golden clay

It’s the weekend of stuffed turkeys, potatoes, and gravy on full-length tables.

On Sunday, we get home from the grocery store. She leans on the kitchen counter. “I just don’t get how we can go to church and then walk right by the homeless man outside the grocery store.”

I’m too tired, too caught up in my own life to listen. But, it rings in my mind all week.

I drive back to the farm for the weekend and stomp through the bush with some boys wearing camouflage. Peace envelops and I praise Him.

There are no homeless people on my road, but there are hurting people at my table. Tired people. Broken people. Lost people.

All of us in need of the cross.

And I can share more than just food.

(Re-posting: May it encourage.)

The country roads pulled me gently away from the city and the university, away from the classes where we had analyzed lust and death out of literature until I wanted to buy some earplugs. I hadn’t realized it until the car was alone on the highway under a canopy of stars; the reality of the battle I had been part of all week came washing over me. And it’s Sunday and we’re facing battles everywhere and Monday looks a bit like the gaping jaws of a lion. So, we’ve got to get our armour on and our hearts unburdened at the foot of the cross, pray our way through every moment.

Every September, I find myself dodging students on the sidewalks of the university campus again.

I bend my introvert’s will into submission and force myself to hold my head up when an intimidatingly tall man walks past me. I use my hands enthusiastically when I introduce myself in class. Fake confidence can be necessary and good.

Sometimes, though, I just want to tell the whole class that I’m scared to death of all of them and their hard-to-read faces and their relaxed body language.

I want someone in the class to tell me something sincere, tell me something they fear.

But, we’re strangers after all. It’s not the land of unicorns.

I get that.

But…

At home, I put on a light-hearted tone with my roommate, not willing to let myself be vulnerable. I realize my class on “networking” and “selling yourself” is easily transferred to my familiar kitchen with the light-bulb illuminating the contours of her face.

How many times do we hide from loved ones?

And I get to my bedroom and I cannot speak to God of my specific sin, as if He doesn’t see it if I don’t tell Him.

Are we made of plastic?

Still in Eden, hiding behind bushes.

Our heart is who we are anyway. There comes a time to be vulnerable.

“But the Lord said to Samuel, ‘Do not look on his appearance or on the height of his stature, because I have rejected him. For the Lord sees not as man sees: man looks on the outward appearance, but the Lord looks on the heart.’” 1 Samuel 16:7

I just watch him stand there, at the most easterly point in North America, as the waves of the Atlantic Ocean hurtle towards him and crash into the side of the rock where his feet are planted. He’s been glued there for who-knows-how-long. 

Other people wander down the path on the edge of the cliff, pause, and pause, and pause. It calls for pausing: the ocean stretched out before them and the waves strong enough to break us into pieces within seconds. We are all in awe.

“Wow, God,” I whisper over and over.

People keep walking down the path and pausing.

I see my friend take a seat on a flat rock and watch the waves churn. Later, she tells me her thoughts as she sat there and they almost match mine.

My Saviour made this.

The ocean roars the truth.

And every person, of every religion, race, and gender, stands on that cliff in total awe of what He has made.

The GPS, the food, the maps sit at the door.

Anticipating adventures.

Like, today, when I stopped in the middle of folding the laundry and knelt down on the bathroom floor and asked God for a new start. A sigh of relief washes over as repentance comes in whispers out my mouth.

Anticipating fresh starts.

We sit together watching a couple of kids splashing around wildly in the pool as they attempt to make a noodle raft.

“Yeah,” he says nonchalantly. “I’ll either go to hell when I die or end up as nothing.” He’s a self-proclaimed atheist/agnostic he tells me. “Actually, I don’t know what to believe.”

“Well, it’s an important thing to figure out,” I say.

He laughs as if it’s an impossible thing to do. “Yeah, it’s important to figure out the meaning of life.”

Someone says it at church on Sunday night: the Devils biggest tactic is to trick us into thinking we have plenty of time.

Plenty of time…before we die.

…to become free from lust.

…to become disciplined.

…to make Jesus our Lord.

We wander from distraction to distraction.

Perfected spiritual procrastinators. We’ve made it simple for the Enemy.

We forget the urgency of prayer.

…of each encounter with people.

…of the battle for souls.

We forget that God asks for our obedience today, right now, for a reason.

At the end of the swim, I blow my whistle.

The time allotted ends. But the clock-hand circles endlessly.

Eternally.

Ecclesiastes 12:6 “Remember him–before the silver cord is severed, and the golden bowl is broken; before the pitcher is shattered at the spring, and the wheel broken at the well,”

 

 

When I’m four and I scribble a picture of a sunny day onto a piece of white paper, I draw the sun yellow with my yellow crayon. To a three-year-old, the sun is either yellow or orange.

When I’m twelve, Grandma teaches me how to paint with watercolours. She shows me that flowers are not pink, but a spectrum of shades and colours. Like one of those big gobstoppers. The world explodes into flavours.

I speed past the morning sun, rising over my neighbour’s bush, every morning on my way to work. Hurry blends the world colourless and I’m back to thinking of everything in solid colours. There’s no flavour to that.

“The sun rises, and the sun goes down, and hastens to the place where it rises.” Ecclesiastes 1:5

I slow the car down on the way home from work and watch the sun set against a backdrop of colours. Pure wide-eyed reverence.

(Reposting: Looking for the end of the tunnel again.)

It’s one of those weeks when life is pulled taut before me for months on end, stretch marks revealing the stress of its’ weight. Fixing my eyes on the light at the end of the tunnel doesn’t do any good when the end of the tunnel is nowhere in sight. I realize I’m running on empty; my tank of joy and courage is dried up. Stress does that if you let it. It grabs your mind in its’ iron grip and squeezes it empty of God.

I’m pacing and trying to grasp at prayers I really mean. He slips a sentence into my jumbled mind: “In thy presence is fullness of joy” (Psalm 16:11). Maybe we need to stop looking for the end of exams, the end of our job, and the end of our grief. Maybe we need to look to the Light that is in our winding, endless tunnel.

The brighter future is sometimes just a mirage. That’s why each moment is for living in His presence where joy outruns the train of our anxious thoughts.

“You’re not my favourite lifeguard anymore, Kate,” he says to me with a grin.

I raise an eyebrow at him and shrug.

The kids love playing favourites with whoever has the biggest candy stash in their locker or lets them get away with the most.

Even careless words can be weapons and I catch myself looking at my reflection in the rear-view mirror on the drive home from work and feeling sorry for myself. Surely, I’m someone’s favourite.

Dusk descends over the deep green fields of corn and wheat; its beauty contrasts with my pride.

Who is my favourite? Christ or myself?

The comparison is ludicrous. Christ to be subject of my thoughts!

By the time I pull onto my gravel lane-way, I’m brandishing joy.