From The Sheep Pen

Some time ago,

A small cluster  of wild blue asters

peered  at me through  rain dappled  undergrowth like curious eyes.

That was then  and I’ve been gone.

Today I found them growing still

in earth untouched by rain, as bright and lovely

as if they’d always sprung from rocks.

Blue petals wreath the  yellow center, like fragile feathers

 floating on  a topaz ring

I trod  more lightly.  There’s   blessing beneath my feet.

On the Third Day after all His mighty works,

after the Creator raised  mountains and carved  canyons

with a Word from His own loving heart,

after He spoke so  the forests greened,  the rose perfumed

and oceans overfilled, God said,

“Let us make wildflowers to grow on rocky paths,

from crevices splitting  hills,

from crags and scorched earth,

so when my  wandering children  

who stumble among the thorns and thistles 

with downcast  eyes and heavy hearts,

(as if they were not made for Light,)

I’ll let blue aster speak for Me:

“Lift up your head and know I’m always  near.

Heaven’s wilding at your feet.”

It’s another rainy June morning. I watch the rain dripping from the roof like the silvery fringe on a shawl;  the  rain chain overflows  with  rivulets of water to puddle below.   I want to get outside into the gardens but it’s too muddy and wet to do anything. So I content  myself with  being inside, admiring the scented lilacs which have grown thick and lush. I’m astonished at how  many shades of green God  creates in the pine trees and underbrush. Additionally, I am reminded that this wet, rainy June is not  unusual. My journal  from last year confirms  a June just as cool and damp as this one and I recall one year when it rained excessively in the spring, so much that  moss grew  in some of the flowers baskets. At least I don’t have to water the gardens today or tomorrow.

A few days ago on a day like this I busied myself cleaning out a desk drawer cluttered with papers, pens, and the flotsam and jetsam I accumulate. I found a stack of old greeting cards rubber banded together, ones I didn’t have the heart to throw out because they were too pretty and because they were from friends and family who are now on the other side of eternity. I found several from my mother Elisabeth who always sent special cards for special occasions. She never just dashed off her signature but filled  every available space in her tiny German handwriting with news about the family, with words of love, advice and encouragement. In the card I held, she mentioned my  great need of patience. Did she mean I shouldn’t be so  impatient with others? Or was it a mother’s prayer for a daughter to receive God’s infinite, patient help? Knowing my mother, she meant both. I still can’t  throw her cards away.

To this day, I love getting an actual card or letter in the mail from someone near or far away.  There is something special about tearing open an envelope and discovering the personal surprise inside. I have a friend who thoughtfully remembers all holidays and my birthdays with a card. She does the same for everyone in her large circle of friends.  Another friend makes beautiful hand crafted cards. I wouldn’t dream of tossing them away.   Both of my daughters are card senders. (My brother and son are happy with a short  text.)  I keep the special ones because they’re physical, personal connections   which remind me that I am remembered and loved by others.  My mother is gone, but her words written long ago still speak.

 In this too busy, too fast moving and too complex world, sending letters and cards has gone the way of  typewriters. .  Most of the time a quick text from the phone while we’re on the run to somewhere really important suffices. I plead guilty as charged and use texts far too often because it’s more convenient and quick and I don’t have to say very much. Why sometimes even a smiley face or heart icon will do. They’re universal symbols, right? Maybe, but they’re so overused, they’ve become meaningless. We use   baby talk when we have entire dictionaries in our heads.

When I pray, I wonder how I come across to God? How does He regard me as I speak?  How does He hear my words? As a thoughtful love letter, filled with praise and honor and glory for Him? Or as  quickie mental texts cobbled together  with worn out phrases I rattle off as I go about the next thing? 

Our Father has things to say to us. Better than a desk full of greeting cards, God gave us the Bible as His love letter to reveals His Spirit and Name,  to guide us in every possible situation and to draw us into communication with Him.  There are endless surprises and  eternal revelations within the covers of His Word/Letters/Book.  He speaks to us from the beginning to the end of time and I can hear His voice as clearly as I could hear my mother’s. Unlike my stack of old, precious  cards which one day will be thrown away, God’s Word never ceases, never ends, never fails.  His Word speaks  volumes into our hearts.  God does not text nor will He  dash off  cute little icons because He never hurries or rushes to speak.  How then shall we respond to such a marvelous gift from the One waiting for us to come nigh?  Hopefully,  we emulate the prophet Samuel  who made himself available wholeheartedly to hear, to listen and to respond to  God.

The LORD came and stood there, calling as at the other times, “Samuel! Samuel!” Then Samuel said, “Speak, for your servant is listening.” 1. Samuel 3:10.

 Nothing less will do than the most special card we can inscribe with honest, grateful, adoring words flowing from us to Him.

The Lord upholdeth all that fall and raises up all those who are bowed down. Psalm 145:14

I was  hurrying through  Costco to get the last few items I needed before we headed home. The store wasn’t  crowded for a change so I took my time pushing the cart down the aisle.  I didn’t see the elderly man until he stopped right in front of me. He wore a baseball cap imprinted with a veterans’ logo and decorated with several pins, a worn, zip up jacket, baggy jeans and   a wooden cross around his neck. The cross was identical to ones a Lutheran friend gave me which I’ve always hung from the mirror inside  my car. Where did this man get the cross? Was there a Lutheran Christian store somewhere selling them? “I like your cross,” I said to the man.

He gave me a friendly smile. “Are you a Jesus believer?” he asked. Well,  that got right to the point., didn’t it. No Costco chit chat here in this aisle. I told him, Yes, I was a Jesus believer and  waited for him to say more. He took an envelope from his jacket pocket and handed it to me.  Are you familiar with …..    and  he named a well know Christian magazine. I told him I’d often read stories in that magazine  although it had been some time since I saw one. He told me his story.  He wrote an article for the magazine but  they sent him  a rejection letter because he didn’t  give  enough details about his life. “I wasn’t writing about myself,” he said. “I was writing about Jesus. Would you like to read it?” I would indeed. He left, I finished shopping and found Dan and the car. I couldn’t wait to read my Costco friend’s article.

There’s a cover letter dated two years ago giving  his name, address and phone number. His name is Virgil and he explains that he’s describing an event from forty years ago. There’s a very brief history of family, a military profession and the background of what happened. The bulk of the article is a vision of Jesus in which Virgil describes in beautiful, touching  details the One he saw.  The One he was testifying about. I don’t have his permission to include it all in my blog but I can add his postscript.

“I am eighty three years old. Despite heartache, disappointment and all the enemy has thrown at me, Jesus has held me up and kept me from falling and He will do the same for all who trust and obey Him. Reader, Jesus loves and cares for you.” He ends with Psalm 145.

That  magazine lost a gem of a story and  powerful testimony  about Jesus. But the power of God is such that He will never waste anything He has intended. Virgil’s story is God’s story  which  I’m honored to pass in part to you. I’m convinced Virgil continues to ask Costco shoppers (and I imagine everyone he meets) Are you a Jesus believer? Thank you for asking me. It was the best shopping experience  I’ve ever had.

Save now, I pray, O Lord; O Lord, I pray now. Psalm 118: 25

It is  Palm Sunday which always reminds me of my mother’s kitchen when I was a child. After we went to Mass  and  had our Sunday noon  dinner,  my mother  showed me how to  braid the  palm fronds  we’d gotten at church, shaping  them  into a  still fresh yellow- green cross. Every year she replaced last year’s dry and brittle palm cross with the new one, tucking it underneath the ceramic plate on the wall.  I knew about Palm Sunday, Holy Week  and Easter from the Gospel  read at church, but I don’t recall us ever discussing  Palm Sunday  – or Easter for that matter- in any depth. My parents were devout, but they didn’t pursue religious matters beyond the catechisms the church taught. Nevertheless, the Spirit of God must have touched my mother’s heart in a way I didn’t understand because the memory  of the braided cross lingers like a distant  lullaby.

Today I read through all four Gospel  accounts of  Palm Sunday, of Jesus’ entry  into Jerusalem, gleaning the Word of God for  hidden treasure. There are some  minor differences in the  text: Mark and Luke add that Jesus asked the two disciples to find a colt, “on which no one has sat.” In Luke  19:41, as Jesus  drew near to Jerusalem,  He wept over it because of their  rejection of him. John includes that the Pharisees also sought to kill Lazarus “because on account of him, many of the Jews believed in Jesus.” (12:10).  There is nothing contradictory in the narratives; rather,  taken together they complement and flesh out Jesus’ last Sunday on earth.   One detail is undeniably present in all accounts. As Jesus enters Jerusalem on the colt, the crowd  crushes in from all sides, waving palms, shouting   “Hosanna! Blessed is he who comes in the name of the LORD.”  Surely it was pandemonium bordering on civil chaos as the people recognized the  messianic prophecies of  Zechariah 9:9 unfolding in Jesus.   They  shouted and cried “Hosanna!”  and blessing  Jesus in the words of Psalm 118:  “Blessed is he that comes in the name of the LORD.”

Hosanna  is a key word here. It  includes exultation or praise which is how it’s usually interpreted  but it’s different from and more than  hallelujah. It is not a word to be casually spoken.  The  English equivalent is the imperative form of  “save, ” but that is an incomplete picture.   The Greek word is directly related to the Hebrew  Yaw sham and na which taken together is a heartbroken plea for God, an “I beg you and entreat you, I’m on my knees before you   to avenge, deliver, help, rescue and bring salvation to your people. It is not a quiet, meditative prayer, but a cry born of hopelessness and desperation. When we consider the violence against and the oppression of the Jews under the Romans, the general poverty, misery, sickness, spiritual  darkness of those living  around  Jesus,  the cries  of Hosanna  are the pleas for God’s mercy and salvation taken directly from Psalm 118.  Interestingly, verse 25,  ho-wo-shianna, “Save now, I pray, O LORD”  occurs right after verse 22:  “the stone which the builders’ rejected has become the chief cornerstone”, a messianic prophecy about Jesus and leads into  the blessing of Psalm 118:26. The multitude  knew the  words of the prophet  Zechariah and the Psalm,  were seeking Messiah to save them – and missed the mark because He was riding  to  the  cross, not to a palace.  Their hosannas never made it to Golgotha  with him.

And what of us? The world is just as sickly,  miserable, violent and oppressed by Satan as it was when Jesus lived.  In the 21^st century we’ve  become ever so  efficient at killing and destruction, more than  the Romans could ever achieve. It is a world in a psychosis of fear and  anxieties , worsening every day. Where is our Psalm 118 “Hosanna?”   Save us, O Lord! If the poor and oppressed in Jerusalem entreated the LORD to save them, aren’t we more morally impoverished and spiritually sick?   The Romans are long gone, but there has  always been another oppressor waiting to enter with the sword.  Alone or in the crowds, we must plead with God. Hosanna, Lord, save us. Save  the children and the family. Cry Hosanna for the persecuted church and this violated, violent  world.  Entreat the only one who can save because  at the end of His journey, on the cross Jesus uttered, “It is finished.”

Jesus, you are our only hope. Messiah, Save us according to your Word and Your Holy Spirit’s empowerment. May the word in our mouths reach the throne of God and may He have mercy on us.

I rushed  into the  Dollar Store for a few items.  We don’t have a grocery store  locally  and I did not want to drive all the way to McCall for orange juice and  a cheap squeaky toy for my dog who chews them like dog candy.  Fortunately, this store often has basic items when I run out. (However, “dollar”  is a misnomer. Hardly anything is a buck anymore!)

There’s a recently added refrigerated cooler where I found the juice – with a still valid expiration date. I  looked  around for a bit, saw nothing I couldn’t live without and got in line to pay. Several people were ahead of me, waiting patiently. I tried not to speculate on their circumstances and their grocery choices piled in the carts.  My years at the food bank taught me that the poor do not eat nutritious, healthy food, tending to buy what’s quick and easy to fix, tastes sugary or salty – and is calorie laden. The reasons are complex and cause for compassion, not judgment,  especially mine. 

Waiting in line, I noticed the cashier who was new to the store. She was in her thirties with  facial piercings and tattoos  visible on her neck and hand. “ Oh, boy, “ I thought, as some very unChristian , notions  burbled up, like swamp gas.   (I  confess to having  problems with  tattoos and piercings. )  As I came to the register, I saw  the tattoo on her neck was a butterfly.  

“You like butterflies, don’t you?” I said making conversation. She gave me a big smile.  “Yes, I do.” She leaned over the counter,  showing me her  butterfly rings, a pendant necklace and the blue one pinned in her hair “I have butterflies on my ankle and a large one across my back. “ She turned around to show me where that  butterfly was resting under her shirt  across her spine.  Then she added. “I’m a felon, you see.”

I wasn’t sure why she shared that with me, but I wasn’t  surprised.  Back in the days of Heartland Hunger Center I met more than a few who’d been in prison. Often their fingers were tattooed with symbols. Never with a butterfly.  “It must be hard for you,” I said and added, “I understand a little what you’re going through,” without elaborating how I can personally empathize with her situation.  “Why a butterfly?” The woman looked at me with old, grieved eyes and a wistful expression. “I don’t know. I just like them. They’re pretty and  give me some joy – and hope.”   

I can’t remember what I said to her, except that God loved her very much and forgave her. This time her smile lit up the cramped space we shared.  God had done a number on my heart. He reignited  my compassion for  those walking on the knife edge of life.  She was no longer  poor or beat up or  ashamed of her past. She was definitely no longer a felon; she is a daughter of the Most High God who longs to bless and draw her to Jesus through someone just like me.

And then right before my eyes, she changed from moth into a beautiful butterfly, like a summer monarch, fluttering  across from me behind  the counter, looking for the nectar of love, acceptance and mercy.  I know the Holy Spirit was there guiding both of us into that encounter.

 I left the Dollar Store far, far  richer than when I went in.

To everything there is a season. A time for every purpose under heaven. Ecclesiastes 3:1

The birds are back in  town! Flocks of finches and other small birds arrived just as March came through the calendar door. While a few nuthatches braved the winter to pick at the frozen pine bark, we haven’t had very many birds this winter.  And then one morning – dozens of them filled the top of the snag on the driveway like a crest of feathers and wings.  They soon found the feeder I’ve kept  filled with sunflower seeds. It’s been a wonderful sight in the mornings as I sip my coffee and slip off the night. Dan provides them with fresh daily water because birds prefer to drink out of the bird bath, not bathe in it.

The  seeds scattered onto the ground has also brought a dozen or more wild turkeys who hang out for the freebies. If God has blessed the birds of the air with  graceful flight, He skipped out on the turkeys who waddle their oversized bodies on skinny legs. Still they’re a surprising, comical sight which makes me smile whenever  they show up. To my mind, spring has arrived despite the snow, ice and still cold nights. Daylight savings time came on Saturday; the vernal  or spring equinox arrives  in a few days on March 20. I can  see  green shoots of bulbs  poking  through the warming earth around the house.  Birds and emerging plants testify to the coming spring , to the cycle of  seasons which God has ordained since He created our planet.

I am thankful for the end of winter for it’s not been an easy season for anyone I know. We’ve been prone to cabin fever and arthritic bones. The icy streets were treacherous. Good friends went south for the season But more than that, the last two plus years are more like William Shakespeare’s “winter of our discontent”,  a prolonged cold  season beset by clouds of change, confusion and upheaval in those we love, in life suddenly gone weird and in our  troubled souls.   I long for extended seasons of peace in our family and community.  I long for seasons of light and joy in the world  which  chooses  winter bleakness and darkness. I long for the Song of Songs rejoicing in spring and summer’s blossoms and fruits. I desperately pray for men to remember: the seasons are in God’s hands, not theirs.

The  third chapter of Ecclesiastes describes  life’s seasons as contrasts. A Pete Seeger song (“Turn, turn, turn”) based on the Scripture  became identified with the turbulence and changing culture of the 60’s. The Biblical misappropriation was never  intended  to elevate God’s providential authority over life’s seasons. Instead the lyrics advocated that nothing was permanent, especially God. A Wisdom chapter of the Bible was reworked into nascent postmodernism

I read Ecclesiastes now and have experienced  almost all  of the times the Preacher describes.  The message is convicting but the real message for me is  verse 12.

“Yet God has made everything beautiful for its own time. He has planted eternity in the human heart, but even so, people cannot see the whole scope of God’s work from beginning to end.”

When the birds return and when they leave, when the green shoots have bloomed bright yellow and when they wither away; when youth turns  aged and finally into dust,  when we’re finally called home from this season of mortality  to God is the  Unchanging One may we find that truly everything was beautiful in its time. Our Father  holds every turn of my life and yours before Him  through  and in Jesus,  the Holy Incarnate One who also walked through  every  season  of His earthly life. Just like us.

How precious are your thoughts about me, O God. They cannot be numbered!Psalm 139:17

 I was upstairs changing the linens on our bed. Dan helped me stretch the corners of the king fitted sheet, a task I used to be able to do pretty easily alone,  but since my “golden years” back doesn’t like  bending ,  tugging and stretching very much,  it’s become a two person job.  By habit, I snapped  two pillowcases  in the air,  smoothed them  and deftly inserted the pillows. Dan had  more difficulty. He smooshed  his pillows into the cases  sleeping bag style ending up with lumpy shaped  bolsters.  I watched him and said nothing knowing I’d fix them  afterwards. A  thought  popped into my head.  

“I wonder,” I said to him across the crisply made  bed,  “how many pillowcases  and pillowcases I’ve  put  together in my  lifetime. ? ” Dan   gave me a baffled  look.  “I wonder how many in our 50 plus years together?”

Curious minds want to know. I made some calculations averaging  50+  years at twice a month  linen changes  time 4 pillows. “It’s 5,200…   not counting when the kids were young or when we have guests or when we weren’t home.”  Dan failed to appreciate my interesting math.  I then  group texted daughters, son, and brother with the amazing revelation. Eldest daughter responded, “Uhhh, you ok, Mom?” I am more than OK.

We go about our daily lives doing the mundane, ordinary business at hand without a second thought until something grabs our attention.  In this season of life I’m mostly at home and yesterday it was freshening the pillows, but it could be a million other small tasks or motions which I’m not conscious of doing and forget almost immediately: opening the fridge, climbing stairs, reading e-mails,  getting in and out of the car, preparing meals, etc., etc. . The  et cetra’s  fill up a lifetime until one day, a thought barges in.: How much time do I…?

The Greek philosopher Socrates wrote that “ the unexamined life is not worth living.” He may have been  referring to what’s  called mindfulness, being present to the life I live. Brother Lawrence saw it a little differently, as practicing the presence of God  in all things because for him God is in the details,   in the scullery  as well as the chapel.

I had another thought. God’s Presence by Holy Spirit is not constrained by time or space,

And He said, “My presence shall go with you, and I will give you rest.”Ex. 33:4

Where can I go from Your Spirit? Or where can I flee from Your presence? Psalm. 139:7

 …and therefore God is/was  nigh with every breath I’ve taken;   He was with me  each of those 5,200 pillow changing times. I have 5,200 reasons to thank God  for sharing His  loving Presence with me while I was simply  doing an ordinary chore. That’s just a drop in the ocean of the Almighty One  hanging around my heart.  I cannot fathom the full measure of  all those moments which I thought were drudgery and  the Lord was right there with me.

The next time I make the bed or the tenth time I’m  interrupted  by my spouse or the hundredth time my prayers seem  flat and the thousandth time  my life   today is no different than it was yesterday,  I thank God that  it is He, not I,  doing the higher math for me.

‘Ah, fondest, blindest, weakest,

I am He Whom thou seekest! Francis Thompsaon. The Hound of Heaven

Today we come to the end of our church’s 21 Days of Prayer which began the first week of January.  Twice a year our pastors challenge us to spiritual reset in busy lives, to  pray, meditate, and worship God  a little more conscientiously, a lot more engaged than in  the slapdash way I so easily fall into.   I’ve  been touched by this January’s theme – God’s  Voice speaking, us hearing Him, and especially  listening. The last requires more than my ears; it requires a heart response. Along with the 21 days of personal prayer, once a week evening devotions called Pursuit Nights call together those who want to pursue even more the things of God.

For many years I’ve gone on a week long silent retreat  in January. (Yes, it  is virtually 100%  silent and the first time I participated, not speaking for a week  was very difficult .) Silence and listening take practice. However, the rewards are immeasurable. One finds that noise pollution dulls spiritual senses and discernment. One needs to throw it off like a scratchy horsehair blanket.  I did not go this year but focused on hearing God right where I am. It is breathtakingly beautiful right outside my window and His Voice doesn’t speak only in the quiet of a monastery or on a snow crowned mountain peak. I do not have to go away to pursue God. The truth is, that it is God who does the pursuing.

To pursue means to take deliberate action in order to catch up to or overtake someone or something. Pursuit is more intense than chasing, seeking, following or tracking. Pursuit in the Bible has a very strong element of relentlessness, of never giving up the pursuing.  The Bible is  very clear that God is the Relentless Pursuer of our souls,  that we are the ones being pursued , that we’ve rebelled and are foolishly trying to get away. It began in the Garden after the fall.  God asked Adam “Where are you?” And Adam replied,

“I heard your voice in the garden, and I was afraid  because I was naked; and I hid myself.” Genesis 3:10

Ever since, mortals  have tried to hide from God, from His Voice calling us back to Himself and from our own sinful rebellion. The first six verses of Psalm 139 describe  God knowing everything about us. He knows all our ways, every word on our lips, and every thought we have. God knows us so intimately, that David writes,

Where can I go from Your Spirit? O where can I flee from your presence? 139:7

We cannot flee from the Spirit of God, neither in the heavens nor in hell. We cannot  silence God’s  Voice  which never, ever ceases speaking.  We cannot  escape from God’s hand upon  us.  We cannot  hide from the love of God in Christ Jesus except to reject the gift of His salvation. It is useless to run and hide, but  in the words of the British poet Francis Thompson, “the Hound of Heaven”,  nevertheless,

I fled Him, down the nights and down the days;

I fled Him, down the arches of the years;

I fled Him, down the labyrinthine ways

Of my own mind; and in the mist of tears. 

I hid from Him, and under running laughter.

During Pursuit Nights I’ve heard many times that  we need “to go after the things of God.” I‘m not sure what this means exactly.  What are  these things we should  pursue? Is it our purpose? The abundant life? A  new calling or ministry? Is it healing or restoration? Vision? The gifts of the Spirit?   Benevolence? Missions? We pursue worthwhile goals but even our  best aspirations and priorities  can be skewed. Stop running after. Christian, be still and know that I am God. I am He Whom thou seekest.

The LORD   who formed us in the womb, who loved the world  enough to send Jesus to die for us, who reconciles us with Himself, speaks and asks:  “I have searched you and known you.  Will you not allow me to  pursue you  and overtake you  with Myself? “

The voice of the LORD is over the waters; the God of glory thunders, the LORD, over many waters. Psalm 29:3

The phone rings. I pick it up, check the caller ID, but it isn’t a number I recognize. Nevertheless, I respond  to the call and am instantly delighted to hear the voice of an old teaching friend from Boise.   Though we’ve not been in touch for years, I would know her voice anywhere

And isn’t that amazing! I am fascinated by human  ability to identify a person audibly, to distinguish who that person is from the hundreds of thousands of other voices we’ve heard in a life time. I think of my husband Dan, of our children and grandchildren. I would never confuse their voices with any other person. I think of loved ones who are gone and know without any doubts at all, that I will always  know their voices. If it were possible, I’d do anything to hear my mother and father’s again or my brother Joe saying, “Hi Sis. It’s your brother Joe.” Voice is an indication of identity.  Voice recognition is essential to the relationship between speaker and hearer. 

I want to know: how is this possible?  What makes each person’s voice so uniquely developed?  What is wired into our brains for such specificity?  I’m sure there are scientific explanations for this phenomena as  well as technology developed to track our voices, to capture our identity.  It is a two edged sword which we’ve not yet learned to use wisely. Voice recognition is still  a mystery and a miraculous gift.

This January as our church is experiencing the semi-annual Twenty One Days of Prayer, the theme is God’s Voice:  How to hear it, how to recognize it and ultimately, how to respond to it. Can we actually hear God’s Voice speaking? If we can do so, then why?  What’s the reason for believing God Almighty speaks and  that we are wired to hear Him? It surely isn’t random noise we pick up as if from outer space radio stations. God’s Voice must be comprehensible, it must be exquisitely unique and it must be purposeful.

The answer is Yes and yes. God did design us to hear His Voice so that we will be in relationship with Him. The first and greatest commandment is in the Torah, the  Sh’ma. Israel is to listen because God speaks. It affirms  who God is and what our relationship with Him is. Christians are to do the same through Jesus.

Listen, Israel, the Lord is our God, the Lord alone, and you shall love the Lord your God with all your heart, all your being, and all your might. Deuteonomy 6:4-5

When Jesus walked on earth, He had a human voice. He spoke, taught, prayed, suffered anguish and died on the cross demonstrating  a gift to the world never before or since given. God’s Voice was very audibly heard, that of Jesus, His beloved Son. He was buried and  His beautiful voice was silenced for three days. And then, behold, He spoke again to the disciples. Is that not proof of His resurrection, of divinity? The resurrected Lord spoke distinctly and  He was heard by many until His ascension to the Father’s right hand. Jesus promised to send  the Holy Spirit to continue speaking to us throughout the age.

Pastor’s  teaching that God’s Voice is in the Scriptures, in fellowship with one another,  in the Body of Christ when we gather.  God still calls us to honor relationship with Him, to know, love and serve Him. And to love one another as Jesus did because love is His language and His Voice.

My sensory  ears can’t hear Jesus’ voice  physically, but His Spirit speaks inaudibly to my heart.  I would recognize the precious sound of Him anywhere, any time.  When the phone line of my life is finally cut short, I will rejoice to hear Him calling me home to Himself. There will be eternities ahead to listen to the Voice which spoke in the beginning and speaks my name in eternity.

Walk with the wise and become wise, for a companion of fools suffers harm. Proverbs 13:20

It is the first week of the new year. The holidays are over. The company is gone and even as I was a bit sad for family to go to their homes, it’s also a relief, isn’t it?  Do the laundry. Take down the tree and decorations. Cook simply. Take a nap.  It’s back to normal life which is the life I actually love.

A week ago we threw away the old calendars and opened the crisp pages of new ones marking the unopened possibilities before us in 2022. After the last two confusing, stressful and troubling years, many of my friends and acquaintances were ready for all the old to be gone with a hearty  “Don’t let the door  hit you on the way out!”

However,  I also start  this year with a personal loss. My friend Lillian passed away  in Arkansas last Sunday. I received word that she’d gotten Covid, developed  pneumonia and was not expected to  survive.  Less than a day later she was gone, home to the Lord she so dearly knew, loved and served all her life. Honestly, I’m still stunned at how quickly she is gone.

The last time I saw Lillian, right before Thanksgiving, we had lunch as we often did. She was moving from Idaho to Arkansas to live with one of her daughters and was looking forward to  resettling,  meeting old friends  and being with part of her very large family. She wanted us to meet before she left to talk about our families and recent dramas – and God. We always talked about the Lord’s presence in all circumstances. She was a powerhouse regarding    the work of Holy Spirit and  God’s Word to heal.  She spoke  about the spirit of fear that has taken over our world and how believers need to stand firmly on faith and God’s grace. She refused to be manipulated by fear mongers during the pandemic and made  health choices based on  faith, not fear.  When we parted I think we both discerned  it would be the last time.

We became friends about 20 years ago. I’d met  her in our former church when I was still a very new Christian struggling with faith, the Bible and God Himself.  Our friendship developed slowly from the day she called to me coming from a recovery conference  in McCall. I stopped to say hello and shared concerns about the conference.  Typically, Lillian was blunt. “Why are you still going then?”  Why Indeed? Meeting her that day was a divine appointment. I never went back into “recovery” because she made me realize  it was time to move on. I needed Jesus, I needed the Word of God  and I needed the Holy Spirit’s indwelling.  

In the ensuing years, Lillian became not only friend but also my mentor. I learned more about prayer, spiritual warfare, discernment  and standing on the promises of God from her than almost anyone else. We shared some of  the best of times;  she held me up in prayer through some of the worst of times. Admittedly, our friendship had its ups and downs. Lillian’s personality and opinions were as bold her faith and could be overbearing. If she blustered and I bristled, somehow we worked things out into forgiveness and acceptance. Proverbs describes our friendship perfectly:

Iron sharpens iron, and one man sharpens another. Proverbs 27:17

Lillian definitely sharpened me often! I believe it was a mutual honing of our rough edges for   over time and our ageing, we embraced the important  things which God revealed and helped one another let go of the rest.  I truly miss that already.

There are so few wise, loyal  friends  in a lifetime. To lose one is hard. And so I grieve my loss and pray for peace to all of her daughters, son, in-laws, grandchildren and great grandchildren. Lillian was the family’s  spiritual anchor  and wise counsel. She is their legacy, as she is partly mine. I see a moment with her. It was early on in PLCC, our little former church. I sat alone listening to heart rending  worship music unlike any I’d ever heard in the church of my youth. I heard a low voice rising from a seat nearby. It was deep and powerful, wafting toward me like a resonating  tower bell.  Lillian was singing, worshipping God with her amazing, gifted voice that could probably break a rock in half. It was the sound of a soul in high praise and one I shall never forget.

My calendar will have a lot of empty spaces in it where my friend once was.  I might pencil her in once in a while as I remember our friendship but I will not be sad any more. I rejoice that she is home  with Jesus were she longed to be so often.  Her earthly voice is silenced but I know she’s singing with the angels – Big Ben worship,  holding nothing back from the heavens or us.