Starstruck...
How must that feel? To be engulfed in almost helpless adoration and affection? To lose concepts of self and time in the all consuming realization of Another?
If so, I know the feeling.
Standing lone under the dark vaulted heavens and gazing at the celestial hosts splayed profusely across the skies, breath all grabbed out of me, what could emanate more naturally than whole-hearted worship and adoration for ONE. One, Who alone "doeth great wonders".
Job felt this--this awe for the Great One, this mercy-drenched beauty realization of One who spangles skies and reaches among man-kind to touch brokenness, to hollow out places in the desert for living streams. Sitting midst potsherds and rags in fevered pain, his heart did not relent in its praise song to the One who could give and take away because He is the Giver. As Job's eyes beheld the mighty Orion with its gleaming bands, he thought on God. And I believe as he thought, his inner eyes were sharpened, focused, to see beyond the shallow layers of who we define God to be to intimate divine intuition of the Creator.
I gazed on Orion, on Cassiopeia, Ursa Major, and the millions of glittering diamonds whose names I never will know. I gazed, and God spoke back His character, His loveliness, His song of love that sings the same as it did to Job thousands of years ago. Those living words, piercing and bursting into full flame within the chamber of my soul, I testify to.
I testify to Love.
"Great God how infinite art Thou!
How poor and weak are we.
Let the whole race of creatures bow,
And pay their praise to Thee.
Thy throne eternal ages stood,
Ere seas or stars were made.
Thou are the ever living God
Were all the nations dead."
Thursday, 25 September 2014
Sunday, 20 July 2014
Church in the Cradle
Creak, swish, creak, swish...
Methodic, slow, easy, slumber inducing, the cradle rocks back and forth, back and forth.
Creak, swish, creak, swish... momentum slowing, gently swaying, stilling now, stopping. Stopping.
The silky lash rests on the placid cheeked face. Serene and angelic, he lies there, forgetful of the fight of the minute before. Forgetful of the fact that every ounce of his body was pitted in the warfare against sleep. Forgetful that each rending wail had screamed his defiance of the enemy, that devious enemy--Sleep.
He sleeps. He succumbs. The unclenched fist and deep even breath hail the victory. The shuddering hiccups gradually subside--stilled to slumber by the rocking of the cradle, the monotony of repetition.Sleep has used the cleverest of his tactics, stealth and comfort. And Sleep has won. Unconscious of the battle lost, the wee one slumbers. Pleasantly dreaming of cotton candy mountains and friendly teddies, he is clueless to the fact that he is firmly in his enemy's grasp. No memory of the fight warns him that he may have lost this one. The corner of his lip twitches and a peaceful smile unravels across his face.
The cradle rocks. Side to side. Side to side. The infant child is replaced by a multitude of people. People to whom the fish symbol represents something. People who acknowledge a deity as Master of their lives. People who've sharpened steel on steel against just such a foe as this. People who are poised and waiting for the enemy to ride up and proclaim himself "Error". The battle plan is laid out. Such a contest will be brief and to the point. We are ready. We gasp as we think of how our depraved society is falling prey, their infantry dwindling as the Enemy conquers, but we rest assured that WE will never fall into such a trap as they.
The cradle rocks.
We cry out.
The cradle rocks.
We protest.
The cradle rocks.
We shake our heads.
The cradle rocks.
We pause.
The cradle rocks.
Eyelids droop.
The cradle rocks.
Breathing slows.
The cradle rocks, and...
Wait, Church! We cannot sleep! We must not sleep! That's him! The Enemy didn't come announced. He just is, and he is here. Stealth and Comfort, Apathy, and Self, He goes by many names. Why haven't we recognized him before this? Could it be that Deception is another of his names? Is it possible that "Enemy" is able to deceive even the most intellectual Christian?
We don't want to believe it. We shake our heads. That means it isn't true, right? We won't believe and it won't be so, we convince ourselves. The more adamant we are that it isn't so will make it much less likely that it is so, perhaps.
We shake our heads. The cradle rocks.
The fists unclench, the heartbeat slows.
But, what if it is so?
What if we've been stilled to intoxicating slumber by the very one we've sharpened our swords against?
What if we are prostrated, helplessly and unconsciously in the territory of our foe? What if, even now, he chuckles as he plans our decisive end? Then what?
Then do we sleep? Do we close our eyes? Do we allow ourselves to allow the dictates of our society to disarm us?
What good is it to watch if we are already blindfolded by deception?
The Church is in the cradle. Only God can keep each one of us as we seek His strength to prevent the slumber.
Methodic, slow, easy, slumber inducing, the cradle rocks back and forth, back and forth.
Creak, swish, creak, swish... momentum slowing, gently swaying, stilling now, stopping. Stopping.
The silky lash rests on the placid cheeked face. Serene and angelic, he lies there, forgetful of the fight of the minute before. Forgetful of the fact that every ounce of his body was pitted in the warfare against sleep. Forgetful that each rending wail had screamed his defiance of the enemy, that devious enemy--Sleep.
He sleeps. He succumbs. The unclenched fist and deep even breath hail the victory. The shuddering hiccups gradually subside--stilled to slumber by the rocking of the cradle, the monotony of repetition.Sleep has used the cleverest of his tactics, stealth and comfort. And Sleep has won. Unconscious of the battle lost, the wee one slumbers. Pleasantly dreaming of cotton candy mountains and friendly teddies, he is clueless to the fact that he is firmly in his enemy's grasp. No memory of the fight warns him that he may have lost this one. The corner of his lip twitches and a peaceful smile unravels across his face.
The cradle rocks. Side to side. Side to side. The infant child is replaced by a multitude of people. People to whom the fish symbol represents something. People who acknowledge a deity as Master of their lives. People who've sharpened steel on steel against just such a foe as this. People who are poised and waiting for the enemy to ride up and proclaim himself "Error". The battle plan is laid out. Such a contest will be brief and to the point. We are ready. We gasp as we think of how our depraved society is falling prey, their infantry dwindling as the Enemy conquers, but we rest assured that WE will never fall into such a trap as they.
The cradle rocks.
We cry out.
The cradle rocks.
We protest.
The cradle rocks.
We shake our heads.
The cradle rocks.
We pause.
The cradle rocks.
Eyelids droop.
The cradle rocks.
Breathing slows.
The cradle rocks, and...
Wait, Church! We cannot sleep! We must not sleep! That's him! The Enemy didn't come announced. He just is, and he is here. Stealth and Comfort, Apathy, and Self, He goes by many names. Why haven't we recognized him before this? Could it be that Deception is another of his names? Is it possible that "Enemy" is able to deceive even the most intellectual Christian?
We don't want to believe it. We shake our heads. That means it isn't true, right? We won't believe and it won't be so, we convince ourselves. The more adamant we are that it isn't so will make it much less likely that it is so, perhaps.
We shake our heads. The cradle rocks.
The fists unclench, the heartbeat slows.
But, what if it is so?
What if we've been stilled to intoxicating slumber by the very one we've sharpened our swords against?
What if we are prostrated, helplessly and unconsciously in the territory of our foe? What if, even now, he chuckles as he plans our decisive end? Then what?
Then do we sleep? Do we close our eyes? Do we allow ourselves to allow the dictates of our society to disarm us?
What good is it to watch if we are already blindfolded by deception?
The Church is in the cradle. Only God can keep each one of us as we seek His strength to prevent the slumber.
Sunday, 18 May 2014
Legacy
This legacy of one now enshrouded by silky folds of linen, resting in a bed of the dust from which man came, lives on. The legacy of a man who walked the earth as a humble man, yet who departed it as a hero of faith and a testament of Christ.
Of the men who stand firm to their purpose, who love the Lord with all their heart, soul, and mind, who know the true meaning of life, Grandpa, you stand out as an expert.
Walking by your casket, one could only see what you weren't. Well, it was you, your body, but YOU weren't there. The tall frame, the kind eyes, forever closed to the suffering of this state of mortality we exist in, were mere reminders of the man of God that once dwelt in that body. The part that really was YOU, the part we loved, knew, and the part with which you loved and served your fellow man had taken its final journey to the place your eyes had always been set on--heaven.
How does one encapsulate such a life into one tribute, into mere sentences or words across the page? You left this earth at ninety six years of age, leaving behind you a intrinsically woven tapestry of life experiences. I knew you only in the retirement years of your life, yet in those years you have made an indelible impression upon my life.
There are many questions about why you did the things you did that couldn't be answered by natural human reasoning or selfish motives. Clearly, your life was directed by your Master, the One who gave His life for you and for Whom you daily gave your life.
The greatest barrier between you and Grandma and us in growing up were the miles that separated us, but you determined to make the most of the times when we were together. Walks down to the river, our small hands swinging your large one, all the while jabbering earfuls you patiently listened to, riding with you to the Hartville Hardware, where you seemed to know everyone you met, sitting up on your knee for "pony rides" or holding our palms up so would say "here's a crack, here's a crack, here's a crack and there's a CRACK" and smack us playfully, sitting around your old kitchen table eating ice cream in Grandma's green glass bowls, feeling your fuzzy beard and letting you rub it against our cheeks, going to the flea market with you...only a few of the memories that endeared you to me and to my siblings as young children.
As we got older, and you did too, the walks to the river slowed in pace, then in frequency, eventually stopping altogether. It became aware that you were aging, but we didn't really mind. You still found ways to spend time with us. What a treat to travel to Ohio and spend time at Grandpa and Grandma's house. We knew that our arrival was eagerly anticipated and you made sure each grandchild felt valued and important. I always knew after I took my bath, you would sniff the air with an intent look on your face and say "I smell a flower." Once a meal was finished, you would look at us in surprise and ask whatever we did with our food, then ask us if we put it under the table. We all knew that when we turned six, we were in for being teased about being "sick". We also knew that when we came down your creaky blue stairs in the morning we would find you in the corner chair with a Bible spread across your lap. We knew that when you interacted with your fellow men, you would be quick to praise God and speak a word for Him. We knew that you lived with a purpose.
Your life was not always easy or flowery. You told us tales of Depression days, when times were tough, when you shared your limited supplies of potatoes with those who were even less fortunate. You told us of a summer in Kansas when you were very nearly kidnapped. You told about growing up as an Amish boy. You told of your life as a young man facing the draft. You told of your experiences as you served your King and your fellow men in CPS camps instead of taking up arms. You told of your seven year engagement with your bride to be, prolonged by the war and your terms of service. My mom told us of your choice to serve God with your family in Guatemala for several years. You served in God's church as a deacon for many years until you were no longer able to.
As the sun sank continually lower in the sky, you maintained the things most important to you, chiefly your relationship with God and your fellow man. You and Grandma diligently prayed for each of your 40 grandchildren every day BY NAME, up to the day of your death. You faithfully remembered each birthday with a card and personal message and the traditional $2.00 bill. I treasure the memory of holding hands in a family circle before leaving from a visit and reciting Psalm 23, and singing a song together.
You showed me that loving God didn't make life stifling and dry, but full and refreshing instead. You had a hearty sense of humour to accompany your intense love for God.
The memories are many, the threads that hold us to the spirit of the live you lived well are strong.
And so, as you walk those streets of gold, as you chat with Aunt Roz along the banks of the River of Life, as you sit before your Maker and bask in the wonder of His presence, I know you are where you truly belong. You are as a bird returned to the expanse of the open sky. You are free from the bondage of mortality, of the pain that accompanies life on earth. You lived your life with purpose and fulfilled the purpose for which you were given life. You've passed on the torch to be carried onward and forward through the gathering clouds of the future.
Grandpa, you've left me, and countless others, with a legacy that WILL live on. And someday, Grandpa, when I get to heaven too, I want to sit on your knee again and have one more pony ride.
Of the men who stand firm to their purpose, who love the Lord with all their heart, soul, and mind, who know the true meaning of life, Grandpa, you stand out as an expert.
Walking by your casket, one could only see what you weren't. Well, it was you, your body, but YOU weren't there. The tall frame, the kind eyes, forever closed to the suffering of this state of mortality we exist in, were mere reminders of the man of God that once dwelt in that body. The part that really was YOU, the part we loved, knew, and the part with which you loved and served your fellow man had taken its final journey to the place your eyes had always been set on--heaven.
How does one encapsulate such a life into one tribute, into mere sentences or words across the page? You left this earth at ninety six years of age, leaving behind you a intrinsically woven tapestry of life experiences. I knew you only in the retirement years of your life, yet in those years you have made an indelible impression upon my life.
There are many questions about why you did the things you did that couldn't be answered by natural human reasoning or selfish motives. Clearly, your life was directed by your Master, the One who gave His life for you and for Whom you daily gave your life.
The greatest barrier between you and Grandma and us in growing up were the miles that separated us, but you determined to make the most of the times when we were together. Walks down to the river, our small hands swinging your large one, all the while jabbering earfuls you patiently listened to, riding with you to the Hartville Hardware, where you seemed to know everyone you met, sitting up on your knee for "pony rides" or holding our palms up so would say "here's a crack, here's a crack, here's a crack and there's a CRACK" and smack us playfully, sitting around your old kitchen table eating ice cream in Grandma's green glass bowls, feeling your fuzzy beard and letting you rub it against our cheeks, going to the flea market with you...only a few of the memories that endeared you to me and to my siblings as young children.
As we got older, and you did too, the walks to the river slowed in pace, then in frequency, eventually stopping altogether. It became aware that you were aging, but we didn't really mind. You still found ways to spend time with us. What a treat to travel to Ohio and spend time at Grandpa and Grandma's house. We knew that our arrival was eagerly anticipated and you made sure each grandchild felt valued and important. I always knew after I took my bath, you would sniff the air with an intent look on your face and say "I smell a flower." Once a meal was finished, you would look at us in surprise and ask whatever we did with our food, then ask us if we put it under the table. We all knew that when we turned six, we were in for being teased about being "sick". We also knew that when we came down your creaky blue stairs in the morning we would find you in the corner chair with a Bible spread across your lap. We knew that when you interacted with your fellow men, you would be quick to praise God and speak a word for Him. We knew that you lived with a purpose.
Your life was not always easy or flowery. You told us tales of Depression days, when times were tough, when you shared your limited supplies of potatoes with those who were even less fortunate. You told us of a summer in Kansas when you were very nearly kidnapped. You told about growing up as an Amish boy. You told of your life as a young man facing the draft. You told of your experiences as you served your King and your fellow men in CPS camps instead of taking up arms. You told of your seven year engagement with your bride to be, prolonged by the war and your terms of service. My mom told us of your choice to serve God with your family in Guatemala for several years. You served in God's church as a deacon for many years until you were no longer able to.
As the sun sank continually lower in the sky, you maintained the things most important to you, chiefly your relationship with God and your fellow man. You and Grandma diligently prayed for each of your 40 grandchildren every day BY NAME, up to the day of your death. You faithfully remembered each birthday with a card and personal message and the traditional $2.00 bill. I treasure the memory of holding hands in a family circle before leaving from a visit and reciting Psalm 23, and singing a song together.
You showed me that loving God didn't make life stifling and dry, but full and refreshing instead. You had a hearty sense of humour to accompany your intense love for God.
The memories are many, the threads that hold us to the spirit of the live you lived well are strong.
And so, as you walk those streets of gold, as you chat with Aunt Roz along the banks of the River of Life, as you sit before your Maker and bask in the wonder of His presence, I know you are where you truly belong. You are as a bird returned to the expanse of the open sky. You are free from the bondage of mortality, of the pain that accompanies life on earth. You lived your life with purpose and fulfilled the purpose for which you were given life. You've passed on the torch to be carried onward and forward through the gathering clouds of the future.
Grandpa, you've left me, and countless others, with a legacy that WILL live on. And someday, Grandpa, when I get to heaven too, I want to sit on your knee again and have one more pony ride.
Sunday, 2 February 2014
Thankful for manna?
Tonight it is snowing.
Yesterday it snowed.
And the day before that.
And the day before that.
" " " " " " " times pretty nearly every day since December first.
That's slightly exaggerated, but it comes close.
SNOW
Commonplace, yet it somehow finds its way into about a fifth of my Facebook page feeds, almost every discussion with stranger or friend alike, and puts the meteorologists on a tail spin to keep up with its erratic behaviour.
"It's so cold. It's not quite cold enough. If only there would be less snow, more plows on the road, no snow at all, if I didn't have to drive in it...."
I'm no angel, but I have had to smile inside so many times when I hear people gripe ABOUT THE WEATHER!!! I'm sure it affects my personal routine and well-being much less than many other people, so I feel a little guilty to be so joyful at the wonderful white stuff.
These thoughts were somewhere in the recesses of my mind, then I read in my devotions this morning about the children of Israel.
They were needy and hungry.
God provided.
Small, white flakes fell in abundance from the heavens. (Sound familiar?)
Only it wasn't cold. It didn't melt.
It was to eat.
To provide sustenance and nourishment.
In the early days of December, it was novel, paradoxically to the first snow that is so enchanting. They scooped it up by greedy handfuls, crammed it in their mouths, and savoured its delicate sweetness. They praised. They rejoiced. They would not die, they would live.
But December came and went. The provision was the same. Dawn and nightfall brought the same goodness from the skies. Novel became mundane. Miracle became ordinary. Praise became complaint.
The onward march of January and February were etched with the story of a people who forgot the goodness of God, their own inadequacy, and their dependence on the one thing that was becoming so distasteful to them.
And thousands of years later, in 2014, we haven't learned much differently.
The white stuff that heaven's canister keeps shaking down on the wintery world has become less and less of a marvel each day.
It means days off work, slippery travel, being stuck at home...
It means gifted time to pursue projects that usually occupy the back burner most or all of the time.
It means gratefulness for God's protection of arriving at a destination when roads are difficult to traverse.
It means the blessing of time to build and strengthen family relationships.
It means the ugliness of a fallen world is robed in a dazzling garb that mirrors the glorious light of the sun and moon.
It means we are being provided for. The fluffy white will one day turn to wet, in a process that will probably fuel more weathergriping. But the wet will replenish the water table and nourish the ground we live off of. The cold will wipe out bacteria and bugs that often plague us during the milder winters.
JOY is 100% Jesus and 100% choice. I know, math doesn't like that ratio. Jesus wants to give us joy, even in the midst of the blizzard, but its our choice to accept it.
My challenge is to CHOOSE JOY. No. matter. what.
It's available for the taking.
Yesterday it snowed.
And the day before that.
And the day before that.
" " " " " " " times pretty nearly every day since December first.
That's slightly exaggerated, but it comes close.
SNOW
Commonplace, yet it somehow finds its way into about a fifth of my Facebook page feeds, almost every discussion with stranger or friend alike, and puts the meteorologists on a tail spin to keep up with its erratic behaviour.
"It's so cold. It's not quite cold enough. If only there would be less snow, more plows on the road, no snow at all, if I didn't have to drive in it...."
I'm no angel, but I have had to smile inside so many times when I hear people gripe ABOUT THE WEATHER!!! I'm sure it affects my personal routine and well-being much less than many other people, so I feel a little guilty to be so joyful at the wonderful white stuff.
These thoughts were somewhere in the recesses of my mind, then I read in my devotions this morning about the children of Israel.
They were needy and hungry.
God provided.
Small, white flakes fell in abundance from the heavens. (Sound familiar?)
Only it wasn't cold. It didn't melt.
It was to eat.
To provide sustenance and nourishment.
In the early days of December, it was novel, paradoxically to the first snow that is so enchanting. They scooped it up by greedy handfuls, crammed it in their mouths, and savoured its delicate sweetness. They praised. They rejoiced. They would not die, they would live.
But December came and went. The provision was the same. Dawn and nightfall brought the same goodness from the skies. Novel became mundane. Miracle became ordinary. Praise became complaint.
The onward march of January and February were etched with the story of a people who forgot the goodness of God, their own inadequacy, and their dependence on the one thing that was becoming so distasteful to them.
And thousands of years later, in 2014, we haven't learned much differently.
The white stuff that heaven's canister keeps shaking down on the wintery world has become less and less of a marvel each day.
It means days off work, slippery travel, being stuck at home...
It means gifted time to pursue projects that usually occupy the back burner most or all of the time.
It means gratefulness for God's protection of arriving at a destination when roads are difficult to traverse.
It means the blessing of time to build and strengthen family relationships.
It means the ugliness of a fallen world is robed in a dazzling garb that mirrors the glorious light of the sun and moon.
It means we are being provided for. The fluffy white will one day turn to wet, in a process that will probably fuel more weathergriping. But the wet will replenish the water table and nourish the ground we live off of. The cold will wipe out bacteria and bugs that often plague us during the milder winters.
JOY is 100% Jesus and 100% choice. I know, math doesn't like that ratio. Jesus wants to give us joy, even in the midst of the blizzard, but its our choice to accept it.
My challenge is to CHOOSE JOY. No. matter. what.
It's available for the taking.
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