faith

I had grown weary of that which powered me to go forward, forgetting empowerment and only leaning on my own will to propel. I am still weary. I find myself faint and I find myself lacking, but this I also find – faith. Faith incognito, faith blatantly staring, faith in the full moon and faith in a letter, faith in a ten percent off coupon and faith in a family I love. I found faith in a good friend, her head lying on my shoulder and my fingers playing with hers. I found faith even in a reminder of what I used to be and no longer find any pleasure in. I found faith in the things which point me to Who He is and in that I found faith in what I am not.

But instead, what kind of grace is sufficient for that.

giving

There has been a lot of talk about sacrifice recently. Firewood and Isaac, favorite albums and anything but vegetables. So I confess, I’ve conjured up the best sacrificial attitude I can muster; I’ve taken stock of holdings and relinquished them to His hold; I’ve watched my intake and liberally given enough outtake, constantly making sure of my heart’s place in His hands. But tonight something was different.

I’ve gotten so used to saying “Take it all,” that I haven’t heard him say “Good, come up higher. Your load is lighter, now come up higher.” I’ve been waiting for a hand up, a level foothold, a steady cable or something and all I see is the same Lord, at the top of the same mountain, and the same journey which was there before. The only thing different is a lighter load.

Sacrifice has seemed not so cost effective in recent months, there was no return and the benefits have been low, but only because I thought that the journey would look different after I’d dropped the sacks of this world. I was wrong; the journey hasn’t changed a bit. My step can cease its trudging though; there is a difference in the weight of my baggage.

I’ll travel light, if that’s what’s necessary. I travel heavy if that’s what’s required. But this I am learning: The travel plans haven’t detoured and X still marks the spot. He is my primary goal and I’ll leave a trail of belongings, dirt and this world behind me with no thought for what is lost – it was never really mine to begin with.

mercies

There is brokeness and there is expectation; this is the paradigm that is Christianity - Christlikeness. Humbling Himself to death, even death on a cross, and still having a full assurance of the greater plan. Descending into hell, yet still acknowledging the beauty of the resurrection forthcoming.

So I will sing. I will sing of Your mercies. They have led me straight through the valleys if only for the rivers of joy and that would be enough, but even in greater mercy, You have granted Eternity as a whetted thirst.

So while this pain swirls around and around and while the mountains cease to be moved, no matter how often or how fervently I say to them move, there is more. And should this valley continue; should I never see the restoration of the fallen city in my lifetime; should the rivers be few and mere trickles at times, this I know: I will sing of the mercies and I will see Eternity and I will know Christ by knowing a mystery.

This is how we know He loved us: All the other great stories still have a last chapter, an italicized The End and a last word, but ours never does.

You have led meto the sadness,
I have carried this pain on a back,
bruised and broken
I'm crying out to You

I will sing of the mercies
That lead me through valleys
Of sorrow and rivers of joy

When death, like a gypsy,
Comes to steal what I love
I will still look to the heavens,
I will still seek Your face
But I fear You aren't listening,
Because there are no words,
Just the stillness and the hunger
For a faith that assures

I will sing of the mercies
That lead me through valleys
Of sorrow and rivers of joy
Alleluia

While we wait for a rescue
With our eyes tightly shut,
Face to the ground,
Using our hands to cover the fatal cut,
Though the pain is an ocean,
Tossing us around, around, around -
You have calmed greater waters
And higher mountains have come down

I will sing of the mercies
That lead me through valleys
Of sorrow and rivers of joy

dishes

I walked in my apartment door tonight to find, like Alice’s journey into Wonderland, an absolute skilt [Is that a word? It probably isn’t, but for lack of a better one. . . ]. All of our furniture was on the opposite end of the room, respectively, all of our pictures were on the wrong walls, our appliances unplugged, our dishes washed, dried and put away, and the light I had left on, turned off. My mind cataloged our small group of friends and my brothers and checked them all off the list, mostly because I’d just spent the past three hours with all of them. I broadened my search in the filing system and called the only person I could think of who would have the creativity to think about doing this, the brawn to put it into action and the concern to be sure our dishes were washed, dried and put away. They were as clueless as I, minus one. I call the accused culprits and they tell me to look out my window, where they are crossing the streets doubled over in laugher.
“But did you see we did the dishes” they said.
I love small town America.