This blog is designed to create community for believers and provide support for seekers. I encourage all readers to share their faith in an effort to lift and encourage one another.
Frost has kissed the forest. Dead leaves flutter from the trees, making Autumn’s golden snowfall litter the stream. My feet crunch through the leafy debris as the trees lift barren branches skyward.
It’s silent here. No cars roar. No people chatter. High in the treetops the wind blows, roaring past leafless branches. All around me seems dead, lifeless. Yet, the forest lives. I hear rustling in the leaves; small animals run from this human invading their territory. I stop at the stream, listening to the water rushing over the rocks. It soothes my soul. I imagine the roots of the brown grass and the barren trees delving deep into the soil. Even though the plants appear dead, their roots draw nourishment from the soil.
So it is with my soul. Sometimes it feels brown and lifeless. I struggle from an unresponsive spirit and lack of enthusiasm. I go to a still place. As the wind rushes through the trees, God’s voice rushes through my soul, giving me peace. I listen. I learn. I allow the roots of my soul to draw up spiritual nourishment. I rejoice, waiting for the green blush of spring to sprout in my soul.
Thank you Father, for the many ways you renew my soul.
“Weeping may remain for a night, but rejoicing comes in the morning.” (Psalm 30:5b NIV)
The stream meanders, making its way through fallen leaves, gray, broken branches, and rich, fertile earth. My feet crunch the dried leaves as I approach the stream. Bending and twisting, it flows around rocks and under the narrow walking bridge. Algae flourishes just beneath its green water.
I find a large, flat rock and sit to enjoy the stream’s beauty. From my vantage point, I can observe its meandering path. As it flows from one bend to another, the lazy waters move silently.
As I scan the length of the stream, I notice how the water changes when it hits an obstacle: a rock, a fallen tree limb, or a constricted pathway. The smooth flow changes. The water roils, bubbling up out of its bed, falling back again, foamy and white.
The stream flows quietly until it hits those obstacles. Then the stream finds its voice: a musical, joyful gurgling sound. Where the path is free and easy, the water flows silently. It’s only when obstacles lie in its path that the water sings.
How often I find myself complaining instead of singing when difficulties snag my way.
Lord, when the way proves tough, give me a song to sing.
Isaiah 49:13 “Shout for joy, O heavens; rejoice, O earth, burst into song, O mountains! For the LORD comforts his people and will have compassion on his afflicted ones.”
Today I venture off the usual broad path through the mowed natural grasslands. I wander onto the narrow, curving paths that transport me into a tree filled shadow land, cool and welcoming. I marvel at the quiet calm, broken only by the sound of my footsteps and intermittent bird calls. The shadows provide a welcome respite from the late afternoon sun.
As we trekked down a steep incline, Susan caught her foot on one of the tree roots and fell forward, screaming “James!” At the bottom of the incline, James calmly turned. Her toe stayed captured by the tree root, and her body stretched parallel to the ground, her foot at the top of the incline and her upper body shoulder high to James, who caught her from below. She escaped injury because James held her safely in his arms.
Over the years Scott and I have often laughed over this incident. Although Susan’s tripping could have injured her, all turned out well because of James; he safely caught her, preventing harm.
Continuing my woodland walk, I focus on the roots beneath my feet. The tree roots I see on my path represent only a small portion of the roots filling the ground below me. Throughout this woodland the roots grow underground, only occasionally surfacing along my path, only occasionally visible to my eyes.
As I travel through these twisting woodland paths, I carefully watch where I place my feet, as tree roots crisscross my way. While absorbing the beauty around me I remain aware of the roots below, surfacing on the trail.
I remember another time, another path, other tree roots. It was prom night. My boyfriend (now my husband) and I went to prom with two other couples, both good friends. After prom we walked in the woods, enjoying the pre-dawn scenery and longing to watch the sunrise together. My friend Susan walked in front of me and her boyfriend James walked in front of her.
A passage of scripture runs through my mind, over and over: “The eternal God is your refuge, and underneath are the everlasting arms” (Deuteronomy 33:27). Just as the roots create a vast network in the ground below me, so my Father’s arms stretch beneath me, ready to catch me when I fall, ready to support me when I falter.
Even when I cannot see His arms, they provide comfort and strength. To feel that strength and comfort, I only need to call out His name. Just as my friend James caught Susan in his arms, so God will catch me. I may stumble, but He will catch me and protect me.
Recently, at my high school reunion, I learned that Susan had died earlier that year. Even though we had not kept in touch, I mourn the loss of a dear friend. But I am comforted by two images: James catching her on that walk in the woods and our heavenly Father catching her in his everlasting arms. Never again will she fall. Never again will she need to call out for help, for she rests in our Father’s arms.
Those everlasting arms long to hold us, too. As we navigate this treacherous life, He calls to us, “Come find joy in my presence, come rest in my everlasting arms. Come, rest in Me and know peace.”
Do you remember how the Pharisees tested Jesus by asking Him which was the greatest commandment in the law? You know, the one where He passed the test with this reply: “Love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your mind. And the second is like it: ‘Love your neighbor as yourself’” (Matt. 22:37-39 NIV).
As I’ve been meditating on these verses, I realize Jesus spent much of His ministry showing us who our neighbors are and showing us and how to love them.
In Jesus’ time on earth, people believed illnesses occurred because of sin, either the person’s or his parents. Still, Jesus healed people from all kinds of maladies. Many were blind, crippled, deaf, or paralyzed. Some were even untouchable lepers. Yet He healed them; He had compassion for them all. Even though they were sick and unclean, Jesus loved His neighbors.
He taught about the good Samaritan, the man who stopped to help another who’d been robbed and beaten. Other Jewish men had chosen to ignore him and walk on the other side of the road, but the foreigner, the Samaritan, stopped to help. Even though the Jews hated him, the Samaritan loved his neighbor.
When with his disciples, Jesus walked through Samaria rather than skirting around it as others did, for they wanted nothing to do with the detested Samarian people. In Samaria, Jesus stopped to talk with the woman at the well, a Samaritan who had had five husbands and currently lived with a man she hadn’t married.
Jesus looked past a hated Samaritan living in sin and saw a woman who needed a Savior. Jesus loved His neighbor.
He talked Zacchaeus, a cheating, hated tax collector, out of that tree. He went into his home, ate with him, and talked with him. No respectful man would even have even thought of doing this, but Jesus loved the cheater.
Jesus even had a despised tax collector as one of his 12 apostles and Mary Magdalen, a former prostitute, as part of his larger group of followers.
The Pharisees criticized him for eating and drinking with sinners. They didn’t look below the surface, didn’t take a deeper look. They didn’t see individual people. They saw groups of people: impure Samaritans, sin-filled diseased people, cheating tax collectors, and immoral women, nothing more.
But Jesus took a deeper look. He looked with holy eyes, deep into their souls. He saw unique individuals created in His Father’s image. He saw beloved neighbors, and He loved them, with words and deeds.
I have always viewed myself as caring and compassionate toward others. But when I look again at the scriptures, when I look again at His loving actions, I hang my head in shame.
Yes, there have been times I have stereotyped people rather than seeing individuals created and loved by God. I have seen and judged their sin, not the beloved neighbor. And I realize I’ve sinned.
I ask for forgiveness. I seek His wisdom so I can view others through Jesus’ eyes. I long to learn how to love them.
What about you? Are you ready to take a deeper look?
Television reveals the horrors: smoking ruins, shattered lives, loved ones lost, distraught survivors. Voices drone: retaliation, anthrax, fears of hijacking and destruction. Bombs drop, troops search for terrorists. There are wars and rumors of wars.
Walking in the woods, all this recedes. Nature’s orchestra plays a peaceful melody, directed by an unseen hand. The wind plays the treetops—a loud crescendo diminishing to a still, quiet voice. The locusts’ song harmonizes, and the calling jays and cardinals trill an occasional solo. Periodically, a reminder of nearby civilization echoes above the symphony: the drone of an airplane, the muffled roar of nearby traffic, the distant bark of a dog, and laughter of children playing. I follow the path to a stream cutting a gully through the woodlands. A wooden bridge spans 15 to 20 feet from one bank to another. I sit on the bridge and gaze at the muddy water flowing eight feet below. A man and his two young sons walk across. The bridge vibrates as they walk, their footsteps hollow on its wooden planks: the only reminder that I am not alone.
The yellowing leaves fall, fluttering to their autumn repose. I watch one slowly descend until it lands in the brown water, creating rapidly expanding ripples. The leaf drifts in the lazy stream, turning this way and that, wondering where this new journey will lead. Watching from above, I spy danger ahead, but the leaf floats on, oblivious of its future, stopping occasionally to explore a sand bar or a branch snaking out of the brown waterway. Now, the leaf is caught in the eddying swirls of the narrow stream, spinning, lost and confused. “Hold on little leaf,” I want to say, “still waters lie ahead.” So nature reminds me of the constant ebb and flow, the cycle of life. In autumn everything dies and winter lies ahead, stark and bare. Gray skies and bare landscapes shiver in the cold. Once, we were like the leaf, green and glorious in the top of the tree, part of a beautiful symphony of song. Now, our greenness lost, we are torn from the tree of our security and have fallen into unknown waters. We know not where the currents will take us. We know not what lies ahead—calm, peaceful waters, or dangerous currents and eddying whirlpools. From above, one can see the path of the current. So we must be borne along by the current of our times, knowing we are watched from above. The leaf falls and winter comes, but spring always follows winter—the stark landscape replaced by the green blush of spring and the riot of bright flowers joyfully glad to be alive. Rest and be at peace as you travel on your journey, little leaf. Be secure in the knowledge that you are watched from above.
The voices of gloom and terror clamor all around us, but the voice of God speaks to us in nature, in the leaves falling silently in autumn and in new life bursting forth in the spring. Be not afraid. “Be still and know that I am God” (Psalm 46:10 NKJ). Let that still, small voice speak to your heart and give you peace.
Oh God, when troubles threaten to overwhelm me, help me remember you are always with me and will never forsake me.
Deuteronomy 31:6 “Be strong and courageous. Do not be afraid or terrified because of them, for the LORD your God goes with you; he will never leave you nor forsake you.”
As I vacuum the carpet, the motion and humming of the machine soothes me. Hungrily, it picks up dirt and debris from the floor. The bits of torn paper and the little clumps of dirt are whisked away by its wind. With nothing on my mind but the cleaning, I ponder the hidden dirt the vacuum inhales. Deep within my carpet’s fibers lay bits of unseen dirt. Even though I cannot see these specks, the vacuum pulls them out of my rug. By the time I finish, the carpet looks clean; it even looks newer through its transforming cleaning.
Now my rug is clean and the room looks beautiful. I’m glad I’ll never have to vacuum again. What? You tell me I will have to vacuum again?
Isn’t this the way God cleanses our souls? Sometimes we have surface dirt others can see—the pieces of paper, garden soil tracked in on our shoes. But what about the tiny specks of dirt and soil deep within the soul?
I don’t know about you, but I know there is dirt deep within my soul. Unkind words spoken, lack of trust in my Savior, slowness to love and respect those who think differently from me. What a mess! Fortunately, God is willing to cleanse all the grime. When I confess those sins dirtying my soul, He cleanses it, again and again. Thank you, God, for loving me just as I am, for cleaning my messes, and transforming my soul.
Oh God, much dirt has been tracked in on my soul. Help me to plug in your spiritual vacuum for cleansing.
If we confess our sins, He is faithful and just to forgive us our sins and to cleanse us from all unrighteousness. I John 1:9 NKJ
After many years of participating in tap classes, I’m still loving them. For me, everything about the experience is positive. I meet new friends, get some exercise, and challenge myself to learn something new. At times, I must admit, I find my head spinning with so many new steps and terms: shuffle, flap, buffalo, brush, dig, riff, and many more. And then, when I add the arms, which are doing something entirely different from my feet, it’s like patting my head and rubbing my tummy at the same time. Whew! The mental work is more difficult than the physical. For me, it then becomes necessary to stop and think for a moment in order to learn a new series of steps or add arms. Once those brain connections are made, I can let my brain remind my muscles what to do and I can dance. Even though I’m sometimes frustrated when I struggle to learn a new combination of steps, I’m so glad I chose to take tap classes and challenge myself both physically and intellectually.
While I’m enjoying the challenges from my tap classes, I’m wondering about challenging myself in another area of life. What do I consciously do to challenge myself spiritually? Sometimes I’m so busy with life and getting physically and intellectually fit that I neglect my spiritual fitness. Just as with other types of fitness, I must challenge myself spiritually and not be content with the status quo. Just remembering past times of spiritual growth isn’t enough. I must look for ways to continually stretch my spirit by learning new steps: A new Bible study here, more quiet time there, a different viewpoint to ponder, and a challenging sermon. All these and more can stretch my spirit to learn new steps and new combinations of steps so my spirit can tap in time with my Creator. Once the brain connections are made, I’ve hidden His word in my heart and can allow God to be my life’s choreographer, guiding my every step.
Father God, help me to be more diligent in my spiritual growth than I am with physical and intellectual growth. Keep my spirit tapping Lord, keep it tapping.
As I walked the nature trails, I wandered off the beaten path. Large toadstools nestled under a grove of blue spruce trees attracted my attention.
Pushing aside branches, I walked fifteen feet, entering a small clearing. The ground, carpeted with years of accumulated needles, felt soft beneath my feet. A chorus of crickets broke the silence. In the distance a woodpecker drilled, searching for insects. Inside my clearing, all was shadow, quiet and still; it became a sanctuary that soothed my soul. A smattering of bright red sumac leaves provided stained-glass windows. I sat on this carpet, gazing at the beauty all around me, and I felt the presence of God. Strains of “This Is Holy Ground” ran through my head.
Looking out an opening between the horizontal branches, I observed the golden radiance of the late afternoon sun. Outside my sanctuary, the seed heads of the natural prairie grasses glowed transparently in the sun’s light, creating a stunning contrast to the shadowy grove. I had to capture the breath-taking scene on film. When I put the camera to my eye, I focused on the branches in the foreground. They seemed large and dark, like horizontal prison bars, and the golden glow of the grasses in the background was barely noticeable. I refocused the camera. Then the tall, dried grass, shot through with light, became the focus of my picture; the branches in the foreground almost disappeared.
As I took my picture, I thought: how often do I focus on the branches in front of me that impede my spiritual way, and thus fail to see God’s light just beyond? How often do I become discouraged over minor problems instead of focusing my thoughts on the brilliance of God’s majesty or the comforting glow of his love? It’s all a matter of focus.
Remembering the lesson of the camera’s focus enables me to thank God in all situations, even during a pandemic, and focus on His spiritual light shining beyond my earthly troubles.
Father let my eyes see beyond the earthly; let me steadfastly watch your spiritual light. May I always focus on the wonders you have created, on the wonder of you.
The nature trails near my city home meander through the woods. Beneath overarching branches of walnut, cottonwood, ash, and others, I walk in shade, the leafy canopy protecting me from the summer’s heat. Here I enjoy temperatures ten degrees cooler than the sunnier pathways.
As I walk, I listen for broken twigs, alerting me to look for deer. On this day, though, I heard a different sound, one I hadn’t heard before. At first, I couldn’t place it, but then reality dawned: raindrops pattered on the leaves. The summer shower was light and the leafy canopy caught all the rain. I didn’t feel a single drop. The green canopy over my head protected me from both heat and rain.
While I walked, listening to the pattering rain, I thought about God’s protection. He doesn’t always remove the storms, but like a leafy canopy, he deflects the heat of life’s difficult moments and shelters us from life’s storms. Just as I choose to walk in the shade on hot days, I have choices for my life’s path. I can seek God’s refuge when life gets hot or stormy, or I can walk in the open, on my own.
As we struggle with life’s difficulties, whether unemployment, fear of rioting or unequal treatment, health struggles and disease, or marital discord, we have choices. We can walk alone on unprotected paths, or we can choose to walk on the shady path, sheltered by God’s loving protection.
Which path will you choose?
O Lord, keep me walking on your path; keep me trusting in your protection.
“You have been a refuge for the poor, a refuge for the needy in his distress, a shelter from the storm and a shade from the heat.” Isaiah 25:4 (NIV)
In the sermon snippets, I’ll share words of wisdom from a sermon of my pastor’s.
“But the wisdom that comes from heaven is first of all pure; then peace-loving, considerate, submissive, full of mercy and good fruit, impartial and sincere.” James 3:17 (NIV)
Here are a few take-aways from my pastor’s sermon over James 3:17.
“Wisdom from heaven is…full of mercy and good fruit.” If you want to know what you are full of, wait until the next crisis comes. What squeezes out under the pressure? The crisis squeezes out your “fruit juice.” Is it good fruit?
Out of the overflow of the heart, the mouth speaks. If we want mercy to squeeze out, we must connect with God’s grace long before the crisis. Make deep, intentional decisions about what you want to fill your heart with, about what you want to squeeze out in the crisis.
I’d love to hear some take-aways from a sermon you’ve recently heard. Please feel free to share what you’ve learned in the comments.
Growing Our Faith Together 