i'm outside on the porch. i haven't written in a month-i'm using mikes computer because mine has basically failed to find the internet- three of my four children have followed me out here- dinner needs to be made- people keep calling for things- my neighbor just left after 10 years living under the most beautiful tree in the world up the hill from me- brandi carlise is singing her version of broken halleluiah. maybe this- all this- the leaving, the noisy kids, the constant interruptions- my non-working computer- the unmade dinner-maybe this is my broken halleluiah.
i'll be honest- their little voices right now, are driving me nuts, and i'm so tired that i don't even want to eat dinner, let alone make it - and this non-mac system is not familiar to me, and really i am very small and can't fix anything. i don't mean mechanical things- although i can't fix those either- i mean people and their problems, and systems, and histories, and myself. i can't.
i can sit with it- with people or problems and histories and i can try to sit with myself. i can try to be in it- in the leaving- and the broken- and the noise of my life and i can try to embrace it- all of it- even the seasons that are really dark- and i can even try to look at the stars and the moon instead of running to turn on the lights- because the dark is just as important as the light.
a few sundays ago, i was at a women's fellowship- the one where we have been talking about the names of God- and we were talking about Jehovah Shalom- God of peace. and that shalom holds a fullness that goes even beyond what we might think of as peace. it's like God of all goodness- peace, satisfaction, joy, lack of strife and stress and conflict- it's an all encompassing peace. it's more than enough- it's everything we want. then we were talking about how if this is true- why did the Israelites walk away from it all the time? and why do we?
why do we so easily forget the joy- that deep kind- that kind of pure satisfaction- that we find when we hold on to the everlasting arms? why do we let go of them, and run away and try to find our own solutions, our own answers, our own idea of deep and real satisfaction - that usually amounts to something possibly amazing but short-lived and followed by some sort of darkness- in the form of regret or loneliness or the need for more or bigger or better ways to find that thing we are looking for.
these days when i'm feeling the heaviness of things and my own longings- if i can escape i drive for about 10 minutes out of town and there i can see tea fields. and in the green and the hills and the paths woven between the tea bushes i remember what i, and maybe you, and almost always the people in the old testament keep forgetting- Jehovah Shalom. that all-encompassing peace is promised and given. i remember it in the tea fields because that is where i first remember feeling it so intensely and for no real reason.
i mean i wasn't asking for it. i wasn't in a crisis and in particular need of grace and peace- but i felt an incredible exuberance as i walked through those tea fields in kenya- because i was walking closely those days with God. i was listening- i was hearing the still small voice and i was obeying it- even if it seemed small or the request insignificant- i did it. send that person an email and tell them what a good job they did. or don't send that person that message- wait. i wasn't steering the ship of my life- i was following instructions- in very small ways and that is, i'm realizing, perhaps what matters most.
because not doing this- is way too easy. which means that doing it- is actually hard. because i don't want to sit down and write that email. because i do want to send that person a message. because i'm annoyed- or i'm angry- or i'm lazy or i'm lonely- and i'm pretty sure that i can fix the feeling if i steer the ship. and there it goes. i let go- slowly by slowly - i release the everlasting arms- and with them- my shalom.
it's very easy for me to justify the not listening- because of all the noise and stuff - because of my broken halleluiah. my life- my kids- the mess of things here-the loss- the constant interruptions- the non-working everything- come on! let me just do what i need to do to get by here! and God in Her infinite wisdom and patience and love says- go for it- and good luck with that. i'll just be here... waiting.... and (way) underneath (where you can't see them for now)...are the everlasting arms.
that is how it happens- for me anyway. and then of course i wonder why i'm so out of sorts- why i'm so exhausted and ready to ring everyone's necks. because it doesn't go as planned- and i end up not just with out Shalom- but empty. empty and wondering.
thank God for those arms. thank God for the freedom to return to listening- (which usually starts with learning to hear the stillness again- and slowly by slowly - responding). and all of this we bring. all of this is our broken halleluiah's. in pieces and parts- we can lift up our little small shaky hands and say praise God because of the returning and the waiting and the reconciliation and the redemption.
and in that broken halleluiah of our lives and our days- we begin again, to find, Jehovah Shalom.
i'll be honest- their little voices right now, are driving me nuts, and i'm so tired that i don't even want to eat dinner, let alone make it - and this non-mac system is not familiar to me, and really i am very small and can't fix anything. i don't mean mechanical things- although i can't fix those either- i mean people and their problems, and systems, and histories, and myself. i can't.
i can sit with it- with people or problems and histories and i can try to sit with myself. i can try to be in it- in the leaving- and the broken- and the noise of my life and i can try to embrace it- all of it- even the seasons that are really dark- and i can even try to look at the stars and the moon instead of running to turn on the lights- because the dark is just as important as the light.
a few sundays ago, i was at a women's fellowship- the one where we have been talking about the names of God- and we were talking about Jehovah Shalom- God of peace. and that shalom holds a fullness that goes even beyond what we might think of as peace. it's like God of all goodness- peace, satisfaction, joy, lack of strife and stress and conflict- it's an all encompassing peace. it's more than enough- it's everything we want. then we were talking about how if this is true- why did the Israelites walk away from it all the time? and why do we?
why do we so easily forget the joy- that deep kind- that kind of pure satisfaction- that we find when we hold on to the everlasting arms? why do we let go of them, and run away and try to find our own solutions, our own answers, our own idea of deep and real satisfaction - that usually amounts to something possibly amazing but short-lived and followed by some sort of darkness- in the form of regret or loneliness or the need for more or bigger or better ways to find that thing we are looking for.
these days when i'm feeling the heaviness of things and my own longings- if i can escape i drive for about 10 minutes out of town and there i can see tea fields. and in the green and the hills and the paths woven between the tea bushes i remember what i, and maybe you, and almost always the people in the old testament keep forgetting- Jehovah Shalom. that all-encompassing peace is promised and given. i remember it in the tea fields because that is where i first remember feeling it so intensely and for no real reason.
i mean i wasn't asking for it. i wasn't in a crisis and in particular need of grace and peace- but i felt an incredible exuberance as i walked through those tea fields in kenya- because i was walking closely those days with God. i was listening- i was hearing the still small voice and i was obeying it- even if it seemed small or the request insignificant- i did it. send that person an email and tell them what a good job they did. or don't send that person that message- wait. i wasn't steering the ship of my life- i was following instructions- in very small ways and that is, i'm realizing, perhaps what matters most.
because not doing this- is way too easy. which means that doing it- is actually hard. because i don't want to sit down and write that email. because i do want to send that person a message. because i'm annoyed- or i'm angry- or i'm lazy or i'm lonely- and i'm pretty sure that i can fix the feeling if i steer the ship. and there it goes. i let go- slowly by slowly - i release the everlasting arms- and with them- my shalom.
it's very easy for me to justify the not listening- because of all the noise and stuff - because of my broken halleluiah. my life- my kids- the mess of things here-the loss- the constant interruptions- the non-working everything- come on! let me just do what i need to do to get by here! and God in Her infinite wisdom and patience and love says- go for it- and good luck with that. i'll just be here... waiting.... and (way) underneath (where you can't see them for now)...are the everlasting arms.
that is how it happens- for me anyway. and then of course i wonder why i'm so out of sorts- why i'm so exhausted and ready to ring everyone's necks. because it doesn't go as planned- and i end up not just with out Shalom- but empty. empty and wondering.
thank God for those arms. thank God for the freedom to return to listening- (which usually starts with learning to hear the stillness again- and slowly by slowly - responding). and all of this we bring. all of this is our broken halleluiah's. in pieces and parts- we can lift up our little small shaky hands and say praise God because of the returning and the waiting and the reconciliation and the redemption.
and in that broken halleluiah of our lives and our days- we begin again, to find, Jehovah Shalom.
No comments:
Post a Comment
Note: Only a member of this blog may post a comment.