Pilgrimage

19 May 2011

Sometimes our journeys bring us round again, to vistas familiar. Our vantage new, scenes before us recognized, and the heart remembers what it felt the first time it saw.

The higher ridge means haze and thin air; soul must rest frequent, and monitor constant to live up here, listening for song in the wind, keeping simple in the extremes.

And the low valley means suspenseful quiet, taut senses; and soul must hush pounding heartbeat to listen for whispers of hope.

One day we wake, and realize our surroundings: makeshift shelters, impossible panoramas, unfamiliar territory. We’re in a caravan, and we forgot. I’m a pilgrim, and I must remember.

Because the wilderness is wide, wild, brutal. And the oasis can suffocate and mislead. There is no location impervious to danger, because internal hazards outweigh external threats.

Sheer awe, the overwhelmed soul, and despair’s haunting companionship bring us silent, gaping, cognizant of our relative size in this vastness. We are vulnerable. We are small. We are undone.

But we are not alone. I am not alone.

And we will not be utterly forsaken, because God has committed Himself to us, because He chose to, because we belong to Him.

The only good thing about being a sheep in this wilderness, is having a Good Shepherd. Many leaders call for our adherence, but only God is good.

He is God, and I am not.

And He is good, and I am safe.

What is your only comfort in life and in death? That I am not my own, But belong body and soul, in life and death, To my faithful Saviour, Jesus Christ. -Heidelberg Catechism

Beauty will Rise

Trees burst open their joys, spraying the ground with seed and blossom and stickies. Virgin greens peek shy from sombre brown boughs. Soon they will dance and flutter and clap in the summer winds, fully alive. But now they wake slow, and it is beautiful.

The incremental advent of Spring touches all of life, heart and soul and mind come alive again, and dream of a beautiful life still unexplored. This is the beauty of resurrection.

We can’t believe it: life from death is unbelievable. Perhaps that is why Christ stayed forty days after He rose; so we could see and know and question and ponder, and let the awe work transformation in our soul.

And we own Him as Lord and God, as Thomas did, when we see Him and know He is real, and He is good.

He lifts the veil, the dank and dark and frozen shell of winter, and melts us into spring. And this is the power of resurrection.

He renews the face of the earth, and revives the soul—in the moment, for the moment, through the moment. He pours forth life all the time, in every way, despite every horror and sorrow, a strength beyond us. And this is the wonder of resurrection.

So, wake our hearts, Lord, to see and feel and know You, and dance in the light of Your life song!

Travels of a mother heart

She walked a long road to get here, from basketball court and university track, through wolf-infested north cattle country, into hog shed and school bus driver’s seat, finally to a 900-foot bunk house. Here, her hands made house into home, cultivating garden and field, punching and caressing dough. Here, her womb swelled three times, with kicking, squirmy, thumb-sucking daughters. And she carried us gently.

Her first girl journeyed far too. She too, was 25 when he found her. And twice, her tummy has ballooned, two giggly, soprano daughters of her own. And she holds them just like she was held.

And we love better and feel deeper and fight braver and reach further because we stand on Dad’s wide shoulders, steadied by Mum’s long arms.

She embraced the mantle of motherhood, adding substance and weight, strength and beauty, with her life. And now, we pick it up with joy. It is heavy. And it is beautiful.

She plays with us, and encourages us to be imaginative; and we play with others.

She shows us how to work, and we learn to labour in things that matter.

She nourishes us, and we feed others.

She loves loyal and fierce, and we learn to love and hope better.

She lives, and teaches our hearts to live.

And this is the angst, and joy, of motherhood.

George MacDonalad Musings

But all things shall be ours! Up, heart, and sing.
All things were made for us---we are God's heirs---


Moon, sun, and wildest comets that do trail


A crowd of small worlds for a swiftness-tail!



Up from thy depths in me, my child-heart bring!


The child alone inherits anything;


God's little children---all things are theirs!

~Diary of an old soul, May 4th

Tales of the Times

It’s a tale of the times, of the un-common era, of the Anno Domini people.

We who now make history feel engulfed by the repercussions of yesterday’s follies and the deluge of tomorrow’s passage. The sea will be in turmoil our entire voyage. The weight threatens to crush life right out of this existence. And the only thing that will save us is the paradox of True Life, the weight of glory.

Paradox expounds its mystery and interprets ours: Eternity enters our time, now our time is His.

And in the swelling questions, the cultural currents, the raucous winds, the people of Domini cling to His Paradox, the reality of I AM in time. We hear the song of the resurrection, above, within, through the fatal tempest—life through death, life conquers death.

And where should we be? Where He is, because where I AM is, there is life. We will find Him in praise, because He occupies the praise spaces of His people. Every moment, every wave, every raindrop, where Christ Jesus is delighted in as Lord, is worship.

His dominion makes sense of our time, and enables us to live in the year of our LORD.

So, teach us to number our days, that we may gain a heart of wisdom.