SHEEPISH

            Most days I am keenly aware of my need for a shepherd.  I  think I have found my own pasture and am peacefully grazing on  family, peace and security and then the rich green grass begins to turn a dry crackling brown making me thirsty for a stream I can not find.  I come out of my feeding stupor and see the enemy lurking on a hill nearby, grinning at my dumb independence and I feel vulnerable and afraid as I frantically bleat a prayer for rescue to the shepherd I took for granted.  And I do not look around long before I see Him, holy crook in hand , and hear Him calling to remind me that I have gone too far to independent meadows, but always inviting me to His protective pen once again.  Sometimes I feel the painful rod on my backside but never for any purpose but restoration and so  the pain always feels like holy love.  And my fuzzy mind recalls that it was the shepherd who found the satisfying meadow and measured in His hands all the waters of this stream from which we drink.   But He did not intend for me to replace His protection and provision with this green earthy sort.   I am again refreshed and happy to graze with fellow flock for a while, until the further meadow and the green distant knoll seem better, richer, fuller.  Seems I quickly forget the enemy standing there waiting to sully my white wool with doubt and fear and self righteousness. Too easily I lose sight of  my shepherd who weighed those distant knolls on His holy scales. He should get tired of my forgetful ways but He does not.  He would and did give his life for me, this Shepherd of my soul,  to rescue me from the fate  and the teeth of the devilish lion on the hillside. He carries me home with gentleness and patience. And I count on Him to lead my young with the same care.    This provision in the presence of that enemy is meant to point me to His power and His love and inspire me to follow.   And even the dark valleys, many of which I have foolishly, willingly wandered into, may not provide opportunity for the lion to devour, for he can only  stalk and prey as the shepherd wills.   My shepherd is goodness and He is mercy,  following the flock as we graze through this life into the eternal pasture of shepherd presence and lion absence, clothed in our snowy white wool, a gift from His scarlet blood soaked son to our simple flock.  

He tends his flock like a shepherd:
    He gathers the lambs in his arms
and carries them close to his heart;
    he gently leads those that have young.

Who has measured the waters in the hollow of his hand,
    or with the breadth of his hand marked off the heavens?
Who has held the dust of the earth in a basket,
    or weighed the mountains on the scales
    and the hills in a balance?  Isaiah 40:11-12

BROKEN

                                 





                                   B              KE   

                                                                                RO                N

             It hurts.   It destroys.  It plunges hearts into battle.   It nibbles away at hope.   It confirms the  truth of our sinful flesh. The covenant is sacred and the inked lines are the commitments of small vulnerable souls making a large, strong promise to a Holy God.  And He expects faithfulness, though he knows without His presence it is impossible.  He created  the vow to bring together, to create companionship and oneness out of two, and to display how weak and unfaithful we are without Him. The vow must take away independence and image the joy of dependence in the mirror of marriage.  Breaking the vow breaks His heart, His image,  in and to this world.  He hates the broken image and is angry with this reminder of His groaning world.  And the covenant breakers become so filled with bitter anger and resentment that all His conforming work is temporarily covered and hidden. But His love and invitation remains. They justify, vilify, damnify and deify themselves and each other.   The broken are thrown into a sea of doubt and darkness, and then, while hanging over the precipice, decide whether to let go and sink into the chasm of self and ease and feel- good -now,  or to grasp the rope of faith, and fight and captured thoughts.   Those who love these dangling souls watch the struggle and we are broken too.  The lips weary of late night talks, the now sore knees of prayer, grief filled heart preparing to lose a newly loved  son or daughter, blurry eyes from sleepless nights of  tossing, turning, praying into the darkness.   The marriage vault of trust broken and empty, doors thrown open for all to see the void, now threatens to remain so unless the choice to fill and allow to be filled is made.  The invitation is to long arduous months of deposit and risk and vulnerable faith.  And though brokenness can be redeemed , their world will not be the same for the shattered pieces that lie strewn as reminders of their weakness and His loving strength. Even as it hurts, destroys, plunges and nibbles, the sowing and reaping can only be interrupted by repentance, and so the gospel Word is established and proven in the broken hearts and cloudy minds that depend on His faithfulness in the midst of their unfaithfulness.  Brokenness chooses either redemption or despair.  And we all wait in the darkness with them while these beloved broken decide if their vault will remain empty or be filled with unseen eternal treasure.

  Mk 10:6-9  But at the beginning of creation God 'made them male and female.'  'For this reason a man will leave his father and mother and be united to his wife,  and the two will become one flesh.' So they are no longer two, but one.  Therefore what God has joined together, let man not separate.

JOY

                                     

   Joy is continually redefined as I grow older.  Joy was once a day off of school to laze and read and watch TV.  It was a week of camping in the UP, boating, swimming, gathering around a campfire and feeling the security of family.  The exhaustion from a day in the hay field was accompanied by a happy feeling of satisfaction and purpose in a hard job done.  Family gatherings, Christmas and birthdays  meant food and laughter and belonging.  My childhood was filled with these kinds of joy. 

    Then the restlessness of youth changed my joy to independence and living away from that family.  Joy was stolen trips to movie theaters and shopping sprees with four year friends.  Joy was the day after finals when the work was done and summer jobs, summer fun and summer heat lay before me.  I found brief joy in a few love relationships that did not last and turned to great grief and loss.  And then joy was moving on.

     Joy became marrying my  lifetime love and caring for a little baby girl.  But my joy became  moments and not seasons as the responsibilities became longer term and the reality of the brevity of earthly joys became obvious.  And each new church brought the joy of new relationships with common purpose.  And as our family grew , joy was intermingled with sorrow and brokenness , and redefined to agree with Paul and Jesus ,  seeing my children follow Him.  It was joy because it meant they had found lasting peace and strength for their sorrow, and hope in failure. 

    And then as they began to leave home, my joy once again became family gathered for birthday dinners, holidays around a tree, and life events.  I had come full circle and found my joy when they felt the security of family. I have learned to find joy in bright flowers, finished quilts and naps.  And the joy of grandchildren is beginning to bloom and fill my heart shaped flower box.   But now my joy is more and more about  the  One who fills me up when both I and  the house are quiet and empty.  And somehow it makes the other joys more fragrant, more satisfying.  They  are His gifts to me, reminding me that joy here is good but fleeting, but His is forever and glorious. 

                Make me to hear joy and gladness, Let the bones which You have broken rejoice. Ps 51:8

                You have put gladness in my heart, More than when their grain and new wine abound. Ps 4:7

2016

MAY BOXES

My notes and scrawls cover the days of my family photo calendar, a gift, amidst the dust on the walls.  Every day full of dropping off, picking up, taking care.  Weariness and anxiety fill me up looking at all those numbers and names of people, places on 30 boxes.  Hard to see only one box at a time. Isn't that what Jesus said?  One day, one box, one child, one event,one dread, one joy at a time .  One savior giving one grace one day at a time.  If I raise my eyes above the ink filled boxes, over top the dusty wall,   I see the family photo of a wonderful memory that was a scratch in a box before it became blessing, encouragement, and grace.  Lord, can you help my eyes stay there on  your grace evident in  people, these eternal gifts ,dwelling in tented boxes? Even the name above these squares, May, names an eternal soul, one of the objects of my scratching.  My gaze drifts down like the dust in my house to settle on things not eternal, just boxes, scribbles and numbers, so numerous to make it difficult to  focus.  I need help to see the eternal staring back at me above those 30 boxes of scratch and busyness.  My dusty walls can be sloth or evidence of  a  clearer  vision, even when the whole month is blurry with notes etched to remind of places to be and times to keep.  Without clear vision people perish and scratches of ink in boxes reign. Hearts become anxious giving  priority to places and times and not on the tents of soul.  Eternal vision becomes nearsightedness when I don't gaze beyond the boxes and look up.

"One day at a time..for tomorrow has enough worries of its own." Help me  look up, see what lasts and redeem my busyness one square at a time."

Luke 10:41 But the Lord answered and said to her, "Martha, Martha, you are worried and bothered about so many things; 42 but only one thing is necessary, for Mary has chosen the good part, which shall not be taken away from her."