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Dear Sweet Friends,

 I have not left blogging or lost my heart for you.  On the contrary, you are always on my heart.  My scarceness in the blogging world results from overwhelming tasks and honest exhaustion.  Be assured of my thoughts, prayers, and love for you, as I reestablish my home and try to recover.  I pray Philippians 4:19 for all of you, knowing that our Father God sees you and loves you and longs to be your everything in every situation of your lives.  

Your Heart-Partner in Jesus,

Andrea 

With a deep breath, and unabashed thanksgiving, I can proclaim that we have returned to our home.  Yes, after eight months of separation from our own small piece of earth and earthly possessions, Jeff and I have crossed one major hurdle in this current race.  I never expected our extended itineration from personal property.  Yet, God in his sovereignty, knew and chose that we have that separation and return. 

And, as you know, anything God allows, anything He touches, He makes good.  For, "we know that all things work together for good to those who love God, to those who are the called according to his purpose" (Romans 8:28, NKJV).  Years ago, I heard Elisabeth Elliot, with her precious voice of humility, talk about the "good" in that verse.  She said that it is not a particular state of happiness spawned by circumstances.  The good, Elisabeth said in her wise way, is that God, with omniscient, Fatherly vision, does what is for our best.  Our best is that which is for our eternal good, whatever draws us nearer to God's heart, whatever conforms us to the image of Jesus Christ. 

His desire for our good is the condition behind all our personal trials.  God views and weighs the pain, the process, and results:  physical, mental, emotional, spiritual, and eternal.    

In light of God's complete vision, He ordains and allows the events of our lives, for He knows what will purge us, renew us, and conform us to the image of Jesus.  Because of God's grace and his Fatherly good, I can work through all the moments of November 8, 2009, the process of the fire, and the outcome, which is yet to be known.   

Speaking truthfully, it has been very difficult to deal with the memories of the fire:  watching my home in flames and my grandchildren scream in panic and cry with fear.  The aftermath of petroleum fumes hovering in our home and attaching to our things continues to linger, and the pain of not knowing the final results of our insurance claim, along with the sting of anger for insurance adjusters and contractors makes me lean the harder on God and His grace.  I stand in His grace and by faith alone as I try to grasp the idea of loss and what ifs, and deal with many other issues that are always attached to trauma and major life events.

Attached to everything are true feelings that are very human.  But there is a divine issue greater than my human comprehension and fleshly experiences.  To find peace in all things earthly, in all things humanly spoken, I must complete my thoughts with two words:  but God.

But, God!

 I have always loved that two-word phrase that grammatically unqualifies as a sentence, but supernaturally qualifies as victory.  But, God made, makes, and is making all things new and all things good.  And just what the good of our experience is will be fully revealed in eternity, though yet even with my darkly glassed vision (1 Corinthians 13:12), some details are already tangible.

As I write, there remains a lot of physicality to our situation.  Don't mistake me.  I am thankful, ever so thankful for all God has done and brought us through.  My thankfulness, however, doesn't change the leftovers we now face.  Much is left to sort through.  If I fix my vision on the leftovers and see only the mess of it all, I will miss the miracle of God's ability to multiply His grace and provision. 

God is the faithful One, and One particular mighty provision lies amongst the chaotic condition of our home.  It is powerful and eternal.  It is exact and undeniable.  The voice of God, with the power of all His names, speaks through current disorder and pain.  Reigning above earthly mystery of things lost, piles of  dishes, clothes, books, papers, pictures, and other residuals is the presence of my Shepherd.  He speaks peace in this confusion.  I therefore do not just see eight months of pain and more months of stress and work, I hear the mind of One most holy, who alone understands and knows me and searches my heart and is working on my will and vision.

Thus far, my Father has chosen to share a few truths that have captivated my heart.  God has faced me down with all of them.  His words are very easy to accept in my mind, but my spirit is weak and battles, though self will not win, for I am locking in on that divine voice of reason.

One truth I will share with you now.   Perhaps it is the most prolific and the sum of all God's teaching sessions. 

That mighty truth is new eternal perspective.  Whatever my eyes see or my mind conceives is being framed with words that can comfort and heal, shatter and cleanse, or shake and refocus.

A chair is a chair.  It has a purpose.  It provides a place for one to sit.  If it is a beautiful piece, then I am thankful for its aesthetic gift, but its form and presence are a very simple part of my life and have nothing to do with my joy or quality of living.  Only God can give me joy.

And I may choose to receive joy in my life through things or through God.  If I receive joy through things, my life is based on what is only earthly valuable.  That choice makes for shaky faith and contentment that is very timid.

If I choose, however, to receive joy from my walk with God, my life is based on what is heavenly valuable.  What is heavenly valuable will never depreciate.  It will remain forever.  I therefore have no fear of loss, and my faith has firm foundation. 

Eternal perspective:  seeing through eyes that look for eternal purpose in all things, in all situations, in all trials, in all relationships, in all joys, in all of life.  It is a framing of grace only God can give, and I am finding it a process, not a photostatic change.

Thank you, Father God, for your patience.  It is your longsuffering that pilots us to our knees.  It is your grace that guides us so faithfully to eternal vision, for You know without it our conformity to Your Son is limited by our fleshly dreams. 

I love you, friends! 

DAYBREAK

"We live by faith, not by sight."

2 Corinthians 5:7, NIV

Provincial:  adj.  Of or relating to a province; limited in perspective. 

The hardwoods in my home are being refinished.  My choice of stain color is called provincial.  It is a medium shade and the sample looks so right when placed by the fresh, neutral walls and white trim.  Imagining the contrast of the walls and floors and focusing on the look, feel, and smell of new is now turning impatience to anticipation.  I hope provincial and all preceding choices will bring out the best in our home.

When all the work in our home is complete, our little 1941 cottage will be quite a different kind of comfort than it was before the fire, which was last November.  You may read about it here.

What was once a quaint, crowded, space full of vintage finds will be a cheery home of light and life.  Soft colors of beige, cream, yellow, ivory, and white now grace the walls.  Happy hues are a turn from the bright gold, rose, and deep taupe we had before.  I chose light colors because my heart cried for anything that would lighten our life and lend oxygen for a new beginning. 

The shock of the sudden, involuntary transition the fire caused for Jeff and me still bears on our souls as the final, remaining reparations come to a close and we look toward returning home.  In the midst of it all, we are and have been in awe of God's faithful handiwork and peaceful presence.  God is amazing in his detailed weaving of our life threads.  What began seven months ago as shock is growing into surrender.  Seven months of struggle becomes weary.  Seven months of stress-survival tells truth.  Seven months of waiting sizes up a lifetime of seeing.  Seven months of seized self moves once thought needs to the only desired compartment of the soul. 

In biblical terms, scholars often say that seven is God's number of completion.  "By the seventh day God had finished the work he had been doing; so on the seventh day he rested from all his work" (Genesis 2:2, NIV).  "And the words of the LORD are flawless, like silver refined in a furnace of clay, purified seven times" (Psalm 12:6, NIV).  Seven, in God's terms, can represent perfection.  The complete work of Adonai, God, who is flawless authority.

By any measure, as a Christian, I am not flawless.  If I told you I felt like refined silver, I would be lying.  In truth, I will not be perfected until my journey on this fallen sod we share is over.  I can rest in that fact, however, knowing God will continue his work of grace in every place he leads.  He has planned this earthly journey for me, and he owns its map and my provision.

During this short, seven-month season of my journey, God has provided moments of solitude.  Time is a gift.  And time alone, when tied in small sprigs, is like delicate baby's breath.  Fragile, elegant, and gracious.

These small sprigs of solitude were only the outer wrapping of God's gift.  The real blessedness of this seven-month season has been an awareness of God's presence and his peace that passes understanding. 

As we draw closer to closure of shock and aftershocks, God's mark on this unstable season becomes clearer and clearer.  His holy hand has left its imprint on the whole landscape.  And seeing his seal in the picture reminds me of my limited and God's unlimited.  The two are incomparable.  I, Andrea, very human, frail, full of questions, and short on vision versus God Almighty, omnipotent, omnipresent, omniscient, complete in love and vision, infallible Savior.

Yet, I wrestle. . .

trying to find answers, to grasp rest, to see light on a dark path, to know how, to explain pain, to envision the finished work of grace and bear the rebuilding of our lives.

My own struggling has caused me to search the book of Genesis with wonder about Jacob and how he felt as he sent his family and all his possessions across the Jabbok River, while he stayed the night alone in darkness and wrestled with God until daybreak.   

"So Jacob was left alone, and a man wrestled with him till daybreak.  When the man saw that he could not overpower him, he touched the socket of Jacob's hip so that his hip was wrenched as he wrestled with the man" (Genesis 32: 24-25).

Jacob, the man who always took the initiative, who always made a way for himself, who always felt strong, who always created solutions, was, in his lonely, empty place of struggle, made helpless by God.  God dislocated Jacob's hip joint, which was the very strength of Jacob's ability to wrestle.  Jacob was then forced to face his human futility.  As he limped away, however, he was not dismayed.  Why?  He was blessed and had a new name for his new life that awaited him when he returned to his homeland.  Jacob had been  touched by God.  Eternally challenged and eternally changed. 

"Then the man said, 'Let me go, for it is daybreak.'  But Jacob replied, 'I will not let you go unless you bless me.'  The man asked him, 'What is your name?'  'Jacob,' he answered.  Then the man said, 'Your name will no longer be Jacob, but Israel, because you have struggled with God and with men and have overcome' (Genesis 32:26-28, NIV).    

"You have struggled with God and with men and have overcome."

"You have struggled" and you "have overcome."

"Yes!" God says to all who wrestle til daybreak for blessing, "You have overcome." 

Struggling means I am human.  Wrestling means I intend to conquer.  Wrestling til daybreak means fighting for a forever-changed moment.  It is holding on for a dawn of hope.  It is hanging in there for an appearance of light, and it is denying fatigue and accepting brokenness.  Wrestling til soft light is seen at a distant space means I have, in that night, overcome self.  Overcoming self means Jesus reigns greater in me now than he did in a time past.

I have a very long path of daybreaks behind me, and a very long path of perfecting processes ahead of me.   I will leave these seven months changed and a little more surrendered.  I hope to leave the provincial vision of my pre-fire life and reach to embrace new vision as we return to our home.

As future testing seasons approach, I, hopefully, will not see them with dim, limited, provincial vision.  I pray to see them with God's unlimited vision.  Yes, my eyes can see what he visions when I submit absolutely to God's creative voice and will.

I am merely human and within my own power, so limited.   We, who all originated from dusty earth, who depend on God Almighty to hold our world together, who trust his word for the air we breathe, can share the vision of our Creator!  Through Christ, we can have faith-vision, and faith-vision is what overcomes the world.   "For whatever is born of God overcomes the world; and this is the victory that has overcome the world - our faith" (1John 5:4, NASB). 

Friend, we may have no answers.  No details.  No professional title.  No human help.  Little worldly stuff.  

But, . . .  we can have the eyes of Jesus. 

His seeing is not provincial.  His perspective is complete.  His focus is flawless.  His eyes are pure. 

Just lean back in his arms and rest your weary head and allow Christ's victory to strengthen you and be your strength.  You will soon find faith vision, and all sight will be new.

Praying you this day,

On River's Bank

Swimming in cool, rushing waters, . . .

I move gracefully toward a goal, feeling the freedom of flowing currents, knowing power over depth.  My arms move effortlessly, without fatigue or pain.  My legs are straight behind me giving me strength.  My head stays above the flood; my eyes focus on destiny.

Such describes my dreams of rivers. 

Yet, much irony lies in those dreams.  In my real life, I cannot swim and have a deep respect for bodies of water.  I do not like water in my eyes or ears.  And two near-drowning incidents have left their marks on my mind.

Still, I love rivers.  Particularly those mountain streams that move with life and air and sky and wind.

I easily remember special places where such rivers live.  There is an old country store with a grist mill in the North Georgia mountains, and behind that store is a wooden walkway where one can watch the turning of the wheel and trout swim in the currents.  The rushing waters cascade with perfect harmony.  Their music echos in my soul.  It is a God-created tonic.  I have stood there several times drinking its peace.  

Yet, greater still is drinking in the peace of another river.  It is that "river whose streams make glad the city of God, the holy place where the Most High dwells" (Psalm 46:4, NIV).  It is a river I do not fear, even in my real life.  It is a river more pure than any other river.  It is a real river of relief.  It is a river that thunders with praise of divine power.  It is a river for tasting, drinking, wading, and plunging, and for walking of its banks.

It is my river.  And, it is your river.  

To be honest with you, friends, I need a drink from that river.  I need to stand on its bank and wade into its effervescence.  To be affected by its persuasive authority.  To be guided into its healing falls. 

For, all channels that rill from its presence make glad the sacred places of my life.  All streams from its Source make glad the scarred places in my heart. 

"Glad" in original Hebrew means to rejoice or cheer up. 

So, placing my own heart-spin on Psalm 46:4, I perceive that river as the Holy Spirit and paraphrase the following: 

When my heart is in need, when my life feels broken, when I reach my endpoint, I can fall on my face and seek my Creator of rivers.  He will send His Holy Spirit to fill my emptiness and heal my hurts.  His sacred presence will change my mourning into dancing, my pain to praise, my endpoint to a new point.  

The past several months have been a tiring swim.  I am slightly stretched.  I miss my home and my familiar surroundings.  Our church is suffering need.  Physically, my health is daily challenging.  And, other needs unspoken now, press and weigh.  Yet, like David,  "I am still confident of this:  I will see the goodness of the LORD in the land of the living" (Psalm 27:13, NIV). 

In the New King James Version, that scripture reads, "I would have lost heart, unless I had believed that I would see the goodness of the LORD in the land of the living."  And verse 14 ends the psalm with some of the most encouraging words in scripture:  "Wait on the LORD; be of good courage, and He shall strengthen your heart; wait, I say, on the LORD!"

Sometimes we have to wait to wade, to venture out into and drink His living water.  We sit on the bank so thirsty and fatigued, yet so hopeful because of faith's vision.  

Turning to the Word in those dry, dessertlike seasons is our refuge.  Because. . .  

We have this treasure in jars of clay to show that this all-surpassing power is from God and not from us. We are hard pressed on every side, but not crushed; perplexed, but not in despair; persecuted, but not abandoned; struck down, but not destroyed. We always carry around in our body the death of Jesus, so that the life of Jesus may also be revealed in our body. For we who are alive are always being given over to death for Jesus' sake, so that his life may be revealed in our mortal body. So then, death is at work in us, but life is at work in you (2 Corinthians 4:7-12). 

My suffering does not compare to Paul's or so many others; yet, it is working my death and His life in me.  I guess what I'm saying, dear friend, is that His grace is enough.  And, though sometimes it seems all we have, we stand unshaken because it really is all we need.  And, I believe.  No, I know future glory will reveal that truth in all of us. 

Unyielding, I vision His water!  Unshaken, I proclaim that God is in control!  Unmoved, I stand by grace!   

On His River's Bank,  

 

A FEARFUL SOUND!

"So surely as the stars are fashioned by His hands, and their orbits fixed by Him, so surely are our trials allotted to us: He has ordained their season and their place, their intensity and the effect they shall have upon us."
Charles Haddon Spurgeon

"'That fearful sound of "fire" and "fire,"/Let no man know is my Desire.'" Her richly spoken words are numbing reality.   How well I remember first hearing those poetic phrases penned by Anne Bradstreet, initially learning  them in a college classroom.  I sat amazed as a non-traditional student who was in ignorance at the depth, honesty, intensity, and persuasion of a Puritan poet, whose out of abundance language brought life to page and truth to the journey of Christian living.

America's first woman poet poured many lyrical prayers and meditations of surrender and sacrifice.  In 1666, she lost all her material possessions to a devastating fire.  In 2000, one year after graduating from college, I had the privilege of reading and teaching her poetic verses of those losses to tenth graders.  I felt passionate about Anne's experience.  I wanted my students to share my passion and relate to her pain, to travel three centuries back with me to Anne's new world and connect with the soul-searching saga of one woman and her God.  To hear this woman's heartbeat and understand her godly affection and her influence in 17th century Amercia and our 21st century American life. 

In hearing her voice and heart, Anne Bradstreet became my heroine because of her faith in God and scriptural priorities.  Anne's courageous conclusion of "Upon the Burning of Our House" leaves me speechless each time I read it.  Breathless praise stills my soul when I walk with her on her voyage of private pain and sentiment to her letting-go of futility and grasping of holy, raw truth. Anne's godly take on life and loss bears hard in my soul, and it witnesses the fact of God's grace.  It is a grace for all us; yes, sweet friends, it is just as real now, in 2009, as it was in 1666. 

God is immutable.  He doesn't change.  His promises, his passions, his pleas for us are the same yesterday, today, and forever.  Thus, Anne's words remain.  Their urgency and appeal still move us.  They are timeless.  They speak truth.  They know love.  They give hope. 

"The world no longer let me Love, My hope and Treasure lyes Above." 

I have read those last lines so many times, yet I never imagined they would have their own particular part in my life.   

Last Sunday afternoon, November 8, I kept Olivia and Ella, two of my grandchildren. Both my son, Steven, and his wife had to work, and I savored the opportunity to have a little grandma time with the two little sweethearts, whom we call Baby Doll and Ella-Bella. Their mom arrived about 5:00 pm to take them home. Raychelle, my daughter-in-law, and I and the babies were in my den. Mommy and I were getting babies ready to go when suddenly we heard a terribly loud sound, like a gun or explosion.

We immediately and quickly moved toward the back door, opened it, and inhaled a noxious fume that had already saturated our screened porch and carport, where Raychelle had parked her car. Her engine had exploded, and flames were already licking their way toward our roof. We dared not approach our porch, which was engulfed with dense smoke. Rather, we grabbed the babies and the phone and quickly ran toward the opposite end of the house and out our front door.

Countless calls, copious words of comfort, two crying babies, and five fire trucks later, the drama ended. And its ending began a new adventure of awestruck, broken gratefulness to God for sparing the lives of Raychelle, Olivia, and Ella. The imaginations and discussions with family and friends have centered around God's mercy and grace. Two minutes later, Raychelle, Olivia, and Ella would have been in the car on their way home. My spirit is shaken with thoughts of those possibilities, but my spirit soars with gratitude for God's lovingkindness that spared our grief, and please believe me, words are really, really inadequate, but their inadequacy has not stopped my effortless giving of thanks.

Just as the explosive BOOM travelled beyond our home to surrounding neighbors, bringing sudden jolt and concern to all of us, I have been symbolically exploded from normal, day-to-day living into a sudden, compulsory journey of soul-moving praise and soul-searching surrender!

We have had some losses. I count them now as nothing.  They are replacable. Just things made out of elements of this unholy earth that God will one day fold like a garment.

What is a carport, a porch, stuff in an attic, insulation, smoke-damaged sofas and chairs and curtains and linens, and water-damaged wood? What are sooty-smelling clothes, quilts, books, lampshades, and carpet? Really, what are they?

What is it to be a little discomforted and inconvenienced?  What is to stand with your family and feel the shock of now and the wonder of tomorrow?  What is it to seek temporary stay?  What is a real home?

And what does it mean to be real and give everything we own to Jesus?  To put into perspective worldy elements that are at one momen material gifts from God and the next moment worthless gifts to Him?  What is annoying about picking up a lace garment so delicately formed, and tediously woven, one of many that was freshly laundered with particular care, but now reeks with toxic fumes and an oily pine scent meant to mask nasty smoke?  

By God's grace alone, his unmerited favor, his worthy, divine intervention for our unworthy, weak, fleshy abilities, everything, all of it, means rejoicing for what is new.  The passing, departing, of one frame of reference to a new point of vision.  A welcomed opportunity for a more certain path of this Christian life that can be obscurely bright - i.e., dim of understanding, yet oh so light with promise.  A possibility of looking behind at less and looking forward to grasp more.  A newer appreciation of God's mercy and grace, which I must have in volumes every moment of every day of my pilgrim life. 

From the perspective of limited loss (things could be much, much, worse), it feels pretty good to be inadequate, and though I'm living in the neighborhood of faith versus reason, my spirit is striving to soar with the uncomplicated truth that not understanding my entire life is absolutely OK.  What freedom there is in that one Biblical truth!

Do I need prayer?  Sure, I do.  Always!  But, please rejoice with me, too, for out of darkness comes light!    What Satan means for our discouragement and demise, God means for our good in Christ.  Hallelujah!  Friends, that is shouting ground! 

Sunday night after Steven, Raychelle, and babies were safe at home and Jeff and I were safe in a hotel, I went to the bathroom to get ready for bed.  For a few moments, the significance of everything rushed in like a flood.  The tears flowed as I thought of God's salvation and our unworthiness of his gift.  To be honest, my immediate reaction to the trauma had been quiet. I was speechless and just did not want to talk.  But the awareness of God's hand could not quench my praise and the knowledge of our near true losses were overwhelming to realize.

Thank God for his deliverance and salvation!  Thank God for his divine intervention!  Thank God for his provision and power!  And thank God for you, and I pray that as you ponder these words, he will move in and through your life with his mighty anointing and the reality of his love and lordship!  So many of you have been through and are going through hardships.  As I write, I am moved by your courage and victory as you face illness, family difficulites, lost loved ones, financial discouragements, depression, fear, death, and on and on. 

Please hear my heart.  God loves you.  And, he is at work to prove what is good and holy and acceptable in your relationship with him.  Jesus reigns!!!  Not just in heaven.  No, Christ reigns in your heart and life!  Within you is his kingdom!

And he hears your heart today.  He Who formed your heart knows the depths of it.  He Who formed your life knows the purpose of it.  The Lord, our omniscient Creator, knows your way.  And if that way is too narrow, or steep, or rocky, or unstable, or dark, or whatever, our God will deliver you and set your free! Beloved, may God bless you and reveal to you now and forever his everlasting love for you.   

"Because of the LORD's great love we are not consumed, for his compassions never fail. They are new every morning; great is your faithfulness" (Lamentations 3:22-23, NIV).

Below are images of God's divine intervention from last Sunday.

GOD HAS A TREE

“God will not permit any troubles to come upon us, unless He has a specific plan by which great blessing can come out of the difficulty.”

Peter MarshallThe soft glow of light came through a single window. Though faintly seen, it gave relief. I was tired and eager for a soft bed, but my heart leaped with excitement to see the gleam of a lamp through the panes. A rush of anticipation seized my thoughts. To walk to the door. To tap on its hard wood. To hear its familiar creak as it widely opened. To see my mother's small frame standing in her tiny kitchen. To hug her neck and see her rejoice as she held her our little sons. To walk in and inhale the purity of a place that alone could feel so safe and smell so unmistakably distinct. To be home.

Through our early years of long distance living, the same scenario played again and again. Jeff and I would plan the day. We would set a leaving time, a particular hour, and anxiously await departure like two wrens perched two minutes from dawn.

It was a joyful time of forward thinking and living! The hope of soon-to-come distilled our loneliness and added life to our lives. Yes, we had our own sweet nest, which we so loved. And our call to the ministry was without regret. The sacrifice of nearness of extended family was ours to make, and we did so willingly, by God's grace, with joy, and in peace.

But how grateful we were for those few moments of the special soothing presence of mothers, grandmothers, brothers, and sisters and others. It was ease and removal of pain for two young lives who had come to know the grief and stress of bearing God's call; for while our baptism of ministry fire had brought new mothers, and brothers, and sisters, it had also brought new knowledge of the ways and means and labor in God's vineyard. That some well-meaning or not so well-meaning people say and do hurtful things.

We soon came to realize that such was part of our sacrifice. That if God so allowed bitter words, He was only using them for a sweet purpose. And that the cross was our only hope for removing the stinging acid that could eat away our souls.

No one enjoys the thought of drinking from Marah. God's chosen people were dismayed and murmured against Moses when a three-day journey in the desert brought them to that bitter place. Thirsty, dry, exhausted, they discovered waters that seemed an oasis but were quickly declared sour. It may have seemed to them a cruel gesture. They must have hastily remembered the sweet waters of the Nile, widely known for its pleasant, smooth taste.

And the Israelites didn't waste a moment. Their complaints about Moses' leadership were vociferous. "'What are we going to drink?' they demanded."

He didn't know. Didn't have a clue. But, Moses turned to God. He realized his helplessness. The wilderness life was new to him, too. And Moses knew the company was too tired to continue. There was no other source. BUT GOD!

In response, in faith, Moses, lifted his voice to the Lord, and God heard him and showed him a piece of wood, a tree. Moses threw the wood into the water, and the molecules of the bitter were altered. It became sweet, drinkable liquid, perfect H2O. And their thirsty, parched bodies were satisfied.

Now, I have to confess to you that I can feel no judgement toward the Israelites when I read Exodus chapter 15. I am not sure I would have responded any other way than they. No, it's not very spiritual, but had I and my family been without water in a vast nomad's land for three days, my patience would have been thin. In my thirst and desperation, I, too, would probably have cried and complained. I can only hope and pray that I would have ultimately lifted my soul to God as my source.

A sermon by Charles Haddon Spurgeon speaks to our need to always realize God as our source. And, within that sermon, his remarks about Marah are so timely for us. He talks about the humanness of the Israelites and their struggle with the flesh, their failure to have faith in Him who had just delivered them from the power of the Red Sea.

Yet, Spurgeon also speaks of our deeper need for grace in trials. For the necessary of sweet in bitter. The voice of wisdom while waiting. The lifted hands of faith in a dry place. The source of hope that turns troubled waters into palatable drink.

We must have a flow of the living liquid of life. We must all spiritually survive. But when bitterness challenges us, when words of others pierce our hearts; when we have financial loss; when there's little money for the doctor and nothing in our bank account for medicine; when we see the tread showing on our tires and our children need new shoes; when God in silence dwells; when drained from ministry; when a sudden shock wave collapses the world around us; it is at these points of testing we most need the cross of Jesus. We must cry to God to show us sweet wood.

As I read the thoughts of Spurgeon about Marah, I found his words so compelling. "As soon as we have a prayer God has a remedy. The remedy is near at hand; but we do not perceive it till it is shown us. 'The Lord showed [Moses] a tree.' The tree had been growing for years on purpose to be used. God has a remedy for all our troubles before they happen to us."

Praise God! Rejoice in those words! They are not just for his 1871 listeners, but they are for you today! God has grown wood for you, dear friend. Its sweetness is there, and your faith, your precious voice lifted to Him in prayer will reveal its place and purpose.

That God would so plan our steps amazes me! We have a heavenly Father who allows our trials and in His omniscience sees our future desert places. In seeing, God plans. Makes our ways of escape. Personally, in forethought, God plans our paths of deliverance. He plants the seeds for our pieces of wood. God, dear ones, crafts our destiny.

It is all set in order. And when our Marah moments come, our desperate disposition leads us to choice. Die from despair, drink the bitter before us, or cry to God with every ounce of energy and faith we have and wait for his tree.

Be encouraged today, dear friends. If a vast, dry desert has led you to Marah, do not give up. Do not despair. Do not give in. God has a tree. He grew it for you. For this time. For His purpose. For your good. Accept it. Place it in your bitter water. Then drink its life. It will heal your soul. Dry your tears. Soothe your weary voice. And make alive your desert place, so your way is perfect.

Quote from C.H. Spurgeon from biblebb.com

Scripture reference in Exodus 15 is from NLT.

My Own Dense Wood

"The Lord GOD is my strength, and He has made my feet like hinds' feet, and makes me walk on my high places."

Habakuk 3:19

I have been reading the Christian classic, Hinds Feet On High Places. If you're not familiar with the story, it is an allegory. It tells a triumphal tale of little Much-Afraid, who must choose to follow her Shepherd to the beautiful High Places or stay among her vile relatives and continue in her cozy little white cottage in the village of Much-Trembling.

Choosing to follow the gentle, loving Shepherd, Much-Afraid agrees to leave the Valley of Humiliation and begin her journey, one which will cause her to develop hinds' feet. Her new feet will cause her to soar in love above voices of fear and dread.

She endures along her way. She even makes it through many treacherous crags with faith and grace given her by the Shepherd. After making it through jagged cliffs, Much-afraid is led by Him to the dark, dense forest of the unknown. She immediately hears icy voices that challenge her faith. One voice, Craven Fear, who wants to be her first love, taunts and teases her, seeks to sow seeds of doubt in her heart. Begs her return to what she knows.

I had just sat down at the computer Sunday evening, having recovered from achy fatigue and a migraine headache that kept me from church that night. His voice summoned me to our den. "My heart is beating so fast." Jeff's voice sounded alarmed, and complaints from him are rare.

"What's going on?" I asked, alarmed at his words. "I don't know," he replied. "My heart just feels like it's beating really fast. I suggested a visit to the ER; my gracious husband stubbornly declined. After a while, Jeff said he felt better, and we ate BLT''s and potato salad.

I am a slow eater. Jeff eats quickly. He seemed relaxed as he watched television while I finished my meal. Suddenly, with distress of spirit, Jeff held his chest and voiced pain. "It feels like my heart is about to burst out of my chest."

I was jolted. I wanted to call 911. He said, "No. no." I told him most firmly that he had to go to the emergency room. He finally obliged. Insisted we drive. So, I dressed. Hurriedly. Grabbed purse. We made haste to the car. Drove as safely as we could to the hospital, thanking God it was only three minutes away.

Post-haste was the nurses response. An EKG was done. From the corner of my right eye, I saw a nurse leave the triage quietly, and perceived her then running response down the hallway as a sure sign something was so wrong.

Dear husband was rolled into a room where an assembly of medical staff awaited to quickly wire him up. They began probing, sticking, and arranging him on a bed.

I sat in a chair beside. Felt my own heart pound. Sensed that tight knot that grips your throat and belly with chill. Watched. Waited. Wondered. Prayed. And prayed. Prayed that inside prayer one and God alone hears, understands. Desperation had made its way to me. Fear took his icy fingers and wrapped them around my knowing soul.

The doctor asked, "Where's the crash cart?" Nurses assured it was near.

Another jolt. This one went deeper. Jabbed. Stuck. Hurt. Felt like a threatened abyss.

"Be strong. Trust. Pray. Believe. Know. Rest. Find your hinds' feet. They are there. Don't cry. Jeff needs you steady." Such words I said to self. Over and over they whirled in my spirit along with fear, pain, hollow, and hope.

I watched those in green and white work their work on he who was to them any unknown afflicted but to me was my one and only. Who takes care of me. Comforts. Cares. Always. Keeps. Prays. Seeks my best. Lends me strength. Causes me courage. Hears my heart. Holds my hand.

I thought about the mutability of life. The abruptness of change. The inability to control. How pain comes out of nowhere and smacks you right in the face and determines to take your life and knock you out.

With placid trust, yet nagging fear I sat, and at once, felt relief when his heart rate slowly drifted down. With its slow ebb, I, too, wafted into guarded peace.

I listened to the doctor's words. Heard his summation. Savored each word to be sure to absorb their meaning and succeed in their recitation to my sons, whom I knew would be soon shaken.

Knowing Jeff was better, now OK, I left to call Steven and Chris, dreading to speak, yet anxious to bear my soul and share my fear.

"We don't know." I tried to sound calm. Did not want my voice to crack. Did not want my heart to wince. "It could be a heart attack. He may have a blockage. They know he has some problems with the electrical circuits of his heart. We'll know more after more tests. I'll call back in a few hours."

You who have experienced that waiting time know its agony. I prayed. Sat. Stirred. Regarded Jeff's stillness. Prayed. Sought. Stirred. Wondered. Watched nurses faces as they moved in and out the room.

Four hours passed. Good news. It was not a heart attack. Yet, it still could be a blockage. Jeff will have further tests next week.

With thankfulness, with comfort, with post-knowledge I rest today. Still concerned, but encouraged as my dear husband now seems himself. He reassures me all will be OK. We will soon find out more about the ventricular tachycardia, the likely culprit of this shivery experience that has left us stunned from its suddenness.

I covet your prayers during this time. I so need hinds' feet that I may skip and soar and be what I most need to be for my precious husband. I so desire, more than life itself, more than any language could express, more than any material blessing I could ever receive, Jeff's health and complete healing.

I appreciate my blogging friends and the strength I know to receive from your prayers. God is faithful. We are in His hands. He will not fail us and cannot forget us. Please remember Jeff. I love you all so very much and know your faith and, even more, know the power of praying women changes lives. Thank you in the dear name of Jesus Christ.