A glimpse of Hinds' Feet on High Places

My bones hurt.  I consider it a blessed anxiety, actually.  The pain puts me on edge, but it’s a trembling built upon rightful things.  The gamut of emotions kicked in on Sunday when my husband and I decided to discontinue a particular music role with church.  While I feel quite certain it’s the right thing to do, the decision to depart was arduous and sentimental.  On Monday, we felt accomplished in another way to finally enroll at a nearby gym, but the first day’s leg lunges put my thighs in knots.  At first I thought the excruciating pain made me sad, but later I realized more accurately the pain made me mad because I’d finally been gung-ho with the gym idea, and in one day’s time I was nearly paralyzed in pain.  On Tuesday, a new music rehearsal brought some internal fidgeting, testing my composure to wait and observe when ordinarily I would’ve already dived in.  On Wednesday, I determined that a portion of my strain was due to an added role associated with prayer near a local abortion center, yet a deep breath and a skyward glance did refresh me for the task.  As each event fell into the week, I prayed.  My physical pain intensified, as also heaping into the mix was the immense joy of seeing a friend translate a first chapter of my bus book into Spanish.  And that idea of translation, coupled with a wonderful event associated with this blog, opened some new and exciting doors of conversation with family and friends.  Joy wanted to explode through my bones, yet my body ached to know how that could happen.  I awoke yesterday to the thought of Hinds’ Feet on High Places.  It’s a story based on Habakkuk 3, illustrating how the Lord takes us across the thresholds of fear and anxiety and frees us to climb the slopes toward an almost intoxicatingly joyful view of life.  It’s like Malachi 3, where the Lord throws open the floodgates of heaven to pour blessing so huge that we can't contain it.  Indeed my frail frame this week has felt the weight of merely a glimpse of that enormous blessing He offers through His son Jesus Christ.

A plea from within HEB

Money was tight.  Chemo and radiation had cost thousands upon thousands already.  She’d endured all shapes and sizes of medical procedures.  Now that she was somewhat recuperated, my friend had been applying for jobs, but to no avail.  This particular day called for a trip to the local HEB grocery store.  Whether contemplating chicken or hamburger, or choosing between sliced bread and tortillas, my friend debated the purchase of each item.  Pressure mounted, as she knew her shopping list usually tallied $200, though her purse held $40 less this time.  It was the culmination of all kinds of anxiety.  Finally she pleaded, “Lord, You know how much money I have.  I’ll grab what I think I need, and if it’s too much at the cash register, I’ll just return some.”  So she pushed her basket up and down the aisles, pulling from the shelves what she thought best and looking for the Lord’s peace in the process.  The cashier’s conveyor belt fed each item toward the scanner.  Total = $160 exactly!  I can still see the thrill in her eyes from when she retold the story last weekend.  In her weariness, she had called upon the Lord.  He’d been with her through all the physical agony, and He was with her still now.  For this child whom He loves dearly, and for her husband, her daughters, and her mom, His light shined brightly. 

La Taza

Our last hope had been the coffeehouse on McCullough, and now it’s closed.  We had the proverbial Y in the road—musically, that is.  I wanted to veer right, my husband wanted to go left, and the McCullough coffeehouse had been our single remaining common ground, ever since the guy at the guitar shop mentioned it.  And now that it’s closed, what to do?  Proverbs 3 says to lean not on my own understanding.  Though I had specifically prayed this last year, I didn’t fret now about the why of it all, nor did I feel hurried to fill a void.  Interestingly last Saturday, a new thought came to mind.  What about La Taza?  A friend mentioned their coffee, and in turn I wondered if they hosted music.  One phone call and one short drive later, we stepped foot into the fun La Taza world of mocha, jigsaw puzzles, Scrabble, and conversation.  Music was our connector.  Actually I could see how our year-long wait on the coffeehouse idea had built an eagerness in me to set the phone call in motion and pull some song charts together quickly.  No second-guessing at this point.  La Taza was quaint and laid-back, and we loved it.  It’s easy to start wondering now about what the Lord might have in store for this new venue, but then again, I don’t want to jump too far ahead.  I stayed up late last weekend reliving the blessings at La Taza.

God, my banker

Have you ever sensed God speaking to you through someone else?  This week I was inspired through the voice of a particular man.  From the moment I met him, I felt blessed.  We had talked probably 5 minutes, and suddenly he threw in a zinger.  “Let God be your banker,” he uttered.  I had mentioned nothing to him about the dollar signs dancing in my head.  Ideas about books, and music, and coffeehouses, and questions of how financially they could all work together had felt cluttered in my brain.  This man’s words zeroed right in to quell any worry.  In a sort of teaching mode while he spoke, his forefinger pointed in the air and then at me, so I was sure to hear.  And what set the whole stage for me to keenly listen was his earlier comment on planting seeds and watering them and scattering stones.  At first I thought of 1 Corinthians 3, but the part about scattering stones I had recently read in Ecclesiastes.  Interestingly I had taught on those exact verses a couple of Sundays ago, so my attention was certainly drawn, as if looking up to find myself sitting in the Lord’s classroom with Him personally teaching me in the moment.  Simply I had entered the doors of the hospital that day, unaware of how the Lord would connect me in conversation.  Forever He is weaving His goodness amongst and within.

Boldly from a wheelchair

“Does anybody have praises to tell about?”  The lady at my table smiled to tell the whole room, “It’s Wednesday, and I’m happy to come to church!”  Refreshingly, and very simply, she was right.  Her gentle voice matched a unique contentment in her eyes, both seeming to reach far beyond the circumstances of her wheelchair.  And her words had given me reason to pause.  This week has been different.  Kind of quiet, in fact.  A phone call to a friend with Crohn’s disease set me in a pensive mode.  A phone call to a friend dealing with dialysis set me pensive again.  Prior to those calls, I had sat with a friend at an infusion center downtown, my eyes being opened for a closer look at the processes of blood replacement and liver transplantation.  Each moment held its own reason to ponder and be thankful, and I loved the availability the Lord had given me to serve—waiting for my friend and being so glad for her to regain some energy, entertaining the little boy at the clinic who loved to eat Skittles while waiting for his grandpa, talking with the lady making a cross-stitch bib while waiting for her son, and overall being thankful for the many who donate blood in order for all these to receive.  All in all, life has appeared more fragile lately.  I look forward to some friends coming for dinner on Saturday, realizing they too have dealt with fragility in the form of cancer.  It’s a Psalm 46:10 week.  I can sit still and know God.  As my table-mate reminded me last night . . . it’s Thursday, and I’m happy to have come to know the Lord!

The book of Job + $1.10

In San Antonio, $1.10 buys a seat on the bus.  Yesterday I wanted to meet my husband close to where he works across town, and then we’d drive together to church.  I paid my $1.10 on the 648, chose a seat near the front, and began reading the book of Job.  Poor Job is having a hard time, and actually that’s a huge understatement because Satan is afflicting him intensely.  I’m reading where Job is losing his livestock, his servants, and his family, and suddenly I hear a man’s voice and look up to acknowledge him taking the seat behind me.  He had recognized my Bible’s columnar pages and smiled to say he enjoyed reading too.  Genesis was the book that really made him think, he said.  He elaborated a bit, and all the while he spoke, my heart was leaping to realize this was no ordinary bus ride.  I was sitting in the midst of the Lord at work.  He was transforming the ordinary into the extraordinary.  As an orchestra conductor might cue the clarinets alongside the violas, the Lord had cued my new neighbor and me to meet on the bus that afternoon.  Only the Lord’s orchestra is exponentially more vast.  He brought joy into the hearts of 2 people who until recently had lived in distant parts of the world.  Yet never is the Lord far from His children, nor is a day with Him ever humdrum.  Especially in those occasions like Job’s when the afflictions of Satan excruciate, we find peace in knowing the Lord is near.

Rubbing elbows in the trenches

“You’re Everywhere”—it’s one of my favorite songs.  YouTube hosts several Third Day renditions, in case you’d like to listen. The lyrics correlate with what happened this past weekend.  We sat in our living room with friends, taking turns telling stories of God.  Conversation ran deep from the start, as our friends had been enduring the throes of death and how it can change the landscape of a family's personality.  It was tearful and gut-wrenching, yet joyous at the same time.  It seemed the deeper the pit, the sweeter was the Lord’s deliverance.  My husband told the story of how the Lord one morning washed away his deep, deep anger.  I told of the multitude of blessings the Lord bestowed when I lost a job.  In the midst of physical ailment that sent me to the doctor and a wounded pride that didn’t let me sleep at night, the Lord let me know His presence, even blessing me all the way through to my daughter, whose college scholarships we saw Him increase to compensate for my lack of a job.  Little did we know that our stories in the living room on Saturday would become part of our friend’s sermon on Sunday.  Midway on his drive to San Antonio, he had realized he’d forgotten his preaching notes.  Now the Lord was using our stories to fill some gaps for his sermon.  It was two for one—a two-fer, you might say.  Storytelling wasn’t simply storytelling.  The song lyrics say, “My God, You are everywhere from the lowest depths to the heavens.”  According to 1 Corinthians 3:9, we are God’s fellow workers.  When He’s not carrying us, He's working alongside, rubbing elbows with us in the trenches. 

Guitar crossover

I’ve been resisting it.  Learning guitar hasn’t been my idea of fun lately.  I am fully aware that enormous blessings have come my way through things I didn’t choose myself, yet somehow I’ve resisted.  Yesterday was good, though.  I dived in with chords G, C, and D.  Thought I’d try them on “Lord, I Lift Your Name on High,” thinking maybe a familiar tune with lots of voices would prevail over my inexperienced hands straining across the strings.  And actually it was fun.  A refreshing memory came to mind as well.  My husband and I used to study with a friend who would bring his guitar to start our Friday evenings with a few songs.  Each Friday, he invariably fumbled some chords, and I loved it.  His fingers hit crosswise, and I always smiled in my heart and maybe on my face too.  The fumbled chords brought a reality to our worship.  Real life has fumbled chords, so to say.  We hit rough spots and need to bounce back.  Just as our friend double-checked his chord chart to replay, we regain our footing with the Lord and step back on track.  Yesterday, sitting on the couch with the guitar on my knee, this memory did lighten the task and bring joy to this new endeavor.  My crossovers from oboe to piano and then piano to voice have stretched me indeed, and sometimes I haven’t understood how it would all work together, but it did.  May the Lord continue to overpower my selfish heart and give joy for the new road. 

An earful of blessing

Listening can be good.  Listening, rather than always talking, that is.  It takes me out of the driver’s seat, presenting opportunity to see into the life of another, offering the reminder that little ol’ me isn’t really at the center of things.  This week I visited 2 friends in the hospital—one who awaits a liver transplant, and another who’s enduring kidney transplant complications.  They’ve both dealt with all kinds of hardships and excruciating pain, yet to hear them talk, it’s their love of the Lord at the forefront.  Seeing Him in their gentle, gracious ways inspires me and has caused me to sit and ponder a number of things.  Not too long ago, I was inspired through another friend as well.  I’d been praying for him to find a job, but somehow we had never talked about houses or apartments or anything.  I had no idea he lived at the Salvation Army shelter.  I’d never heard him complain about living arrangements, and indeed how I admired his mindset to press on and look forward.  In my neighborhood, I've found a wonderful joy in the form of a German shepherd down the street.  Hearing him bark and seeing him wag his tail to greet his master sets my heart afloat.  It takes a few seconds to slow down, listen, and watch this dog, but his utter joy is contagious.  James 1 says we should all be quick to listen and slow to speak.  Some say that’s why the Lord gave us 2 ears and only 1 mouth.  May we seek Him for how to listen today—with the neighbor who's lonely, perhaps with the aunt who so readily criticizes or the guy in the office with the insanely crazy clothes, yet certainly still affording ourselves time to listen for the voice of the Lord himself.  Whether two minutes or twenty or more, blessing lies within.

The wandering man at the festival

` I saw a man from within the crowd.  He walked alone.  He walked in circles sometimes.  Both days, he frequented our corner of the Hills Alive festival, which was held in Rapid City’s downtown park.  He looked at the ground mostly, not connecting verbally with anyone, though he did pause occasionally to watch children.  Given the 90-degree heat, I wanted to offer him a drink of cold water, yet an occasion with a photographer caused me to wait.  In pursuit of photographing a girl, the photographer crossed paths with the man, who seemed to not understand the camera.  He peered up into the lens, almost touching it with his nose.  Something about his reaction to the photographer made me hesitate to approach him with any water.  Perhaps my approach would confuse or scare him.  Later the crowd grew denser, and where the man went I don’t know, but I thought about him many times.  The whole festival was a wonderful time of music and testimony.  For the organizers to offer free admission is quite remarkable, realizing other festivals charge $100+.  It was entirely fun to see a friend from San Antonio hosting a booth there.  And I smile to remember a lady at a different booth who noted my use of the word “y’all,” reminding me all over again that Toto and I weren’t in Texas anymore.  Yet still today, I think of the wandering man.  The Lord connected me with him for a reason.  Praying for him was another highlight of the festival.  Without knowing his name or any details of his life, I am privileged still now to ask the Lord to protect him and provide for his needs.  May he know Jesus as his Savior.