the power of His resurrection

Earth expectant
Anticipating the morning
Sun, origin of sun, original Son
Time all before, all to come
Eternity in a moment
Rising

This week began with the celebration of the reason for our hope.

Garbed in fresh tie (Jim), and hats and dresses (the girls), we joined our church family to fellowship and be glad that our Savior is risen and that one day we too will rise to be with Him, to be like Him.

As I entered the week, and the celebration, the words "the power of His resurrection" reverberated in my head.  They sang out in the pauses, and I had my eyes and heart open to seeing that power around me.  And I saw much that gave me joy and encouragement.

I savored the touches of beauty and order with which the week began, expectant and hopeful.   

I include these pictures here to remind myself that these sweet trappings of earth that feebly point a finger at Beauty were, too, a part of the week to come.

Because somehow, before the close of Easter day, everything rapidly became very messy and I found the words "where is" creeping in before "the power of His resurrection" and a question mark following.

There was the mess of living.  

Incidents (four tornado warnings and a funeral) and accidents (suture removal) brought the unplanned into everyday, leaving four little girls and two big people tired and grumpy.

There was the mess of being messy.  

Flip flops, rain boots, and Sunday shoes competing for space and spilling out of the shoe basket and off of the shelf (helped continually in their pilgrimage across the family room floor by an 18-month old with a shoe fetish!).  Winter clothes and spring clothes in various stages of trading places, colliding on nearly every horizontal surface and in a mountain on the laundry room floor.  Ongoing discovery of secret hiding places for the paraphernalia of living that come into play when the order is given, "Go clean up your room."  Goldfish crumbs strewn throughout the living room - which leads to the issue of the mess of disobedience.

There was the mess of relationships.  

The film of fractures felt rather than declared.  Words that glanced like a flat pebble across the surface and never plunged into the depths of the real.  Longing across gulfs.  Silences that scream, sharp words that hit false targets, concealing.

There was the mess of hearts still needy - including my own.

And in the middle of it all, there I was, hating all the mess, longing for beauty (and, incidentally, contributing to some of the above temporal messes as I neglected my domestic domain at times in order to seek to capture it through a camera lens!), longing to see the transforming power of the gospel in love and joy and communion, longing to see the arm of the LORD bared in working wonders, and wondering where the power was.  The lump in my throat took up semi-permanent residence.

A phone call with my brother Jack began to shift my vision away from the mess and back to my Source. As I shared a bit of my struggle, he said, "Al, the only way I've been praying for others lately is that God would pour out His grace on them.  Because sometimes real self-awareness can kill a person.  I mean, literally kill them.  All the promises I read of God's compassion and mercy are for them, too, though it's easier to see it for myself.  His Grace may mean that He works slowly, as much as they can stand at a time."

Aha.

In a moment I was reminded of how God has worked in me.  How patient He has been.  How He only revealed my heart to me in stages and how, when He worked in a big way, the massive upheaval I experienced brought me to a place of wanting to die, literally die.

I began to taste the dust in my mouth again and remembered again that I had forgotten that I had died.

A phone call and prayer with one of my sisters reminded me that I had been forgetting to praise, forgetting to believe and hold on to the promises of God.  We prayed the promises before Him, asking Him to do according to His Word.

And the dust filled my mouth completely as I reflected on how far I had wandered from a place of
seeking in stillness,
waiting willingness,
quiet expectancy and praise.

I rehearsed my heart, and it told that I had sought to be loved more than to love, to be understood more than to understand, to be encouraged more than to encourage.  It told how far I was from being like Jesus.

Asking for forgiveness, I realized that my vision had shifted to the pointing finger and away from the One to whom it points.  And my failure to be like Him was because I was failing to see Him - letting discouragement and hurt and impatience get between.

And discouragement, hurt, and impatience had gotten in the way of recounting the wonderful deeds of the LORD in that week, in that mess:
- the email from a friend that so richly expressed the mercies of God to us both;
- the movement toward victory in a little heart, prayer and the Word disarming defiance;
- moments of laughter and fun;
- grace given to make apologies, make oneself vulnerable;
- phone calls and notes that reminded us of God's continuing presence and continuing work.


When I recognized the ingratitude of my heart, I realized that the reason that I tasted the dust is that I am dust.

Until this mortal is swallowed up in immortality, I will always be dust.  Yes, I am being changed, being transformed to be like Him, but I will never not need to be in that place at His feet.

LORD Jesus, be pleased to bend down and write with your finger in the dust that I am words that bring hope and healing, that remove condemnation and judgment, and encourage others in righteousness.

I, even I, will sing unto the LORD,

For ever and for ever the Adored;

I, even I, though I be dust, will sing

To Him Who even now is conquering.

             - Amy Carmichael

I'm going to keep looking unto Jesus, somewhat the way Cordelia eyed this coconut cake, eager to see all that He will do in our midst.  Hopeful.  Expectant.  Patient with joy.

"My heart is fixed, O God, my heart is fixed:  I will sing and give praise." Ps. 57:7