He makes no mistake.
He knoweth the end of each path that I take.
For when I am tried and purified,
I shall come forth as gold.

I could not see through the shadows ahead;
So I looked at the cross of my Savior instead.
I bowed to the will of the Master that day;
Then peace came and tears fled away.

Now I can see testing comes from above;
God strengthens His children and purges in love.
My Father knows best, and I trust in His care;
Through purging more fruit I will bear.

O rejoice in the Lord, He makes no mistake.
He knoweth the end of each path that I take.
For when I am tried and purified,
I shall come forth as gold.

Rejoice In The Lord, Ron Hamilton 1978

A New Journey Begins

As of August 1, I am officially unemployed. After two years of financial difficulties and my boss cutting her own salary for a good six months, we had to make further cuts. While God delivered us from this twice before, he chose not to this time. I am looking forward to the Next Step in my life. Will it be simply a new employer or will it be a new career? I am swimming through a ton of assessments to help me determine that.


Next Related Post: Wait In Faith (2013/01/02)

The Invitation

A few weeks ago, the Shepherd left a note in my mailbox. It was an invitation. Would I be willing to join him in his work in a neighboring town? The situation was that I would climb the mountain on set days to continue loving my little flock, but my focus would become serving a much larger flock. A flock I also loved and would come to love more dearly.

Moving with him meant leaving this cozy hut and its beautiful setting. No more waking with the reflection of water dancing on my ceiling. No more listening to the wind running its fingers through the tree tops that screen my little nest. No more quiet evenings with us sitting in front of a warm fireplace. It meant trading this peaceful honeymoon suite - where he had wooed my heart, my trust, my love - for the grime, noise, and stench of a busy town populated with unsightly people.

Of course I will come. This hut I love so dearly is only a shell if you, dear Shepherd, are not here.

And so I packed my bags and came. We walked down the mountain together, talking of precious treasures to come. Nearly at the bottom, the Shepherd sat down under a clump of pines and told me to go on ahead, cross the bridge, and wait for him on the other side. But, when I came to the bridge, I found it terribly broken down, uncrossable, with the river raging. Running back to the Shepherd, I reported my find. "We'll need to take the long route," he replied; and he picked up our bags and began to move downstream. Planting myself, I cried, "Shepherd, there is no other way! The river is long and dangerous. There is no other safe crossing point!" He turned and, looking at me with his penetrating eyes, stretched out his hand to me. "Will you trust me?" he gently asked.


Next Post in Series: Building the Bridge
Previous Post in Series: Choosing the Path of Life

On His Blindess

by John Milton

When I consider how my light is spent
Ere half my days in this dark world and wide,
And that one talent which is death to hide
Lodged with me useless, though my soul more bent
To serve therewith my Maker, and present
My true account, lest He returning chide,
"Doth God exact day-labor, light denied?"
I fondly ask. But Patience, to prevent
That murmur, soon replies, "God doth not need
Either man's work or his own gifts. Who best
Bear his mild yoke, they serve him best. His state
Is kingly: thousands at his bidding speed,
And post o'er land and ocean without rest;
They also serve who only stand and wait."

I stand and wait, and You ordain repulsion and rejection. I bear your mild yoke, and the offering goes up in flames. Is this the suffering You have ordained for me: useless gifts, mockery of weakness, and watching bright-eyed Others flying on the breath of your pleasure? This is no mild yoke. It is slow suffocation.

Behold, my servant shall prosper;
he shall be high and lifted up,
and shall be exalted.
As many were astonished at you—
his appearance was so marred, beyond human semblance,
and his form beyond that of the children of mankind—
so shall he startle many nations;
kings shall shut their mouths because of him;
for that which has not been told them they see,
and that which they have not heard they understand.1


Patience, my child.


1 Isaiah 52:13-15, ESV

My Girls Are So Special

I've had two teas with my girls and their moms since my last post. Each darling. Each different from the other. I have to share with you the girls' most memorable sayings:

Kacee: "Are these strawberries fake? They look just like my grandmother's fake strawberries! I've never seen such clean strawberries!"

Grace: (remember, this is the first time she's been to my home....) "Miss Johnson, whenever I see antiques, I think of you!" -- I wonder what exactly she meant by that... ;-)

Last night at Kids Connection, one of my little angels brought me a bouquet of lilacs in a canning jar. The girls forbade me to come to the table until they were ready. When I came, they all had set the bouquet on my chair with my scarf artistically draped around the jar. Apparently my delightful oohs and sighing awes weren't complete enough. Kacee mouthed at me, "Who gave me these?" When I asked the question back, they all responded in unison, "Me! Guess!" It was Ellen, yet they all had partook in the joy of the event. Oh, such delightful little cherubinas.

I'm looking forward to tea on Saturday with Anna!

Note From My Special Little Tea Guest Today

Each of my little third grade girls in my small group receives an invitation for her birthday to come to my home for a tea party with her mother. My first tea party of the year was today. Following is the precious note my delightful child, dressed in pink satin and black bejeweled slippers, wrote in my guest book:

We had a great time. All the great antique stuff was my favorite. I liked the glass animals. The food was asome. I look forward to seeing you again in church. We should have you over to the house for a lunch date. Cant wait to too see you next year.

ps. I really like being friends with you call me sometime my home number is [xxx-xxx-xxxx]. You should give me your E-mail you should know but no ofence your the oldest friend I've had.

Love,

[with lots of hearts: my little friend]

He is Enough

Dear Friend,

You asked, in working so closely with children has God helped me not feel the pain of not having my own Someone whom I love and who loves and respects me, of having my own children....

I have come to the acceptance that in life we do not get all we may desire that is natural and right. Instead, I focus on the amazing gifts God has given me, the astounding responsibilities He has entrusted to me, and rest in His loving sovereignty that He is not and will not withhold anything good. The more I abide in Him, the more I find exceedingly abundant joy in the moments and days He has given. I watched 40 come and go and grieved my probable losses; but, I learned that He and His love for me were not only Enough, but were my Spring of Joy. Out of this flowed contentment which found satisfaction and delight in that which He had already placed in my hand. I look at this adventure and the next with excitement, knowing the Lover of my Soul is and will provide all the good that I need.

Growing with you in Him,
Heidi

He Missed Me

I had been out of town one weekend in December and consequently had missed Sunday School. When I was back the following Sunday sitting in small group, my little Ethan came up from behind me, threw his arms around my neck, and buried his head in my chest murmuring something sweet. I gently lifted his head and asked, "What did you say?" He whispered close into my ear, "I missed you!"

Letter to the Preacher

Dear Preacher,

I want to share a story with you that I think will delight and encourage your heart as it did mine.

This past Sunday morning, I walked into the church service alongside two of my third-grade Sunday School girls. One of them invited me to sit with her. During your sermon she proceeded to pull out her sketch pad and vie for my attention with drawings of hearts, trees, and peanut-people. I purposed to set a good example for her by focusing on the sermon, but seemingly to no avail.

Now, fast forward to the Sunday School hour where we are sitting in small group discussing the lesson. I have recognized an opportunity to include the points from the acrostic in your sermon. However, as I begin, my mind goes into a quick freeze. I tell the girls I am experiencing Stage Fright and will need to refer to my notes.

As I turn and reach for my sermon notebook, a little voice at the end of the table says, "Admit!" Astonished, I glance up to see to which of my star pupils the voice belongs. It is my little sketch artist.

"That's right, Evelyn." I briefly apply the principle of "Admit" to our discussion scenario.

Then, I look at my notes for word number two. Again that little voice pipes up, "Pray!" And on it goes with perfect timing after each application: Trust! Act! Thank!

And so, I thank God for His action causing this little girl to hear His word spoken through you, and I pray that this seed will grow into understanding and belief, working an eternal joy into the heart of my little eight-year old drawer of hearts, trees and peanut-people.