There’s a wide open field sitting catticorner as I turn down the last turn towards home.
If I stay for church after choir, I’m affirmed in my choice because this field always causes me to stop. No one around, I let the window down and I pay homage to the display, the sun is going down in a splendid way for me. Always does here.
Tomorrow will be a new day.
Maybe nowhere just yet. Linger, Lisa.
He makes everything beautiful in His time.
Become not overwhelmed with lofty what if or when. Let not the discernment of your thoughts be based on anything other than the loudly clear truth that comes when you get quiet and still.
It’s then you notice what matters, not the validation of others; but, the undeniable notice of one, my Heavenly Father.
It happens by surprise, your thoughts lovingly taken captive.
I cried in church this morning.
My thoughts drifted during the sermon. I noticed the tiny little footnotes marked by teeny tinier numbers interspersed with scripture.
I read ahead a little of the sermon on the three crosses and the thieves and skipped to the place marked “The Death of Jesus”.
“It was now about the sixth hour, and there was darkness over the whole land until the ninth hour, while the sun’s light failed. And the curtain of the temple was torn in two. Then Jesus, calling out with a loud voice, said, “Father, into your hands I commit my spirit!” And having said this he breathed his last.”
Luke 23:44-46 ESV
I was curious about the explanation marked by footnote, so I looked more closely to understand.
The time of day was noon, the sixth hour.
The sun went away leaving what I imagine a large expanse of fear and darkness, of troubled minds, hearts and souls.
It was dark until 3:00, the ninth hour, the middle of a day.
Darkness marked the time and day, Jesus died for the sins of us in between a man bold enough to be humble and believe and the other too proud, angry and defeated to accept the possibility of grace.
I cried in church this morning. I read about the dark and sunless sky and I cried.
I thought of Mary, his mother; but, mostly I wondered about God.
I wondered if maybe God decided it was just too difficult to watch.
Now, I’ll tell you that’s not scriptural, still I wondered if that may have been His reason.
And I cried in church this morning over the darkness that marked death. Had I not recorded it here, no one would know, that I sat next to my husband, looking down at my Bible and I cried.
My tears were tender. They were soft and not for show, as if my reading of the black sky rested in my thoughts until a hand reached down somehow and clutched my heart, gently prompting a reaction I’d not let be forgotten.
I’ve been journaling about the people who met Jesus. Women caught, found out, brought out and yet, redeemed.
The intellectuals made to tuck their tails and turn from places in the sand preventing stones hurled at “sinners”.
I wrote about the woman at the well who met Jesus and then went about thrilled over all the bad he knew of her yet loved her.
She told every single person about her encounter at the well. She was astounded in a joyously unabashed way.
I cried at church today. I cried to think of how God took away the sun in the middle of the day as his Son died for me and you.
How could I not tell you of it, my tears and my redemption?
How could I scarcely keep it in, the way the sun escorted me home the day I mourned its going away?
Everything, beautiful in its time
He makes it. Darkness only lasts for a time, long enough to remind me of what matters most.
This “calling”, this thing I call my treasure because God led me to name it so, it will flourish and it will grow to whatever size and benefit God decides will serve the purpose of his glory.
I know some things grow best in the dark.
Faith, especially, the strength our eyes do not see.
Linking up with Michele Morin as she talks about her fears and a blind man who responded when Jesus asked, “What do you want me to do?”