Re-turning Every Day

I've been feeling spiritually "off" lately. Lost the spark. In the doldrums. Stuck inside my own skin and not liking the company in there. So last night I finally sighed, closed the Scrabble game I was playing on FB (after playing a Bingo worth 74 points, ahem), and opened my Bible.

Randomly. (Nothing is random.)

To Hosea. That ugly/beautiful story of God's unconditional, redeeming love. At the end of the book are scribbled sermon notes from a message Barb Mutch gave at our women's retreat last year:

"Daily returning. Not a big deal but the biggest deal in the world. Allow God to change us. A lifetime of turning. Daily disciplined work of spirituality. Connecting ourselves to God every day. Show up, each day, for God. Re-turn over and over."

I have re-turned, again. I plan to re-turn tomorrow too. I am amazed at how easy it is, how well it works, to simply hold my cold, blackened wick up to the fire for even a minute.

Hosea says, Return, O Israel, to the Lord your God. Your sins have been your downfall! Take words with you and return to the Lord.

The Lord says, I will heal their waywardness and love them freely, for my anger has turned away from them. I will be like the dew to Israel; he will blossom like a lily. Like a cedar of Lebanon he will send down his roots; his young shoots will grow. His splendor will be like an olive tree, his fragrance like a cedar of Lebanon. People will dwell again in his shade. He will flourish like the grain. He will blossom like a vine, and his fame will be like the wine from Lebanon.

Risky Business

I woke up this morning wondering what would happen if God managed to goad me into doing something before I had a chance to put up all the security checks and safety nets around it.

He'd have to act pretty darn fast.

About Yesterday's Post

"A Thin Place" was an entry in an essay-writing contest I discovered yesterday. We were to write about a situation in our lives where the veil between heaven and earth was so thin that we seemed able to touch heaven in almost a tangible way. My grandmother's death was an incident like that.

Those incidents are more common than we realize. My mother experienced one when my father was killed at his workplace when I was a child. They brought her to the hospital and into the room where my father's body lay. She bent over to cry, but heaven spoke into her tear-filled heart: "Why are you standing here crying? The angels are singing."

She straightened up and turned to repeat the message to the doctor she supposed was still in the room. The doctor had left, but when she turned, the room was full of a light brighter than anything she had ever seen. That place was so thin that the glory of heaven shone through, erasing the tears for the moment, even though there would be more later on.

Heaven is so near. Joy is just around the corner for all of us. I look forward to the day there will be nothing between my grandmother, my father, my mother and myself.

Can you remember a thin place in your life? Will you comment about it?

You can read about the contest here: http://wannabepublished.blogspot.com/

A Thin Place

I hold her hand. It’s my turn. We do it in shifts. We know she is going soon.

“Walter came to me last night,” she said last week. My father, her first child and her only son, is already there, on the other side of the thinness, waiting. I have grown used to living without him. The grief has subsided into a gentle loneliness. But I still miss him, especially when the veil seems so paper-thin.

Subdued noises filter through the doorway from the living room. From the room where the living wait. My grandmother is not aware. Or is she? Do we know what people hear when they’re hovering between these two worlds? Perhaps she hears more than I do. Perhaps she hears things on both sides of the thinness.

I hear a sob. It’s my aunt Mary Ann. This is hardest on her, because she believes it is the end. I know it’s not. So does my grandmother. She settled her future years ago and now approaches it with anticipation. The real living will begin for her when she is gone from this place.

I look once more at her quiet face. I wonder if each breath will be her last.

One inhaled breath. Before it leaves her body, a vibrating hum sings from her hand into mine. I know, before it’s time, that the next breath will not come.

My father has taken her other hand. I feel his life flowing through her, touching me, loving me. Through the thinness I feel the touch of eternity.

Only One Life

“Only one life, ‘twill soon be past. Only what’s done for Christ will last.”

I grew up hearing this truism. Eventually it became a trite statement. People rolled their eyes when it was quoted. Too bad how ideas that are good and true, and important to remember, become relegated to the Sally Ann box in our minds, just because we hear them often.

It’s probably because I’m getting older, but lately I find myself dragging things out of the Sally Ann box and putting them back into my life. As I look back at the old year, and ahead to the new one, I wonder how many things I have done, or will do, are things that will last.

Jesus tells us we should lay up treasures in heaven, where moths don’t eat and rust doesn’t corrode. I am shocked when I think how many things I concern myself with every day will be eaten or corroded by this time next year.

What can I do this year that will last?

The only eternally significant things we deal with in this life are not things. They are people. That means anything I do to contribute to the eternal well-being of others will last. Everything else will not.

Does this mean I have to do great and mighty things every day of my life? No. Human beings are not blessed by great and mighty things. They are blessed by small, loving words and actions that, little by little, stretch out their souls to make room for God.

They are blessed by little prayers, spoken as I wash dishes, or mark papers, or drive to the grocery store—prayers that, without my awareness, are storming the gates of hell, and opening the gates of heaven so that people can enter into God’s joy-filled presence. God’s presence is where things last.

The Apostle Paul says we are to set our minds on things above, not on things that are on the earth. He doesn’t mean we are to neglect the things of this life. We have to function here. We have to be responsible in how we use our bodies and the material world God has created for us to live in. But we are not to set our minds on these temporal things. We need to look beyond them to eternity.

I want to be mindful, as I go into this new year, of what I am creating that will last. I want to do every earthly activity with a heavenly purpose. I want everything I do to be for Christ.

Scriptures from Matthew 6 and Colossians 3.

The Joy Set Before Us

Let us fix our eyes on Jesus, the author and perfecter of our faith, who for the joy set before him endured the cross, scorning its shame, and sat down at the right hand of the throne of God. (Hebrews 12:2)

I remember when joy finally unpacked its bags and settled down to become a permanent resident in my heart. It was a major milestone along the road on my spiritual journey. (Hmm. Mixed metaphor. How to fix? Okay, pretend I live in an RV.)

Before then, joy came and went, staying overnight, or for a few weeks at a time. And even when it was here, the delight was always overshadowed by the spectre of death and pain that haunts our earthly existence—the threat of happenings in my life that could send it packing, or even destroy it altogether.

Then one day it came to stay, with little fanfare, bringing its friend peace with it. I don’t remember the date, or the circumstances, just the quiet coming into the depths of my being in a way I knew was forever.

Joy moved in when I finally got a good glimpse of the end of the journey. When eternity finally became more real me to me than this present mortal life. I caught sight of the joy set before me, and everything between here and there faded into relative insignificance.

There is no such thing as an unhappy ending for one who belongs to Jesus. For one who has put their trust in Him, pain will always be temporary. Joy will be eternal. That’s why the Christmas bells peal wide and deep. The width and depth of God’s grace and love have swallowed up death and pain forever.

We have to wait a while. But only a while. One day God will wipe away the tears. When that truth really dawns in our hearts, joy will find an eternal home there.

This post is in memory of my father, who went to heaven on December 22, 1953.

Christmas is About the Joy

My friend, Diane, shared with me a story I’d like to pass along here.

As she was driving one day, she heard this live report on the radio. A CBC reporter (Canadian Broadcasting Corp.) was traveling on a commuter train in Quebec and interviewing passengers at random. He came across a priest who was visiting people in the parishes along the way. The priest answered the reporter’s standard questions – “Why are you using the train? Where are you going?” etc. Then, in a very impromptu manner, the reporter said that he didn’t often get a chance to talk privately with a priest, and he had a question that he’d been curious about:

“Do you ever wonder if all this stuff about God is true? Do you have moments of doubt?”

The priest thought for a moment, then answered “Yes. In the middle of the night I wake up and wonder if it’s all a fantastic hoax. But I get up the next morning and I can’t explain the JOY any other way.”

That’s why Christmas is so wonderful. It’s the promise of joy. Eternal joy.

I Heard the Bells on Christmas Day, their old familiar carols play,
And wild and sweet the words repeat, of peace on earth, good will to men.

I thought how, as the day had come, the belfries of all Christendom
Had rolled along the unbroken song of peace on earth, good will to men.

And in despair I bowed my head: "There is no peace on earth," I said,
"For hate is strong and mocks the song of peace on earth, good will to men."

Then pealed the bells more loud and deep: "God is not dead, nor doth he sleep;
The wrong shall fail, the right prevail, with peace on earth, good will to men."

Till, ringing singing, on its way, the world revolved from night to day,
A voice, a chime, a chant sublime, of peace on earth, good will to men!
(Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (1807-1882), 1867)

May the Reason for the season fill your heart with quiet joy this Christmas and throughout the New Year.