Thought So!

The Perfect Get-away Spot…Or Not …

Do you ever need to go somewhere-anywhere, just to be alone, be quiet, and spend some time with the Lord?  I heard about Phoebe, and wanted to share her story:

Hi-I'm Phoebe from Connecticut.  My husband's a house-painter, and I'm a stay-at-home mom with 4 kids (one is a baby).  My invalid sister lives with us, too.  I didn't have opportunity for much education, so I contribute little to our income, which is quite meager.  Our unfinished house (will it ever be finished?) is tiny.  Don't even think about trying to get away by yourself in here.  Trust me-the bathroom is out!  It's amazing how it can get so crammed with things needing to be done.  So, by the end of the day, I'm dying for a break!

After the kids are in bed, I have my quiet time—a walk down the road lined with elms so strong and comforting that I want to run and hug them.  The road is pretty traffic-free by evening, so I walk in solitude to my destination:  a gorgeous mansion with a huge, fantastic garden.  It's a ways from the house, and I never meet anyone in the garden (told you it was huge), so I never feel like I'm in anyone's way.  I love just ambling along, admiring the flowers (mine don't look like this!) and inhaling the smell of peaches, grapes, and apples from inside. Welcome to my alone time with God.   My soul is revived here and when I walk back home, I'm at peace.

But something happened the other day which really crushed me...

(Please come back next time for more of Phoebe's story).

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Suffering and Worship

These past few weeks, two readers have mentioned loved ones that are going through great suffering as a result of an injury and of cancer.  One person asked, “Why is God allowing me to suffer like this?”  Not having experienced either situation, it is tempting—in my naïve sympathy-- to simply send them a little list of reasons why they might be facing what they are.  But, though we may not share the same venue of suffering, the same promises of grace, strength, and help are made to fit us all. 

This week, as well, I have been re-reading Job.  Unless you understand the ending, it could be a depressing and frustrating book.  A new “Aha!” for me came in 1:20.  After hearing about Satan’s first onslaught, Job shaved his head, tore his clothes, fell down, “and worshiped.”  (Probably not my first response to suffering).  Not a boisterous singing and waving of hands as in “praise-and-worship”, but a quiet humility and initial trust in God’s providence. Grief and worship—unlikely companions.

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Singing in the Shadows

“Have you ever stopped to think but forgot to start again?”  I saw this quote the other day and thought, Hey—somebody knows me!

It’s bad enough during the day when our minds won’t think straight, but what about at night?  How often are you awake-- up with sick kids, worrying about the next day, or frozen with pain?  Maybe you don’t even know why you are awake,  but there you are, just you and your thoughts.

As David lay awake in bed at night, he thought about the Lord (Psalm 63:6). These are times when troubles can seem even more magnified. These are times when we often struggle to turn our minds from its rumbling and jumbling and focus it on the Lord.

So, what did David do?  He returned to the promise that the Lord was His help (v.7) and…an hour later, he was still flopping around on his bed like socks in a dryer…wrong!  “Because…I will rejoice (not I might, or I will later on after I’ve worked myself up into a cappuccino lather, but I will rejoice) –that’s pretty much present tense, wouldn’t you say?

Then what happened?  He knew that his safety (“in the shadow of Thy wings”-v.7) and support (“Thy right hand upholdeth me”-v.8) were found in the Lord, and he sang.  (No, don’t necessarily run for the hymnbook and music stand, unless you want someone phoning for the ambulance when they hear your nocturnal screeching.  Get up and go into the other room, please.)  We don’t know how long David was awake, but we know that his meditation was sweet with the One Who was his Help and Strength.       

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