What do I know?
This has been a particularly discouraging week for me for more reasons than I'll waste your time enumerating here. Aside from life being a little crazy at our house, I feel discouraged for some of my loved ones as well. And sometimes, when a lot of junk rains down in one week, I start to ask that why question again? Why us, Lord? Haven't we had enough? And then, of course, he answers, in characteristic fashion--through a friend's wise words, a moment of beauty in the landscape, or even sometimes through my own kids.
This time, wisdom came in a song, an answer of sorts to my doubts.
"What do I know of you who spoke me into motion? Where have I even stood but the shores along your ocean?" (Addison Road).
As I've mentioned before, I love the ocean. And standing on its shore, especially with this view in front of me always reminds me of how small I am and how big God is. It's a little girl moment, in which I automatically think of something my dad always says when he meets a breathtaking view. "How can anyone look at this and say there's no God?" The appropriate answer, of course, is silence. Because you just can't say it. Even if five minutes before, tired from the long climb or the screaming kids in the back seat or the fierce wind off the ocean, you were wondering just that. "Where is God?"
Oh, hello Lord.
It seems strange that posing a question might answer one, but I've returned to this song line a number of times in this new season of motherhood (parenting a child with special needs). It's an "You've forgotten who you're dealing with here," answer, in which I'm reminded that the creator of the universe is so much vaster than the angle from which I see the world, and that he has the best seat in the house, the one that reveals the whole stage and all of the acts of the play all at once. Compared to that, I'm maybe in the second balcony with binoculars and a column blocking half the action from view. So, OK, I'm willing to admit I don't have all the answers and that maybe I can live in the gray areas of life with a little more peace in my heart, at least just for now.
Until the next time "Why?" comes up.
Sometimes what I would like for myself and the people I love is a little relief from it all, a vacation from trials. That would be nice, right? But God gives us a different option, an invitation of sorts. He invites us to him, or at the very least the shores of his ocean, where we remember that he is our strength, our rock, our fortress, our redeemer, our shelter. We're invited to "taste and see that the Lord is good."
And if we look around at all the people gathered with us on the shore, instead of looking down at the ground at our own travel-weary feet, or even just straight ahead at the amazing view, we'll notice something else. We each of us carry a burden that he's invited us to lay down upon his shore. We're all in it together, watching the horizon, taking in the fury and beauty of the ocean all at once, crying out, "Lord! Help us!" And bam, he gives us a sunrise.
I just forgot, Lord. I forget all the time. "Lord, I believe. Help me in my unbelief."
This time, wisdom came in a song, an answer of sorts to my doubts.
"What do I know of you who spoke me into motion? Where have I even stood but the shores along your ocean?" (Addison Road).
As I've mentioned before, I love the ocean. And standing on its shore, especially with this view in front of me always reminds me of how small I am and how big God is. It's a little girl moment, in which I automatically think of something my dad always says when he meets a breathtaking view. "How can anyone look at this and say there's no God?" The appropriate answer, of course, is silence. Because you just can't say it. Even if five minutes before, tired from the long climb or the screaming kids in the back seat or the fierce wind off the ocean, you were wondering just that. "Where is God?"
Oh, hello Lord.
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| Sunrise, Hilton Head Island, Oct. 12, 2010 |
Until the next time "Why?" comes up.
Sometimes what I would like for myself and the people I love is a little relief from it all, a vacation from trials. That would be nice, right? But God gives us a different option, an invitation of sorts. He invites us to him, or at the very least the shores of his ocean, where we remember that he is our strength, our rock, our fortress, our redeemer, our shelter. We're invited to "taste and see that the Lord is good."
And if we look around at all the people gathered with us on the shore, instead of looking down at the ground at our own travel-weary feet, or even just straight ahead at the amazing view, we'll notice something else. We each of us carry a burden that he's invited us to lay down upon his shore. We're all in it together, watching the horizon, taking in the fury and beauty of the ocean all at once, crying out, "Lord! Help us!" And bam, he gives us a sunrise.
I just forgot, Lord. I forget all the time. "Lord, I believe. Help me in my unbelief."