Lifted Eyes

I will lift up my mine eyes to the hills...

Psalms 12:1

Hiking the rain softened trail, it's easy to be lost in the stones beneath my feet.  Step by step, I skip to a more secure boulder, and swing my legs over a fallen branch.  The soft morning air brushes the wild flowers that dance at the edge of the path.  Stopping for pictures, stopping for breath, I lift my eyes to the beauty that almost overwhelms me.  

It's a pleasant walk, within the radius of my arms.  I could stay here quite happily, engulfed in the trees and the flowers and the sounds of the birds.  Yet the glory lies just outside that self imposed bubble. 

How often do I forget to stop, 

to lift my eyes, 

and to embrace the gifts that surround me?

Thou Fount of Every Blessing

Bagpipe hymns,

On lavender trails,

Haunting over waters

From a wrought iron bridge.

Blessings of sunshine,

Blessings of warmth,

Blessings unnumbered 

of a day off in Spring.

Storm of Power

They were fearful and amazed, 

asking one another,

"Who can this be?

He commands even the winds and the waves,

and they obey Him!"

Luke 8:25

I wonder which one scared them the most.  They were frightened by the raging winds and swamping waves, certain they were about to be pummeled to the bottom of the sea.  But at least it was natural, expected, a normal part of the life they led.  

What exactly did they hope Jesus would do when they woke him?  They'd seen him teach, and heal, and even raise the dead, but there's no indication they really expected him to stop that storm.  

Maybe they just wanted company in their fear.  Maybe they wanted reassurance that it would all pass over soon, that they would survive to continue this mission they'd abandoned their lives to.

What they got was the instantaneous hands-on power of God.  

It wasn't a sign this time, a gift bestowed on a stranger in the crowd  It was the personal, immediate, force of heaven, for their benefit alone, in the voice and touch of their friend.  

That was terrifying.  

"Who is he?" they asked in fearful awe.  After all they'd seen and heard, they didn't know the answer.  After all this power, they didn't still.

When, after all he's done, will we? 

The Sower's Seeds

A sower went out to sow his seed.

Luke 8:5

How many fields would a sower sow?  

Over a lifetime of sowing and harvesting and sowing again; of an endless cycle of backbreaking effort and anxious waiting, how many times would he model the words of Jesus?

In reading the parable, I always think of a single planting, of a one time shot or you've missed it gift.  But is that really how his listeners would have heard it?  

Did they see a farmer, laboring on a distant hill as Jesus taught? Did they watch him trudging up one row and down another, flinging the hopes of his family across the soil?  

They would have seen him in the light of a lifetime of work, of father passing on the land to son, of good years and bad and the endless renewal of hope. 

If the seed is continually sown, then the harvest is new every season.  It's not enough to hear a single call, to check off a box and move on.  

The sower's seeds, forever fresh, demand a fresh response. 

February Morning

It's raining.  

Through soft thick clouds, 

drifting on a hint of Spring.  

Snow has dissolved into puddles, 

skipped like pebbles across the ground.  

Stark, bare trees, 

stretch and yawn 

into the quiet gray morning.  

A roll of thunder, 

more promise than threat, 

hints that winter 

just might, 

be losing it's grip.

Love in Four Dimensions

...may be able to comprehend 

with all the saints

what is the length, and width,

height and depth of God's love...

Ephesians 3:18

Four. 

That's four dimensions. In a three dimensional world of rumbling carts and lowing sheep, the calling of merchants and ring of hammers, God's love is proclaimed in four dimensions.  

Time, the forth dimension. 

It's cliche today. The science fiction staple we throw around like we really understand it. Time, the enduring depth of the love, of the plan, that stretches across centuries lost in the mists beyond our grasp.  

A sudden geek moment in the middle of the sermon, wondering at the time-bound author who never knew his words were reaching me; at the tiny infant sleeping in my arms who might someday do the same.  

Never

Oh No, You never let go,

                                                                                   Matthew Redman

Another snow day, another wind chill advisory, in a winter that seems destined to cling tightly to the shivering earth for weeks to come. I set out wrapped in scarf and hood and my heavy left-over Alaska coat that seems to inspire as much entertainment as envy.  

I don't care. It's warm. It lets me out of the house and into the crisp fresh air and billowing fluff.  The streets are scraped to damp asphalt now, but the sidewalks are still barely distinguishable from the buried yards they huddle against. I stay on the deserted road until I reach the park then plunge through the drifts to the trail. 

It's marked already, with the runners of a single sled and the darting prints of a small animal. The trees are frosted in white as expected, stark and bare against the steel gray clouded sky and the silent air.

Except for one. At the top of the hill, where the children play, it stands alone. Tired, brown, crisp-wilted leaves clutch its branches in defiant pride. Against all storms and wind and cold, they won't give up, they won't let go.  

It's cold now, even through my heavy coat.  The winds are picking up and the temperature dropping.  I head back home, Matthew Redman floating through my mind on the icy walk and a down slope fall. Through storm and trial and barren branches, God will never let go.