A Whisper That Pierced The Gale

"I know now, Lord, why you utter no answer. You are yourself the answer. Before your face questions die away. What other answer could there be?" --C.S. Lewis

Long ago, I remember pacing around my bedroom, frustrated, as I asked (demanded) God's advice about a situation in which I had found myself. I remember being slightly miffed at God's silence, as I self-righteously demanded immediate guidance. I wondered, if I was so willing to follow God's orders, why He would not tell me what those orders were. I remember at one point getting so frustrated as I paced about that I began to speak aloud, saying, "I can't hear you! I can't hear you!".

I don't really know what I was expecting from the Lord; a voice from the heavens or some sort of vision or a dove to present me with a scroll outlining my divine instructions. I didn't get any of those things, but neither did God stay silent. To be sure, I deserved silence. I was in the throes of a self-righteous tantrum, cloaked in a thin veil of sincerity.

But one of the most wonderful things about our God is that He very often does not give us what we deserve. After I began crying aloud "I can't hear you! I can't hear you!", I was given a word from the Lord. Deep inside my soul, a still small voice rang clear over my own clamor, and said three words that froze me where I stood:

"You're not listening."

Immediately, as if those words had been "peace, be still!", the roaring in my ears died away and I was left standing still in a quiet room, the words still echoing around in my soul as I turned them this way and that, searching for their meaning. I somehow understood it as the rebuke it was, and shamefully realized that God was not being silent or distant or uncaring about my predicament. He just wanted me to listen, with a humble and submissive heart, and to speak to me on His terms. It was the first time of only a handful of times that the Almighty has spoken to me in such a way, and it was an important lesson, not just for that circumstance, but for every day of my life.

And now, some ten years later, I wish I could say that I've done away with the distracting clamor of the voices that pull my attention from what really matters. I wish I could say that I no longer entertain the voices of Pride and Worry and Greed. I wish I could say I never forget to truly listen. 

I do. More often than I like to admit.

But that's one of the reasons why I love the nighttime. Because on nights like this, when the flurry of the day dies down and the daylight creatures are chased to bed by the setting of the sun, when the moon stakes its claim in the sky and the only sounds you are left with are the ticking of the clock and a gentle chorus of chirping crickets, you find that the racket inside you begins to abate as your pulse slows to match the cadence of the clock. It is during these precious glimpses in time that my soul remembers to listen, and realizes that it hasn't been listening for quite some time.

I feel a bit like Nicodemus, as under the cover of night I return to the Lord, ashamed at how long and far I've strayed. Desperate for that sweet fellowship, I look into the face of my beautiful Savior, and fold into the forgiving embrace, knowing that He's seen my wandering, my distraction, my failures, knowing that He's forgiven it and cast it as far as the east is from the west.

And we both know I'll fail again. We both know that in the near future I'll be pulled under the current of distractions and forget to call on the Name that saves and forget to listen for the still small voice in the midst of the gale. But the forgiveness granted to me in that sweet embrace isn't only for what I've already done, it's also for everything I will do. All of it is known, and all of it is forgiven. The price has been paid, the work is finished.

And the waves of my consciousness, which only hours earlier were raging like an angry sea, are now tranquil and calm under the watchful eye of Peace Himself and rock me to sleep with the help of a ticking clock and chirping crickets as I succumb to their rhythmic insistence, locked in the never-ending embrace of the calmer of every storm.


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Rivers In The Desert

Today it has been a year.

One.

Whole.

Year.

I've survived for a year. I've been an adult and paid my rent and bought toilet paper and milk and taken out the trash. I've learned to drive in Twin Cities traffic, navigate without falling to pieces (usually), fix toilets, and replace the battery in smoke detectors. I've taken care of myself when I was sick, driven myself to the airport for a flight, and I do all the things "real" adults do, like complain about traffic and stay late at work, and say things like, "I'm so glad it's friday!" and, "Ugh, another Monday".

There is a lot I could say about the past year.

It has been a bit like a roller coaster. When the ride started, when the bar came over my lap and the coaster started climbing up the first big, exciting hill with the telltale tink-tink-tink-tink-tink...it was exciting and exhilarating, and the anticipation of the drop had me positively giddy.

But then came the drop. The drop scared me. I was not ready for the drop.

And then, still reeling from the horrifying plunge into the unknown, I was given no time to recover before my ride went into the dark tunnel. Others around me were screaming with delight and raising their arms. Me? I was honestly wondering why I had ever gotten on that ride. I wanted off. I wanted out. But it was too late; there was no going back. The only choice I had was to hold on for dear life and try not to vomit.

Life is crappy sometimes. Sometimes, we get things we don't expect from the choices that we make. Sometimes, there is no going back, no safety net, no mama's skirts to hide behind anymore.

And we think, "if I had only known it was going to be this way, I never would've done ____" Fill in the blank.

But God knows that.

God knows that. 

God knows that if we see the road ahead, if we see the dark forests filled with dangers that we don't know how to face, if we see the loneliness that kills us slowly on the inside, if we see the hardships that make us want to run back home, we will dig in our heels and say, "No way, I'm not going through that!". 

So God leads us blind, holding tightly to our hands, whispering, "Trust me, child, have faith. All shall be well". And even through the trials, even through the dark tunnels when we feel so small and vulnerable, even through the ugly black forests that make us sick with fear, His hands continue to hold tight to ours, as He whispers, "Peace, be still". 

God knew that I would not have moved to Minnesota if I had been able to see how life would be two months after moving there. He knew I would've planted my feet firmly in my safe Nebraska life and said, "Never". 

But He also knew that in Nebraska, I was not growing. I was safe, comfortable. I had my entire immediate family close by. I had great friends. I had a good job, a degree, and I had money in the bank. I had a wonderful church, filled with people that I loved. It was easy, happy, safe.

But I wasn't growing. I had everything I could possibly need. There was no reason for my roots to dive, no reason for me to rely on faith, no reason for me to run to my Father each morning for my daily manna. 

God was in my life, but God was not my entire life. Not by a long shot. I liked having Him there, but I didn't really feel like I needed Him too much. 

If my car broke down, I had about 12 people on speed dial who could help me within minutes. If I got sick, I had somebody close who could bring me medicine and soup. If I got lonely, I had friends who were always up for coffee. 

It's hard to have great faith when you live in a bubble of safety; when you are wrapped in so many safety blankets you are getting lost in the bundle. When you have so many people to help you, it's really hard to remember to call on God in your hour of need. 

But God will settle for nothing less. He wants to be our one and only. He wants His children to run into His arms every single day, because they know they will not survive otherwise. He knows His embrace is the only place where the peace that passes understanding is found. He knows His embrace is the only place where joy that is bigger than circumstances is found. He knows that His embrace is the only place where faith that allows us to face the evil in the world without flinching is found.

He knows that His embrace is the only place where life everlasting, lived to the fullest measure, could ever be found.

He is a good, kind God, so He gives us what is good for us, but what is good for us and what we want are not always the same thing. In fact, often times, they are quite different. We are the children requesting ice cream for every meal. God is the loving Father, looking at us with an amused smile saying, "Not right now, child, eat your peas".

And so, we trust that the plate that God places before us, though often not what we wanted or asked for, is what is ultimately best for us. Sometimes, what we see as blessings can actually be curses, as the child who disobeys his father by eating the container of ice cream behind his back quickly learns, once the stomachache begins.

I'm still learning to eat my peas. I stuck my nose up at them for quite a while. I wanted the ice cream. I wanted the companionship of family and friends. I wanted to live 10 minutes from my sister's house. I wanted to play Settlers with my family every night. I wanted to laugh until I cried with my brothers watching the stupid YouTube videos. I wanted to hold my nephew the day he was born. I wanted the safety net of mama's skirts.  

But I'm done mourning the ice cream. I'm done looking back. I'm done screaming to get off the ride. I'm done throwing fits and expecting God to huff and give me my way just to make it stop. I'm starting to reap the benefits that come through eating my greens. I'm starting to realize that I've had a stomachache for a very long time, and it's just beginning to go away. I'm starting to enjoy the peace and joy and faith that comes from daily communion with my wonderful, patient Father. 

I'm starting to learn to call on Jesus when troubling times arise, and that He delights to prove His ability and willingness to come to my aid. 

I rejoice because I'm starting to live, truly live. My roots are waking, moving, diving. I'm starting to grip back the hands that have been gripping mine the whole time I've been traversing through this deep forest. I'm starting to trust that voice, to believe those sweet words. I'm starting to rejoice my choice to move to this crazy place, to live without security blankets, because that's what it took to bring me to this sweet fellowship.

I still savor those wonderful ice cream moments, like when my family comes for a visit or I get to drive to Nebraska. But those moments are rationed now, as ice cream is meant to be. And afterward, when I come home to a dinner of veggies, I dig in with gratefulness and vigor, knowing that this is what I truly need, what truly brings life to my whithered branches. 

My Father loves me too much to give me anything less.

Isaiah 43:19

"Behold, I will do something new,

Now it will spring forth;

Will you not be aware of it?

I will even make a roadway in the wilderness,

Rivers in the desert."

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