Heart Song

Tear your hearts,

Not just your clothes,

And return to the Lord your God.

Joel 2:13

"In right, outright, upright, downright, happy all the time;"

I had nursery with my friends a few weeks ago.

An infant, a toddler, and twenty five three year olds ready to dismantle the church. Ok, maybe that's a slight exaggeration. There weren't really more than seven preschoolers I don't think, and there were three of us.  The ratios still seemed significantly slanted to their side.  As puzzles, clay, and stories devolved into chase each other around the table, in some desparation we began singing old Sunday School songs.

It was somewhat successful, I guess.  At least they stopped running around the room throwing plush fish at each other, but to my surprise, they didn't really join in.  They just dropped down on the rug on their bellies, propped their chins in their hands, and stared at us like they expected a stage production.

I'm not quite sure what you'd call what they got, but it did keep them entertained until their parents got back anyway.

In right

       upright,

                 tear your hearts

Out right

         downright

                   not just your clothes.

It's so much easier to watch than participate,

               but where's the joy in that? 

Friend of the Fatherless

"...Assyria will not save us,
we will not ride on horses,
and we will no longer proclaim 'Our gods!'
to the works of our hands.
For the fatherless receives compassion in You."
Hosea 14: 3





Fatherless in a patriarchal society, left without protection, provision, or pride, they threw themselves on the mercies of compassion. Can we really come in any other way?

An ally of power and strength commands our trust and loyalty, like a schoolyard bully demanding honor for the gift of protection.

Towering on horses, exalting in wealth and confidence, we rest on the
pride of the work of our hands until it crumbles to dust at a touch.

Empty, alone, we can finally approach, for the gift of all that we need.

Winter Wanderings

The dog is pacing again, she's driving me crazy. Every winter she gets like this; clickety clack across the kitchen, into the living room and back to the kitchen, staring and whining at the door, begging to go out yet again.

I don't know if it's nerves or confusion or latent memories of her puppy days. It's not because she wants to be out in the snow, not anymore anyway. She loved it once, she'd run her nose through pile of fluff and jump like a rabbit through the drifts, running and barking and begging the kids to join her.

Now she goes out and she comes back in. She snatches her treat and wanders downstairs, then comes back within minutes to pace and whine again.

I wonder if she does it while we're gone all day. Surely not, she definitely expects some result, and she's smart enough to know that nothing's going to happen if no one is here to listen.

So what is it she really wants, another treat, a change of scenery, or does she just hope every minute that surely it will be different this time?

I can relate to that I guess, in the midst of a storm night obsession of watching the weather over and over, of wondering if there's going to be a snow day, as if my attention will make any difference in what the final result will be.

Coax the dog downstairs, turn off the tv, and convince us both to accept whatever will be.

Prophets and Kings

She said to her mistress,

"If only my master would go to the prophet who is in Samaria, 

he would cure him of his skin disease."

So Naaman went and told his master what the girl from the land of Israel had said.

Therefore, the king of Aram said,

"Go and I will send a letter with you to the king of Israel."

2 Kings 5: 3 - 5a

We always think we have a better idea.  The prophet, he was clearly told.  Even as specific as, the prophet in Samaria.  So why was Naaman sent to the king?  

A prophet doesn't sound very important, I guess. Especially to the king of a conquering nation of a different religion.  The king, surely, was the one with the power, the source of any miracles that the masses might have attributed to this insignificant holy man.  

There would be no going through lowly underlings for the vanquishing warrior.  He would go right to the top and demand his boon.  His would take pride in forcing his past adversary to receive his messenger, in rubbing salt in the wounds of the recent defeat, as he forced the king to grant his request.  

Yet the king could do nothing.  He knew he had no power from God.  He was horrified by the very implication and considered it an act of war.  Surely, he was aware that Elisha had the answer, but there's nothing to indicate that he asked.  Elisha had to make the offer himself.

Even the one who should have known best, had no faith in God's order.  A lowly prophet, what could he do?  Why would he even think of sending such an important commander to someone so beneath his notice?

A simple answer, a quiet one, with no fanfare, and theatrics and celebrity experts; how often do I too brush past the gift of God's answer, searching for a little more drama?

  

Back in the Stream

Thick and wide and slow and the river flows.  Peace descending gentle leaching tension, floating downstream on drifting limb.  We sit in trio on an herb garden patio, with a sweet cheerful waitress and the brush of a cooling late summer breeze.

I know why they pass out contracts in the spring.  If any of us collectively remembered the overwhelming exhaustion  of the first two or three weeks of school, the district would never get anyone back.  It's not really the sudden all day standing and moving or even the return of early morning have to be somewhere on time.  It's the constant, every moment "on" of being hyper aware of every movement of every student.  Are they following directions? Are they working on the assignment?  Are they focused on the lesson?  Do they understand my instructions or are they even aware that I've given any?

In two to three weeks, they'll be in the routine.  They'll know what to do and how to read the shorthand phrases and gestures that move us through the day.  It won't be the end of challenges.  They'll think up creative and covert ways of avoiding the struggle of learning, but they'll give me space to breathe.  As questions melt into habits, I can relax into the days and the joy of teaching; into of the flow of watching them grow.

Daily Bread

They were discussing among themselves that they did not have any bread.

Mark 8:16

They had just come from watching Jesus feed the multitudes with a handful of bread and fish.  They had collected baskets of leftovers.  They had listened to him preach to the crowds and watched him battle with Pharisees.  

And they were worried that they only had one loaf of bread in the boat with them.

It doesn't seem to be a particularly long trip they had planned.  It doesn't even say that they were hungry yet. They just knew they would be in the future.  They focused on the resource in their hands, to solve a problem that didn't yet exist. 

Did they turn to Jesus, watching from the side of the boat?  Did they ask him what to do?  Or did they nervously whisper their worries as they eyed the single loaf, sensing the frustration he must surely feel at their fears?

He doesn't appear to have given them the bread they didn't really need at that point.  He just asked them to recite back to him the details of his past miracles and gave them time to think.

The horizon is clouded with jostling problems that might occur some day.  The wake behind me awash in the blessings of constant provision.  And Jesus rests calmly in the bobbing boat, waiting for me to remember, to trust, to focus on what really matters.  

Healing Love

Then a man with a serious skin disease

came to Him,

and, on his knees begged Him:

If You are willing,

You can make me clean.

Moved with compassion,

Jesus reached out his hand and touched him.

"I am willing,"

He told him,

"Be made clean"

Mark 1: 40-41

It was never about the healing, not the physical kind anyway.  Jesus came to draw us to His Father.  His longing was to reach the people, to touch them with the truth.  Because of this healing, he could no longer even enter the town in peace. 

I always used to wonder why he would tell the people he healed not to say anything.  Aren't we supposed to honor God and show our gratitude for his gifts?  But this time, it thwarted the very work he was trying to do. The jostling, shouting crowds wanted a show, not a sermon.  They wanted to be entertained and awed. Some wanted legitimate cures for their various trials, and some just wanted to be part of the excitement.  Hardly anyone wanted to listen and reflect, to pray and repent.

So why do it?  Why not just walk away?  Why not tell the man to consider his sins, to beg for forgiveness, to set his mind on more important matters? 

Because Jesus was "moved with compassion".  In spite of the turmoil created by this one simple act, He cared about the single unimportant man reaching out to him from the side of the road.  He took his pain to heart and longed to give him joy.  

He still does.