Outside, the snow is heavily falling, and then it’s driving sideways against the house. The wood stove fights a losing battle against the bitter breath of a raging wind forcing its way through cracks we never knew we had. The chill nibbles at my ankles and stiffens my fingers. Not far from the stove and its meager warmth, my youngest son plucks at his banjo strings. I’m seated close to my patient Man About the House as he gently instructs me in a new craft project. Trying to meet his patience with my own, I hear myself saying, “This is a painstakingly detailed project.”
Painstakingly detailed craft projects are the kind from which I run. I’m not sure why I run from them when I eagerly grip teeny artist’s brushes in my paint-stained fingers in order to perfectly edge the corners of my bathroom. I have a penchant for embroiling myself in painstakingly detailed projects, so long as they aren’t considered crafts. Maybe I’ve spent years teaching crafts to children, knowing that I can’t afford to get lost in too many details. Maybe I’m afraid I’ll lose interest before I finish. Maybe I’m reluctant to concentrate on something I think should be entertaining. Maybe I don’t want to clean up the mess when I’ve finally come up for air. Maybe I should stop looking for excuses.
For right now, though, I’m inched up tight to calm, kind and patient himself. The man who never sits still is seated next to me, gently lifting tiny paper pieces with an exacto knife while we laugh at our mistakes and he wonders aloud at his boldness in saying he’d teach me. Let it snow, let it blow, let the fire strive with the cold. Today, I’m all about the details. And days like this don’t happen enough.
I have a confession to make: I rarely make it through the pastor’s sermon application and summation without having the “perfect” closing hymn come to mind. Certainly, there could be many hymns that fit the bill, and the one I think of is not usually the one we sing. But that’s not the point.
The point is that my pick for today’s closing hymn actually came before the sermon. It’s been floating around my head the last couple days. In fact, I caught myself drifting to it during the sermon more than once and had to reign in my thoughts so as not to miss anything my pastor was saying. Today, he was helping us understand Moses’ pleading with God in Exodus 33:12-17, pleading with God to go with him. It’s all about knowing God and being known by God. His conclusion was that in God’s presence, in knowing and being known, because of Jesus’ work on our behalf, there is rest and there is joy. All of a sudden, I was right back in the middle of that hymn, the hymn whose words have been floating through my head for the last couple days. We sang a different hymn to close the service, but that’s okay. I love the one we sang just as much, and another day I’m sure it will be the one I can’t get out of my head. But for today, Jesus, I am resting, resting, in the joy of what Thou art.
Jesus! I am resting, resting In the joy of what Thou art; I am finding out the greatness Of Thy loving heart. Thou hast bid me gaze upon Thee, And Thy beauty fills my soul, For, by Thy transforming power, Thou hast made me whole.
Jesus! I am resting, resting In the joy of what Thou art; I am finding out the greatness Of Thy loving heart.
Oh, how great Thy loving kindness, Vaster, broader than the sea: Oh, how marvelous Thy goodness, Lavished all on me! Yes, I rest in Thee, Beloved, Know what wealth of grace is Thine, Know Thy certainty of promise, And have made it mine.
Simply trusting Thee, Lord Jesus, I behold Thee as Thou art, And Thy love, so pure, so changeless, Satisfies my heart, Satisfies its deepest longings, Meets, supplies its every need, Compasseth me round with blessings, Thine is love indeed.
Ever lift Thy face upon me, As I work and wait for Thee; Resting ’neath Thy smile, Lord Jesus, Earth’s dark shadows flee. Brightness of my Father’s glory, Sunshine of my Father’s face, Keep me ever trusting, resting, Fill me with Thy grace.
“Sing, O barren one, who did not bear; break forth into singing and cry aloud, you who have not been in labor!” Isaiah 54:1a
Ten days into the new year I can’t shake the promise stalking me since New Year’s Eve. It lurks at every corner, appears with every bend of thought. As sinister as that sounds, it is more like the security of a strong presence on a dark street at night, or the warmth of an embrace when waking from a bad dream.
That’s exactly what Isaiah 54 was meant to be to the people of Israel–comfort after a time of desolation. The people were bereft, abandoned, scattered, grieving and shaken. Yet suddenly they are being told to sing. To sing in spite of their sad state. How does a barren and desolate woman sing? The answer follows in a promise, the promise of blessing and a relationship with God.
“For the children of the desolate one will be more than the children of her who is married,” says the LORD. (Isaiah 54:1b)
“For you will spread abroad to the right and to the left, and your offspring will possess the nations and will people the desolate cities.” (vs. 3)
“Fear not, for you will not be ashamed; be not confounded, for you will not be disgraced; for you will forget the shame of your youth…
For your maker is your husband…
and the Holy One of Israel is your Redeemer…
For the LORD has called you like a wife deserted and grieved in spirit…
with everlasting love I will have compassion on you,” says the LORD, your Redeemer. (Isaiah 54:4-8)
Such tender, soothing words from a loving maker continue:
“O afflicted one, storm-tossed and not comforted, behold, I will set your stones in antimony, and lay your foundations with sapphires.” (vs. 11)
“In righteousness you shall be established; you shall be far from oppression, for you shall not fear; and from terror, for it shall not come near you.” (vs. 14)
Oppression is far away, because fear is removed. How is this even possible? How can one so oppressed, afraid and grief-stricken believe that good, beyond imagining, can happen? That answer is found before the promise of such abundant blessing, in Isaiah 53.
“He was despised and rejected by men; a man of sorrow, and acquainted with grief […] He was despised and we esteemed Him not. Surely He has borne our griefs and carried our sorrows; yet we esteemed Him stricken, smitten by God and afflicted. But He was pierced for our transgressions; He was crushed for our iniquities; upon Him was the chastisement that brought us peace, and with His wounds we are healed. All we like sheep have gone astray; we have turned–every one–to his own way; and the LORD has laid on Him the iniquity of us all.” (Isaiah 53:3-6).
He (Jesus) was oppressed, and He was afflicted, led like a lamb to slaughter. (Isaiah 53:7) He knew greater grief than I will ever know, but because of HIS grief, I have the assurance that MY grief will not last forever. The promise of restoration and blessing and a glorious future are mine.
As I look back on the last year and the loss of family members to the ravages of cancer, the new diagnoses of cancer in close friends, see accidents and illness taking their brutal toll, and think of the mothers I know whose arms are now empty, I feel the weight of so much grief. But I know the One who bore those griefs on His own beaten and bloody back, who was stricken, crushed, and pierced to bring me peace. My sins and sorrows were heaped on Him and the anguish of His soul is where satisfaction is made. Because Jesus Christ bore my sorrows first, I am not crushed beneath the weight of sin and grief. I can do as Isaiah said in chapter 54 and break forth into singing! This grief is passing, but the promised reward is everlasting. It’s a reward that will wipe sorrow and despair from memory.
I am embraced and secure and comforted, and it stirs a song way down deep that can’t help but be sung.
“Fear not, for you will not be ashamed; be not confounded, for you will not be disgraced; for you will forget the shame of your youth, and the reproach of your widowhood you will remember no more.” Isaiah 54:4
“Sing, O barren one, who did not bear;
break forth into singing and cry aloud,
you who have not been in labor!
For the children of desolate one will be more
than the children of her who is married,” says the Lord. Isaiah 54:1
December a few years past was a tough one for me. I struggled each day to keep my thoughts from dragging me down into a pit of despair. It was a moment by moment battle to fix my mind on things above, the truths that are unchanging, and take them off my pitiable self. Since that is so much more easily said than done, I needed help. I couldn’t allow any negative thought to fully form or it would carry me away. I had to keep returning to the rock that is higher than I (Psalm 61:1-3). Music was a balm, though not all music was helpful. My Exalted Worship album (hymns interspersed with Scripture and prayers) was well-played that month. Sometimes I would just reach over and turn on the radio, hoping to get outside my head with some Christmas music. But I was mostly disappointed and aggravated by the Christmas music played on the radio. What were silver bells and red-nosed reindeer, Christmas lights and rockin’ around Christmas trees to me at such a time?
I longed for Christmas songs with depth and meaning. Songs that reminded hurting people like me that Christ brought hope and healing and suffered my anguish to replace it with joy. Joy that would be my strength. He brought joy! Not just a happiness for the moment, but a resounding heart’s-cry that God is good when all around me is not, when life is a battleground or people fail me. I was tired of hearing more about the superficiality of the season than the deep, abiding truth that Christ came to bring life to dead souls, to pull me from the pit I could not climb out of on my own.
Then one evening as I stood at my sink, a new song came on the radio. It was the first time I heard Third Day’s song “Children of God”. I turned to my kids and said, “THIS is Christmas!” This made me sing. This made me dance. What glorious truth is contained in these words:
Praise to the Father of our Lord Jesus Christ Our God and our King, to Him we will sing In His great mercy, He has given us life Now we can be called the children of God
Great is the Love that the Father has given us He has delivered us He has delivered us
Children of God, sing your song and rejoice For the love that He has given us all Children of God, by the blood of His Son We have been redeemed and we can be called Children of God Children of God
A mystery is revealed to the universe The Father above has proven His love Now we are free from the judgment that we deserve And so we are called the children of God
We are the saints We are the children We’ve been redeemed We’ve been forgiven We are the sons and daughters of our God
“In His great mercy, He has given us life!” “The Father above has proven His love!” I am a saint. I’m a child. I’m redeemed and forgiven! I have a reason to celebrate, regardless of what anyone else says or does. And I can rejoice in Christmas, with or without silver bells and presents under the tree. Christmas runs so much deeper than traditions and tinsel. The hard in life doesn’t disappear because the calendar says it’s the holiday season. I need the knowledge of a solid foundation, an immoveable rock, a fortress in a storm. I need the sweet, gentle hand of mercy, lifting my load, raising my weary head, and helping me to my feet.
That was a dark and difficult December, one I won’t forget. To worship was to live. To exalt Christ was breath. To exalt myself was death.
If you are struggling this Christmas, wishing you had the picture-perfect family gathering, or maybe just someone to love you, a life with fewer worries or a bit less drama, I encourage you to stop those thoughts dead. Recite Scripture verses and sing praises. Remind yourself of who God is and forget about who you wish you were or think others are. Sometimes prayers are hard to come by, though we know we should be praying; but songs are there for the repeating. Sing a song of life to your soul, a song full of the truth of God’s great character, abiding love, deep compassion, mercy and forgiveness, of His strength and power and gentle, Fatherly touch. This is Christmas! These truths. Christmas is not the time of year or the traditions. It’s hope in the heartache, dancing in the dark Decembers. Not because of ourselves or anyone around us, but because God makes us His children, and there is no safer place to be than in the arms of the Father.
We think Thanksgiving comes before Christmas. But the truth is it’s the other way around. Christ came to our darkness with His wonderful light and brought life to our souls. When our hearts see the truth, we can’t help but give thanks. Life breeds worship and to worship is to live.
Gone are the days of filling my washing machine by way of 150 feet or more of hose. One hundred and fifty feet of hose stretched out to the old well under the windmill. No automatic shut-off, no temp or volume control.
Gone are the days of becoming distracted while waiting for the machine to fill, only to be called back by the realization that water is silently spilling over to create a lake on my kitchen floor.
Gone are the days of setting a timer to prevent such spillage due to distraction – the days of such distraction that I completely miss the timer.
Gone are the days of moving my washing machine every few days or more to sop up my mess. No one could possibly compete with me for the cleanest laundry room floor, because no one else does this, do they?
I’m reminded of those days as I kneel behind the washer now to clean up the accumulated mess of years. I don’t actually know when the machine was last moved. I’m sure it’s been at least a couple years now since I’ve battled the bulk of it to fit behind. I sometimes look at it and feel a pang of guilty neglect while leaving the unpleasant task for yet another day.
Here I am now, on my knees sweeping up mouse droppings and chasing the whole dust bunny family, needing elbow grease to get to the bottom of the accumulated crud. All this leaves me plenty of time to reflect on the blessing of an overflowing washing machine. I like clean, but sometimes (obviously) I need an outside motivator to make it happen.
Many of those days felt so unproductive. Every attempt to clean up a mess simply created another. Though I was always busy, I often wondered if I’d accomplished anything by the end of the day. But I think a greater work was being accomplished than what I had planned into my day. A work not done by me but in me. It was here in this corner on my knees that the hard work of giving thanks in all circumstances was practiced and the heart of gratitude produced.
I am thankful for that overflowing washer yet content to never again be champion of the cleanest-laundry-closet-floor-competition. Thankful, in fact, to not even be in the running. Who, after all, would move the washer every few days just to scrub underneath it? Not me. This much I have proven since necessity quit calling. I am thankful, too, for the gift of grace that taught joy in the midst of the laundry lint and excess water.
The days of long hoses snaking through to the washer, the days of creating lakes on the kitchen floor, the days of dirt-free laundry closets may well be gone. But the lessons live on.
I’ve lived in this house for 12 and 3/4 years. I’ve never had a mouse in my pantry. Ever. I catch a couple every fall in the closet by the dog food bin or under the kitchen sink. The last few years, I’ve seen almost none. I did a battle or two with shrew during that time, but never in the kitchen. Things have changed around here quite dramatically as of late, and not for the better. The mice have found their way in. It isn’t pretty.
During my recent two week absence, the whole country mouse village has come to market in my pantry cupboard. And they have left their mark. In-the-shell pistachios seem to be a favorite, judging by the hole in the bag and the stash of empty shells filling my oatmeal bin. I don’t want to know how they got the lid off of that one. Some things just shouldn’t even be imagined. Pistachio shells are strewn across shelves, as are the inevitable droppings left by well-fed critters of the night. Chocolate footprints are smeared across dry goods containers and half-eaten cracker packages are left for unsuspecting lunch-packers. No, there’s nothing pretty about it.
I empty the pantry shelves, throw away the remnants of mouse market nights, place an already contaminated bag of pistachios on each shelf, and strategically place traps along the trail of leavings. The mice have obviously been coming through the uncovered electrical outlet (pistachio wedged between box and wall serves as exhibit A). I go to bed and hope for full traps in the morning. Awake in the night, I inwardly raise a triumphant cheer at the sound of mouse clattering and chattering. These critters are silent and stealthy unless trapped. Imagine my rejoicing this morning on discovering two full traps, bringing the count to 3 mice who will no longer feed in my storehouse. But as I was still basking in the glory of my victory, a friend sent me this heart-tugging video:
I sniff. And then giggle. I have only two thoughts: Good thing I don’t keep cheese in my pantry, and I’m so glad I use sticky traps!
I am not cruel. I let mice live in the out-of-doors, happy to find them in a cats paw now and then, I admit. But after 12 and 3/4 years, I’m a bit set in my ways. I’d like my pantry to belong to me, to reach in for some rice or nuts without fear they’ve been nabbed out from under me. I refuse to let mice carry on in my oatmeal. I’m determined to reverse this change-for-the-worse, and bring back the pretty to my pantry.
He is 16 years old, stooping to enter my chicken coop.
Ready and willing to help.
I have nothing to offer him but a wheelbarrow full of chicken poop, which he removes from my presence in seconds. I feel relief and gratitude and yet some guilt (or maybe embarrassment) letting him lighten my load. I’m ready to refuse help so he doesn’t have to see how ugly it is, this thing I work at night and day. It isn’t the first time he’s helped with chicken chores alongside my boys. The last time was more of a chicken housing project, but it also involved large amounts of disgusting chicken poop. I think, “It’s just bad luck that he’s always here to help when the job is so messy.” Then I realize that it’s never not messy. There isn’t a task connected to these chickens, a time that I do anything for them, that I don’t wear calf-high rubber boots and silicone coated gloves.
Let’s face it, chickens poop a LOT. They are smelly and gross. At least when a hundred of them get together, and especially when the sky is pouring buckets of rain for days on end. The coop always needs shoveling. The water buckets are untouchable. The feeders get covered in slime. The smell is overpowering. If I wait for a less messy moment to accept the offered help, I will be doing it all myself…all the time. I’ll get a little lonely, and I’ll get a little tired.
How like my life. I most need help when it gets the messiest. When the air around turns foul; when my feet are stuck in the muck; when I can’t shovel fast enough and the clamoring won’t stop until I get ahead, then I need the helping hands and another back to keep me from exhaustion. It’s also when I’m most likely to avoid asking, lest someone see just how ugly this life is. Come back to my coop on a day when the air is fresh. Ask me if you can lend a hand when I have something better to offer you than a load of chicken poop. When the walls are whitewashed and the feeders polished and the grass grown nicely over the fertilizer – then I will invite you to walk beside me to my next task. Which is really no work at all, and you can stand idly by and make small-talk while I pretend it is always this picture perfect.
I guess that day might never come around. And if it did, I wouldn’t need help.
But while I wait for it to get that neat and tidy, I’ll get a little lonely, and I’ll get a little tired.
It’s time to admit that I have nothing to offer but a wheelbarrow full of poop and thank you for your willingness to brave the stench while lightening my load.
Time to open the door and let someone stoop to enter. Ready and willing to help.
How does one weave together the bits of our story lines, the threads of our daily lives to create a fluid narrative, a gorgeous tapestry? There are threads that appear loose, maybe just in need of tying together, binding up or intersecting with a few more lives to understand the pattern as a whole. Some threads appear wholly disconnected or out of place. Until eternity we will never see clearly, but we must try to see even dimly or we lose hope that we are ever more than just frayed edges.
Here a few threads intersect, held together by one main thread in one great guiding hand.
It was my birthday, 2012. I sat in church with my oldest, college-age son, listening to his pastor. He told us that God created all things for the purpose of bringing glory to Himself, in order that all creation might see His power and goodness. I have a distinct memory of the pastor saying that there are no maverick molecules in the entire universe, but that each one is ordained by God and under His control. I’ve checked the transcript and listened to the sermon again and do not hear him say that, though I found it other places. Memory lines blur and fuse at times. At any rate, the words were meant for me, an almost immediate sustaining grace.
My eleven year old had been suffering from headaches that week, though he perked up a bit for the weekend, making our birthday visit with the oldest possible. The headaches continued to worsen until 10 days later we found ourselves in an emergency room being prepared for the realities of brain surgery. My son had an epidural abscess and mastoiditis with ear infection. To put it simply, he had a bacterial infection inside his skull, a portion of his skull bone and his ear. The only way to drain an abscess from a fully enclosed space is to create an opening from which it can escape.
The surgery was delayed till the morning, though a wonderful ENT put a tube in my son’s ear immediately to begin the draining process. In the meantime, he was admitted to the ICU and a wonderful team of highly qualified doctors began attempting to unravel the mysteries of the universe, based on their knowledge of bacterial characteristics and habits. By God’s good healing hand, the impossible occurred, and the abscess did not need a drain hole opened in order to disappear. It took time, but the the healing began almost immediately, joyfully surprising everyone. Doctors asked every question they could think of to track down the source and explanation of an infection that appeared to have begun in the skull, which had never been injured, allowing bacteria to enter. This should not be. All I could say is that there are no maverick molecules in the universe. I do not know the how or why, but I know the One who does.
One day, in the ICU, after being downgraded from Intensive Care status, a brand new team of doctors and students swept through the door of our room. The resident was asking many of the same questions that had been asked and answered several times already, but they needed to know the answers. Some questions, however, were meant simply to put the patient at ease. Questions like, “How many brothers and sisters do you have? Are they all at home? What college does your brother go to?” When the last question was asked and answered and the doctors satisfied with their observations, the group moved to leave, all but one lovely student, who stopped to ask if we went to her church. She recognized the name of my son’s college and thought we might be connected to the church, the one we had just visited on my birthday. We’ve found a common thread, possibly one less frayed edge.
A mere five days after being admitted to the hospital, we were heading home, having seen the same lovely med student a time or two more. We’d been trained and sent home with specific and detailed instructions for our son’s care, assigned a support team, and loaded down with medicines to aid his healing process, a process we were told could still be long and exhausting. Those were prophetic words, as my son was admitted two more times and spent nearly a month in the hospital. So many lives were woven together, intersecting for a time then woven into others’ lives, as wonderful, caring, dedicated, and compassionate people became involved in my son’s care. A hospital room is a revolving door of caregivers, exhausting the patient and loved ones with repeating the details, remembering names, building trust all over again.
That’s when God sent us an agent of His mercy, our own dear medical student from the first visit, full of compassion, for the duration of our stay. Each time we arrived back, she was there in a heartbeat, with her concerned look and embracing smile, teasingly chastising my son for being a difficult patient, saying, “Why do you have to be difficult? We don’t want you here. I mean, we LOVE you, but we don’t want to see you HERE. Maybe we could meet somewhere else sometime.” Every day she came to our room, for that’s what it became, our room. My husband and I were residents with my son, though our suffering was only the emotional agony of watching his physical suffering. Yet here was God’s agent, bringing her smile, her medical knowledge, her compassionate heart, her firsthand knowledge of the medical team’s thinking as doctors still struggled to solve mysteries and help heal without hurting. We had one tangible constant, for it seemed she never rested or missed a day.
Today, our own lovely and dear med student graduates. She was granted a residency in pediatrics without having to leave our city. These are her words from an e-mail she sent this week, “during my interviews, I got to talk about how my interaction with [your son] and the rest of [your family … ] played a significant role in my decision to go into pediatrics. And so, thank you all, […] for being a big and unexpected part of this journey. I can only imagine how difficult that time was on your end, but I’m also so grateful to God that He saw fit to orchestrate that, and to sustain you through it.” He did sustain us, using a single, random medical student, who wasn’t random at all, but strategically placed for our good as an agent of His mercy. There are no maverick molecules in the universe. I can’t solve all the mysteries, but the Hand of God weaves every last thread, pulling in the fraying edges and holding them tightly till the last stitch is made and the whole beautiful tapestry is seen clearly in all it’s glory. His glory.
Eta & Stephen the day before his final release from the hospital
We bid farewell to the coldness and indifference of a spiritual winter when the Lord creates a spring within. – Charles Spurgeon
The darkness creeps in almost before I have a chance to notice I’m missing the sun. SPLAT………. SPLAT. A fat raindrop smacks hard against the windshield, followed several seconds later by another, exploding like water balloons on pavement with each hit. SPLAT……….SPLAT…………SPLAT….SPLAT. The hard staccato comes more rapidly. There is no driving wind, no slant at all to the rain beginning to fall in sheets, just the silent, strong pull of gravity.
I practice efficiency at its best, perfectly timing the door opening and the trunk popping to avoid any delay, attempting to remain dry while getting myself and eight bags of groceries indoors in the downpour. It’s a purposeless battle, really, because I never win, and yet I always try. Another time, with less on my agenda, I might stay and soak it all in. A good rain shower never bothers me, and spring downpours are some of my favorites. Today, however, I am sensible and dash for the door. I have responsibilities, the memory of my optimist’s to-do list staring me in the face.
Now I stand at my sink, washing tomatoes, surveying the greening of the countryside, evidence of new life emerging. Strawberry-rhubarb cake is in the oven, turkey and wild rice soup simmers on the stove, and hymns exuberantly emanate from the music player under my kitchen cabinet while a hundred tiny chicks cheep softly from my entry. A scratch in the cd sends the song on a constant loop of the same verse and chorus, “Heir of salvation, purchase of God … Praising my Savior all the day long.” I’m pulsing together a new fresh salsa recipe, my first batch in the blender, ready in mere minutes. I’m the queen of my kitchen, in my element, a happy homemaker.
My day isn’t clouded by gloomy skies, punctuated by oaths of frustration, splatting on the heart-surface of those who dare to be caught in my storm. I have no driving wind of fury in my compulsion to achieve. Instead, my day is a day of joyful, vibrant living. By His Spirit, spring is in my heart.
Heir of salvation, purchase of God, Born of His Spirit, washed in His blood. This is my story, this is my song, Praising my Savior all the day long. (Fanny Crosby, 1873)
For 6 years I lived in a house where water ran in short supply. Some days a single flush of the toilet would drain the well dry. Circumstances like that tend to create a hyper-sensitivity to water’s source, supply, and squandering.
When I arrived in Jordan last month, I watched the vegetation grow scarce as I ascended up out of the Jordan River valley. I saw virtually no signs of water during the hours I journeyed south to the town of Petra. By the time I arrived, it was impossible for me to flush the toilet without wondering where the water would come from to refill the tank. I welcomed a shower, but reverted to my old water-saving habits. I wanted to know where the water came from in a place that averages 4-6 inches of rainfall per year.
Then I stood on top of Mount Nebo, opposite Jericho, where the Lord showed Moses all the promised land before Moses died. Overcast skies prevented me from seeing all that Moses saw, but my limited view showed me inhospitable desert land. My thoughts went straight to water. The people of Israel wandered in that wilderness. The people complained because there was no water.
“The people grumbled at Moses, saying ‘What shall we drink?'” (Exodus 15:24). “But the people thirsted there for water; and they grumbled against Moses” (Exodus 17:3a).
Looking toward Jericho from Mt. Nebo
On it went as they wandered. I looked, and I related. I do not know that I would have done better than they. They who tasted God’s provision day after day. They who saw His power in so many miraculous signs, the power of a God who patiently waited for them to trust Him to meet each need. Every day he gave them food. Every time they thirsted, He provided them water to drink.
Then I think about Jesus telling a Samaritan woman at a well, where she had come to draw water, that “whoever drinks of the water that I will give him will never be thirsty again. The water that I will give him will become in him a spring of water welling up to eternal life.” (John 4:14). She immediately wanted the water He offered. And when she ran to tell others about the one she’d met and what he’d said she left her jar of water sitting by the well, never giving it a thought. Can you imagine a promise like that to people living in a thirsty land? To never thirst again? Unthinkable. And so desirable.
God’s people spent 40 years wandering in the wilderness, learning to desire One greater than a drink of water and trust Him fully. God wanted the people to see that He, Himself, was the stream of living water, quenching all their thirst, meeting all their needs. I have lived where there is no water, and have learned that there is One more desirable. One who meets my every true need, the very needs of my soul. I have drunk the living water and have found His promise true. May I never thirst again for water that doesn’t satisfy.
