It’s a cloudy morning in Houston but my pretty dining room table is awash in Light.
He’s here, we're dining.
After an unrelenting season of trials, temptations, siftings and sufferings…
He’s back, I sense His profound nearness.
That’s better than good for a soul who enjoys the Presence of God more than anything in this plenty-filled world. After seasons like these I often think,
- I wish I handled His discipline (training) better.
- Why do I thrash against His well intentioned trials?
- Why do I wig out and lack trust when He doesn't seemingly come quicker to help?
- Why do I doubt so easily? Both He and myself?
I think I’m beginning to remember afresh why:
I think in the deepest part of me I just really, really miss Him.
I like the security of feeling my Father—by way of the Holy Spirit—abiding, not just believing He is abiding. And I become a tantrum-thrower-spoiled-little-brat.
Perhaps Abba is "proud as a peacock" when I act like a mature believer in Christ, believing the “with man God” void of whatsoever a feeling? But, honestly, in the moment of frivolous desperation I simply do not care because who wants to act mature in His absence? Not me. After praying Him back a hundred thousand times, if He does not listen I cannot help throwing a fit and deep down I think I’m sort-of happy to.
I WANT HIS PRESENCE BACK.
And in my measly mind I also like to think I’m tantruming (yes, I just made it up) for what is right and good—for what was, and is, and forever will be the outlandish intentions of God in our making: to know us and be known by us, intimacy among Maker and Creation and Divine and Image-bearer. Unimaginable to our sinful pea-brains but wholly understandable to Him who knows all things better than we. For His desire is to hold, to tend, to comfort us in places where no one else is worthy of lavishing comfort—the inward parts He highly esteems and made wholly breakable for Himself alone to wholly restore.
What a thought. What a God. What kind of love is this?
David Crowder offered a song for me to sing along to this morning as I sat before my Lord titles, Here’s My Heart. If you'd like you can get the song here, and also find the lyrics here. But this is what I wrote in my journal while listening to the song on repeat.
Here’s my heart, Lord. Speak what is true.
I am found, yours, loved, made pure, have life, can breathe, healed, free.
You are strong, sure, You are life, You endure, You are good, always true...
You are Light breaking through.
Here’s my heart, Lord. Speak what is true. Here’s my life, Lord. Speak what is true.
Knowing Jesus as Savior, Redeemer, and Lord makes for mountains, valleys, and plains until we are scooped up to glory and these mortal bodies fall to the dust. The beauty of salvation is Abba holds onto us even when we temporarily let go of Him. Our moments of insanity are met by a God who has already committed His own heart and soul to us long before the foundation of the world—our Cornerstone—who willingly holds our inner being together though we feel shattered, rejected, and horrifically messy. We can look into the Light by freewill. No one masters us (though we might feel driven) but God Almighty when we are His.
Want to join me in lifting our eyes this Father’s Day weekend (no matter how weak-ish we feel) to the One who has committed Himself fully to us in love, in joy, and in sovereignty?
For our Father’s promises are true if we are found in the liberating blood of the Son.
Romans 8:37-39, NIV 37 No, in all these things we are more than conquerors through him who loved us. 38 For I am convinced that neither death nor life, neither angels nor demons, neither the present nor the future, nor any powers, 39 neither height nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God that is in Christ Jesus our Lord.
1 Peter 5:10-11, NIV 10 And the God of all grace, who called you to his eternal glory in Christ, after you have suffered a little while, will himself restore you and make you strong, firm and steadfast. 11 To him be the power for ever and ever. Amen.