There are a number of things in my life right now that are frustrating me.
Things that are up in the air.
Things that are confused or damaged.
Things where I just can't find the words to know what to say.
Things where every response seems equally bad.
I'm thinking about mountains and coastlines. About waves and islands and standing on walls. I'm thinking about energy and exhaustion. About roses. About eyes that see and ears that hear, and hearts that understand. About relationships and loneliness, and the things that underscore the loneliness. About the longing for family, and a place to call home. About how different my life is today than what I would have predicted a year ago. About definitions of joy and hope and peace. About Isaac (whose name means laughter) laying bound on an altar, trusting his father, who was also trusting, that a ram would be provided. About Hannah, weeping in deep anguish, crying bitterly, in such distress that she was accused of being drunk. About waiting for her prayer to be answered, and then offering the answer to that prayer back to the Lord for his service. About the line of scripture that speaks of weeping that endures for a night and joy coming in the morning. I'm thinking about the morning not so very long ago when I woke suddenly, startled by some unheard voice, and the words that rolled instinctually from my lips, were those of Hannah's son, "Speak Lord, your servant is listening."
My heart is restless.
I lay with Isaac and wait for the ram.
I weep with Hannah, and wait for morning, crying bitterly.
And I say again with Samuel, "Speak Lord, your servant is listening."
And I pray for the process of birthing. For a birth that is smooth, and happens quickly, and is filled with health.
Things that are up in the air.
Things that are confused or damaged.
Things where I just can't find the words to know what to say.
Things where every response seems equally bad.
I'm thinking about mountains and coastlines. About waves and islands and standing on walls. I'm thinking about energy and exhaustion. About roses. About eyes that see and ears that hear, and hearts that understand. About relationships and loneliness, and the things that underscore the loneliness. About the longing for family, and a place to call home. About how different my life is today than what I would have predicted a year ago. About definitions of joy and hope and peace. About Isaac (whose name means laughter) laying bound on an altar, trusting his father, who was also trusting, that a ram would be provided. About Hannah, weeping in deep anguish, crying bitterly, in such distress that she was accused of being drunk. About waiting for her prayer to be answered, and then offering the answer to that prayer back to the Lord for his service. About the line of scripture that speaks of weeping that endures for a night and joy coming in the morning. I'm thinking about the morning not so very long ago when I woke suddenly, startled by some unheard voice, and the words that rolled instinctually from my lips, were those of Hannah's son, "Speak Lord, your servant is listening."
My heart is restless.
I lay with Isaac and wait for the ram.
I weep with Hannah, and wait for morning, crying bitterly.
And I say again with Samuel, "Speak Lord, your servant is listening."
And I pray for the process of birthing. For a birth that is smooth, and happens quickly, and is filled with health.
When a woman gives birth, she has a hard time, there's no getting around it. But when the baby is born, there is joy in the birth. This new life in the world wipes out memory of the pain. The sadness you have right now is similar to that pain, but the coming joy is also similar. When I see you again, you'll be full of joy, and it will be a joy no one can rob from you. You'll no longer be so full of questions. (John 16:21-23, The Message)
1 comments:
Remembering the joy of the last shared (but early) morning in St. John's and the sign of the cross, marked with tears. You are such a joy to me. Hanna Isaac Samuel...you are indeed his servant, and you are listening well. i.h.s.
s.
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