Lessons in Timing from the Garden

I’m pretty certain it was Pa who sparked my interest in gardening. On every visit to the home he shared with Grandma, I’d venture into their backyard, eyes wide on my little face and heart thumping in anticipation of what I might discover. Delicate ferns and fuchsias grew in the shade of trees so lush that I forgot I was in suburbia. In the centre of the yard stood an enormous grapefruit tree with a koala and kookaburra (fashioned from mesh and concrete) perched in its arching branches.  I’d ride brightly-painted tricycles up and down the path, watch budgies swoop and chatter happily in their aviary and help pick strawberries to eat with Grandma’s cheesecakes. From Pa I learned to relish life in the garden.

My youthful wonder led naturally to a grown-up dream of creating my own outdoor haven. Through the years I’ve gathered trees, fragrant roses, climbers, shrubs and herbs then pressed each one into rich, damp soil, dreaming of the beauty yet to unfold. Faithfully I’ve watered, weeded and watched for signs of growth. Oh, how I’ve watched! Many, many times my husband or children have been pulled outside to endure listening to me ooh and ah over each little progression in my plants, each tiny step towards my dream. Beautiful gardens take time to grow, I know, and rather than try to hurry the process, I’ve chosen to enjoy it.

It shouldn’t have surprised me that God chose to use a garden analogy to teach me an important life lesson – one that has lingered with me ever since.

It was one of those mornings where I was taking extra time just to be still with Him, to get past the everyday cycle of pray-read-journal. I sat on my bed, quietly waiting, a sense of weariness weighing heavy on me. There were challenges our family was facing, answers we needed – about purpose, employment and friendships – and the seeming lack of breakthrough was testing my endurance.

In the silence that morning, the word ‘watch’ came to mind. I was reminded of God’s promise to watch over His people. Concordance in hand, I flicked to Psalm 121. When I read verse 3 the words leapt straight from the page to my heart.

“He will not let your foot slip –

He who watches over you will not slumber;

Indeed, He who watches over Israel will neither slumber nor sleep . . .” (Psalm 121:3-4)

With fresh hope I copied the words into my journal. God was not sleeping on the job! He knew our needs.

I moved on to Psalm 145 and read,

“The Lord is near to all who call on Him,

To all who call on Him in truth.

He fulfils the desires of those who fear Him;

He hears their cry and saves them.

The Lord watches over all who love Him. . .” (Psalm 145: 18-20a, emphasis mine)

I sensed my Father speaking to my heart, bringing gracious encouragement and startling clarity.

Daughter, My watching is not from afar – it is close.

Close enough not only to know your struggles and your desires but close enough to intervene. I am well able to fulfil your desires and work out My purposes.

But often it is all about timing.

The fruit of My work in your life, just like the abundance of a harvest, is all dependent on things happening at the right time.

What good is an abundance of rain when it’s time to reap?

Or long, hot days when the plants are tiny, fragile shoots?

I know just what is needed – when – for your life to be fruitful, as I have promised.

Peace settled over my heart and mind. God has abundant provision prepared for us. It just isn’t the right time for it to be poured out – yet. He is watching over us the way I watch over my plants, delighting in every sign of growth, and He knows exactly what is needed – when – for us to flourish.

A few days after this revelation I realised my new herb seedlings had been scorched by the searing summer sun. They died before they had a chance to mature. All that remained in their pots were shriveled brown stalks.

I was disappointed my plants died. They had too much sun, too soon.

But I nodded as I was reminded of God’s promise.

The next week, billowing rain clouds darkened the sun and sent drenching arrows shooting diagonally to earth. A newly potted hydrangea, one of a pair, copped the full force of the downpour. Its pot became so water-logged that its roots began to rot. Within days the leaves shrivelled and dropped. The other plant, which was sheltered from the rain, continues to thrive.

Once again, I saw the object lesson. It’s just like you said, God.

Plants need sun. They need rain. But the time at which they are provided can make the difference between life and death.

Many things are vital for us to live the full lives God has promised. But they’re only able to help us if they’re supplied at the right time. So often we try to hurry the process, thinking we need them now.

But we are not the Master gardener.

Only He sees the whole process clearly. And when the time is right, He’ll open His hand and pour out all He has promised. When that happens – in His timing – we’ll be ready to soak up every drop He provides . . . and flourish.

 

Purpose in the Pain

My struggle that morning caught me by surprise. It was the same staff prayer meeting I went to each Tuesday. Normally I relished listening to one of my colleagues speak then joining a small group to pray. But on that particular day, captive in the front row – the only seating left when I arrived – I felt terribly conspicuous. At any moment, I was certain, I would burst into tears.

My eyes welled and I blinked the tears away. My nose began to run and I blew it as quietly as I could. I shuffled in my seat and fiddled with my handkerchief, trying to contain the emotions welling inside me. A friend as close as family was speaking that morning so I avoided his perceptive gaze. But I couldn’t drag my eyes from the image he’d projected on the screen before me.

It was an ECG printout – a series of sharp upward and downward spikes that reveals the rhythm of a human heartbeat. My friend was comparing it to our time on earth. “This is life,” he declared, pointing to the sharp peaks and deep troughs sitting juxtaposed across the screen. “Real life has its highs and lows for all of us. But this . . .” He pointed to the flat line which trailed at the end of the reading – the indicator that the heart had stopped beating. “This is not life – this place where we try to make our world so stable and comfortable that nothing really happens.”

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I swallowed, nodding my agreement. Despite the heartache which at that moment felt overwhelming, I wanted to embrace life, not meaningless predictability. The thought of saying goodbye to all our dear friends and everything familiar in a matter of weeks loomed as one of the lowest points my heart had ever faced. Yet deep inside me burned a quiet certainty – there was purpose in this valley.

I managed to restrain my emotions that morning till after the talk was over then let a few tears leak out in the safety of some friends. They smiled and sympathised and rubbed my back, all the while pouring out sincere prayers for our family. And so I was given the strength to smile and march bravely through another day.

Ever since that morning I’ve been pondering this topsy-turvy world I entered when I first surrendered to God. His principles often don’t seem to make sense yet they offer unexpected blessings. He speaks of laying down our life and being given a new one. Losing then gaining. Humbling ourselves and being lifted up. Giving generously and seeing our own needs met. Being insulted and receiving the affirmation of heaven. Every loss is met with a gain that not only brings renewal but goes far beyond what was sacrificed – so typical of God’s generous heart.

So what is the purpose of the giving up, the letting go? If He’s only going to provide what we lost why does He ask us to lay it down in the first place?

Because it’s in the laying down, the dying that we are transformed.

It’s when we loosen our grip on all we consider ours that we realise afresh how blessed we are, that everything we have is a precious gift from our Father, to be embraced with thanks. We’re reminded that apart from Him we can do nothing and of how utterly we need to rely on Him to live this zigzagging, up-and-down life.

From the very beginning of this moving process, God has been speaking to me about the new things He’s going to do in our lives, the new people and experiences and opportunities ahead. But right now, it’s hard to see beyond the losses confronting us.

I’m reminded of Jesus, who laid down His everything for us, enduring suffering beyond compare as He died, rejected even by His beloved Father. He didn’t want to go to the cross. He asked for release from that ordeal, sweating drops of blood in the intensity of His agony. Yet He yielded. Because He knew there was something beyond the suffering. Hebrews 12:2 tells us it was for the joy set before Him that He endured the cross. Jesus made it through because He had His eyes on the prize that lay beyond the grave. Beyond. That’s a good place to fix my eyes.

For me right now, the prize is still a little unclear. It’s hard, really hard, to hope when you can’t see much of the detail in the beyond. Daily I ask God for reassurance.  Where will we live? Who will be our friends? How on earth can anything be as rich as the life and relationships we’ve enjoyed here?

His response, every time? Trust Me.

Trust isn’t grown at the high points of life. It’s formed in the valleys – the times when the darkness is intense and we’re not sure we can endure much more. Being reminded of this helps me accept that this time in the trough is necessary. But I also choose to believe God’s promise – it won’t last forever. There is more beyond this. More life. More people. More everything we’re being asked to lay down. Different . . . but still good – because it comes from His hand.

And when He lifts me up from this valley, I’m trusting I’ll be different to who I was when this descent began. More thankful, more dependent and eager for all that He has in store.

 

Careful What you Listen to

Have you ever noticed how subtly negative thoughts weave their way into your thinking? So silently, those sneaky, snaky strings of words take up residence in our minds, challenging our hopes and trying to reverse every positive attitude we hold. Sometimes there’s an element of truth in what they say; sometimes they’re outright lies. Either way, we often allow them to settle into our thought patterns, unwittingly giving permission for them to influence our lives.

Sometimes we’ve lived with those poisonous little phrases for so long we don’t even realise they’re there, dictating so many of our choices – until someone points them out.

That’s what happened to me last Sunday. I was sitting in bed, propped up on soft pillows, musing over Jesus’ words in John 15, “Remain in Me and I will remain in you . . . apart from Me you can do nothing.”(1) How well I know it! The enormous changes our family is going through, with all its uncertainties, has each of us starkly aware of our need to stay connected to Jesus – like a tender branch gaining strength from the sturdy vine.

But that’s not the only transition happening in my world right now.

After more than eight years, I’m making final touches to my book manuscript, ready to submit it to publishers. Within a couple of years, the long-dreamed-of book could be in print, (God willing) bringing perspective and hope to people who struggle with anorexia – and their loved ones. Publishing a book raises your profile and brings new opportunities to speak with people. You’d think this would be a time of great excitement and anticipation. Instead, I’ve found myself becoming reflective, quiet and a little overwhelmed by the thought of all that attention.

Why, you ask. That’s where last weekend’s revelation comes in.

On that cosy Sunday morning, tucked up in bed, my attention was drawn to these words of Jesus: “If a man remains in Me and I in him, he will bear much fruit; apart from Me you can do nothing.” (2)

I’ve read those words lots of times. They make perfect sense. If a branch remains connected to the vine – and it’s a strong, lush, nourishing vine – of course that branch will bear good fruit, much fruit. I’ve always agreed with that principle. But until that morning I’d never stopped to imagine what ‘much fruit’ might look like in a person’s life, particularly my own. I was okay with the thought of bearing some fruit; but much fruit? Wasn’t that a bit, well . . . much?

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Photo by Luiz M. Santos on Pexels.com

In the same passage in John I read that when people bear much fruit, they bring glory to the Father. (3) Not to themselves, but to the Father. Suddenly God had my attention. A sense of wonder washed over me as I filled a page of my journal with quickly flowing revelations. Out of His great love, the Master surgeon was uncovering an oppressive pattern of thinking that had bound me up since childhood: “You can shine; just don’t shine too brightly.”

In my earliest years I had boundless confidence. The doted-on ‘baby’ of three girls, I followed my whims and said or did whatever popped into my head. It didn’t take too long to discover it wasn’t such a popular thing to be so sure of oneself. Names like ‘show off’ were fired my way, quickly teaching me it was better to shrink back and be quiet than stand out from the crowd.

More recently God has been calling me out of that self-conscious place into the peace and rest that comes when I put my confidence in Him. Jeremiah 17:7-8 is a favourite passage. Again and again, in my quiet times and through others, God has told me to ‘Arise and shine.’ Fear and intimidation have roared, Don’t be a show off! No one wants to hear what you have to say. Many times I’ve chosen to push through the fear barrier and follow God’s lead any way. But always there’s been a sense of restraint – a feeling I shouldn’t let things go too far, shouldn’t shine too brightly.

Last Sunday I realised just how much those fearful thoughts were holding me back.

I read on. Jesus told His followers He had chosen them and appointed them for a special task – bearing fruit(4). That task has also been given to us who love Him today. It’s Jesus’ desire and purpose for us to bear fruit – and plenty of it. If I want to walk in His plan for my life, I need to be willing to do that.

It really doesn’t matter what others think of me – or even what I think.

In truth, it’s all about Him.

I did a lot of praying that morning – forgiving the people who put me down in the past, rejecting those fearful thought patterns and tuning in to what God had to say. Lately I’ve been sensing He wants to lead me further out of my comfort zone than I’ve ever been before. On that particular day He asked me to throw off any limits I’d put on my life. And I did. I don’t know exactly what that will mean, but I know I can be confident that whatever comes, I won’t face it alone. He will be my strength and sufficiency each step of the way.

These words of Jesus are true for all of us who love Him. He desires us to live abundantly fruitful lives as we fulfil the specific purposes He made us for.

I wonder what that looks like for you?

And what kind of thoughts might be holding you back?

Imagine how bright the light will be if each of us shines the way we were created to.

“. . . let us throw off everything that hinders and the sin that so easily entangles, and let us run with perseverance the race marked out for us.” Hebrews 12:1b

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(1) John 15:4a,5b

(2) John 15:5b

(3) John 15:8

(4) John 15:16

 

Rescued

Tuesday 23rd July, 2013

“Do you think we should go to the hospital?” My husband’s gentle words broke through the haze that clouded my mind.

I dragged my head up and sighed. For hours I’d been lying on the bedroom floor, mostly face down, trying to find a position where my body didn’t hurt so much. It had taken all my strength to pull myself up and vomit into a bowl. The noise had woken Mark and he’d climbed out of bed to come to my side.

I had hoped this sickness – whatever it was – would have settled through the night. Surely after almost two days I should have been improving? Instead the mild nausea of Sunday afternoon had developed into violent retching, diarrhoea, shaking fevers and overwhelming weakness. Tightness under my ribcage on one side made breathing difficult and my head spun.

Mark had already suggested I go to hospital – several times. Each time I’d refused. The thought of spending hours in that condition in a waiting room full of people was unthinkable. This time, though, he was determined. “I think we should pray about it.”

“What time is it?” I breathed.

“Four o’clock.”

“Okay. I’ll try.”

We spent a few moments waiting quietly. Meanwhile, unknown to us, my mum was suddenly awakened in Sydney with a strong urge to pray for me – she already knew I was very unwell.

“So, what did you think?”

With eyes closed, I mumbled, “I just keep getting the word ‘appendix’.” Low in my abdomen a sharp pain throbbed on the right. “Maybe we should just go and get it checked.”

“Okay.”He stood up, slipped his hands under my arms and helped me to my feet. Every movement was agony. Once I was dressed he informed our oldest son what was happening and we shuffled together out to the car. Our breath formed puffs of steam in the icy night air.

When we reached the emergency department, I slumped over the sick bowl, my head resting on my arms. The waiting room was strangely quiet, almost empty. A thought ambled through my mind, Am I just being a drama queen?

“Hello Susan.”

The calm, professional tone of a nurse’s voice broke me out of my musing. I lifted my head a little.

“Your husband explained what’s been happening. Can you sit up so I can take a few vitals?”

I pushed myself up off the bowl and tried to bring my rolling eyes to meet those of the nurse. My hair fell back from my face and she gasped.  “Oh, I think we might just take you straight in.” She scurried away and dashed back with a wheelchair.

As she returned I breathed, “Sorry. I can’t remember your name.” The woman was a regular at our MOPs group – a support programme our church ran for mums of pre-schoolers.

“Oh, don’t you worry about that,” she answered briskly. “Let’s just see if we can get you better.”

She wheeled me into a curtained cubicle then returned to her station at the counter. Two other nurses changed me into a thin hospital gown, hooked me up to a heart monitor and supplied medication to stop the vomiting. Soon after, my bed was wheeled to a large room at the far end of the emergency department. Another four nurses gathered around me, making a team of six, while a doctor drifted in and out. IV trolleys were set up and bags of fluid stacked nearby. The nurses took blood, gave me morphine, inserted a catheter and introduced a drip to each forearm. The doctor threaded a picc line – a long, narrow, five-stranded tube – through one of my major neck veins almost all the way to my heart. I was given an oxygen mask. Large, soft blankets – so many blankets – were brought from the warming cupboard and draped one atop another over my shivering body.

Sepsis clearer

The strange sensation of pain and pressure in my abdomen began to spread up into my lung area. I told the nurses. A couple of them exchanged concerned glances.

A doctor came to my side. “Now Susan, you seem to have some kind of infection but your pathology results won’t come back for a while. We’re going to start you on five different antibiotics to make sure we hit whatever bacteria is at work. Then once we get the test results back we’ll narrow them down to the right one. We’ll also be giving you IV fluids to try to get your blood pressure up.”

“Okay.” I nodded.

“Do you have to use so many antibiotics?” my husband asked. I’d just finished taking a course of tablets for another condition and was run-down because of them.

A nurse’s voice snapped from the other side of the room, “Your wife is in a state of septic shock. If we don’t give her antibiotics she’ll die.”

I heard her words but could barely make sense of them. Die? Really? But I was in hospital – surely that meant I was safe? Lord, I’m in your hands, I prayed.

Hours ticked by while antibiotics and fluids flowed steadily into my bloodstream. The staff hovered, watching closely for any improvement in my vital signs. The bag attached to my catheter remained empty, revealing that my kidneys had failed. Many times I was asked, “What’s your full name? When were you born? Where do you live?”

Mark’s presence beside me was calm and constant. He sent out a prayer request in the morning which quickly reached hundreds of people across the nation and beyond. Several friends have since said that the moment they got the message, they understood the intensity of the battle I was in and got straight to warring in prayer.

Six hours passed with no significant change. Various doctors wandered in and out of the room, along with teams of interns, to discuss my case. One supervising doctor told my husband, “It’s good you came in when you did. If you’d left it even one hour longer, it may have been too late.”

Finally, the medical staff resorted to using a very high dose of noradrenalin to bring my blood pressure back to a safe level. A CT scan and laparoscopy followed. My appendix and lower bowel were inflamed but neither had to be removed. A drain was put into my abdomen to remove the large volume of fluid which had built up there and remained in place for the next few days.

Later we were told that I had sepsis, a severe response to an infection which causes inflammation throughout the whole body and attacks the tissues and organs. In about one third of cases, the cause of the infection is unknown. I was one of those cases. Septic shock is the most extreme stage of sepsis and leads to death in fifty percent of cases.

Sepsis walk with drip

I spent the following week in Intensive Care. Collapsed lungs and pneumonia slowed my recovery.  After two days of forced bed-rest and constant oxygen I was allowed to attempt walking with a frame.  It took a few more days before I could move around without support. My whole lower body swelled so much my skin hurt. I wore long pressure stockings and shuffled slowly around the ward, trying to improve circulation. All the toxins which had flooded my system caused ongoing muscle pain and weakness; even the simplest of tasks caused major fatigue.

 

home from hospital

Once I returned home, we were flooded with offers of support. My mum flew down from Sydney followed by one of my sisters to help keep our household running. Dozens of friends provided meals for our family. It felt strange to be so frail. Every little milestone was cause for celebration – sleeping on my side, walking to the mailbox, squatting to get something out of the cupboard and managing to pull myself up again. After three months, I could last a whole day without sleeping in the afternoon. It took nine months before I could manage without a lie down.

Several doctors had tried to tell me how severely ill I’d been but I found it hard to fathom. It was my surgeon who finally opened my eyes at a follow-up appointment a month after the illness. For a fleeting moment he stopped his medical reflections, dropped his professional tone and told me, “I went home that night and said to my wife, ‘We had a mother of four in today and she nearly died.’” My eyes brimmed with tears. I knew I could have died but didn’t realise I’d come so very close.

Today I celebrate five years of ‘bonus life’. There are so many ‘ifs’ in my experience which could have led to a very different result:

If we hadn’t opted to go to hospital. . .

If I hadn’t known the admissions nurse . . .

If emergency had been very busy and there were less people available to help. . .

If the staff had taken longer to form a diagnosis (many people have died from such a delay) . . .

If people hadn’t bothered to pray when they heard I was sick . . .

Yet the God Who reigns over the ‘ifs’ put everything in place to make sure my life was spared. He knew the days on earth He had planned for me and made sure they were not cut short.

The words in Psalm 31:14-15, “My times are in Your hands,” are a tangible reality to me now, a source of clarity and focus. Every day is a gift to be received with thanks and lived to the full. God had a specific purpose in mind when He created me. My greatest desire and joy is to fulfil it.

“Teach us to number our days aright, that we may gain a heart of wisdom.” Psalm 90:12

 

 

Walking in Darkness

Over the last week I’ve hit a bit of a slump. All the wonder of our miraculous house sale and move has faded and I’ve been faced with the reality of the season we’re in right now – a time of waiting, limbo, transition.

People often ask me, “Do you know what you’re doing yet?” I smile and say, “No.” The mix of emotions that travel across their faces can be confronting. It would be easier to answer, “Yes, everything is sorted. We know where we’ll live, what we’re going to do, where our girls will go to school, how we’ll manage.” But I can’t say that. We don’t know. We’re aware of some possible options but mostly we’re still in the dark.

If these conversations unsettle me I remind myself of Psalm 119, verse 105.

“Your word is a lamp to my feet and a light to my path.”

I’ve heard these words many times, know them off by heart. To me they always painted a picture of God’s word shining bright and clear, showing us the path He has for us. Then a few years ago, I heard a teaching which brought a radical shift in my thinking.

In Bible times the land was rugged and rocky; paths were often crude and hard to follow. A walk in the dark could lead to injury or even death if you slipped or took a wrong turn, particularly in mountainous areas. Those who dared to venture out at night would be sure to carry a lamp – a small, clay vessel with a flaming wick fuelled by household oil. They often hung the lamp by a rope and swung it back and forth in front of their body, lighting up the path directly before them. Sometimes they tied a second, smaller lamp to their ankle so they could see exactly where to place their foot as they stepped. It was a literal lamp to their feet.Lamp and bible

If you’ve ever experienced a blackout and had to live by candle-light for a while, you’ll understand how limited those little flames would have been. The walker would not have been able to see much beyond the next step. Their journey would have been one of complete dependence on that little flickering light – one step at a time.

Sometimes our lives can be like that. We sense God is leading us in a specific direction but we can’t see all the details. We take one step then He reveals the next. Perhaps the next part doesn’t become clear right away. That’s when we’re required to trust, to wait, to allow Him – in His timing – to show us where to place our foot.

Waiting can be difficult. We can lose focus and become disoriented, like one whose lamp has been completely snuffed out. But it’s so vital that we hold on.

God uses those times of waiting, of darkness to prepare us for the next stage of the journey. We see this principle all through creation. Deep in the earth a dry, brown seed is quietly nurtured till it bursts open and pushes its vibrant, green shoot up through the surface. The lowly caterpillar, seemingly trapped in the confines of its dark cocoon, is transformed and released as a magnificent butterfly. Silent trees stand naked as they secretly draw in nourishment from the soil before being clothed with a veil of leaves and blossoms in spring.

Times of darkness can seem silent, empty, meaningless. But our Father sees the whole path and His timing is perfect. If we have to wait a while to discover the next step in our journey, He has a purpose in that.

So I’m choosing to trust Him. To push ahead without His light would be like clambering over rocks on a cliff edge at midnight.

I wouldn’t dare take the risk.

Letting Go

The girls were barely out the door, heading off to school, before tears began falling. I padded through the empty house, my anguished sobs echoing in the silence. Worship songs played through my mind, reminding me that God was my rescuer, the one who sent His Son to die for me.

Yet, at that moment He was asking me to face a kind of death.

Bleak, grey clouds hung suspended over our paddock and the sky wept freely. I pulled a door wide open and breathed deep. The air pressed cool and moist against my skin, thick with the fragrance of grass and animals and a million happy memories.

God, does it have to be this way?

Like drops of rain, my words of protest fell, silenced, to the ground. Already I knew the answer. It was time to let go.

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“I think God wants us to move,” my husband had said. “To Sydney.”

Sydney. The place of my birth, of schooldays and family celebrations, mild winters and long, hot summers. Sydney, where I’d spent the first twenty five years of my life – till God had led me to the remote island of Tasmania to study. For two years, I had thought. Just two.

But two had stretched into more than twenty. And slowly my shallow roots had lengthened and spread till my soul was firmly embedded in the rich loam of this land and my heart was knit with its people – some who I counted as ‘family’.

Now, once more and despite my resistance, God was pulling me away.

At first I discounted my husband’s thoughts but a vivid dream came later that evening. God spoke to me clearly, confirming His direction and infusing me with inexplicable confidence and joy. This move was His plan – for all of us, for our good.

Over the following five weeks He continued to assure us, even in the most unlikely ways – yes, a new season was imminent and we would be richer for it.

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Words of challenge flowed steadily in those weeks as well. He spoke of surrender, of being uprooted and pushed out of the nest to free-fall. Part of me felt like wildly flapping, yet my heart was strangely at rest. He would catch us.

Then came the leaflet – a printed page dropped in our mailbox by a family seeking a home in our area. A home just like ours. Couldn’t I have more time, God? Yet again He nudged me in a direction I didn’t want to go. In a mere ten days, the deal was sealed. Our house would soon have new owners.  Instantly the tone of life switched from earnest prayer and contemplation to gathering boxes and sorting treasures. Oh, what a time of sifting!

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There are days in the midst of this season when faith soars and images of exciting new ventures fill my mind. And there are times – like this – when the pain of separation seems unbearable, even impossible to endure. That’s when I draw near to my Father once again and listen to His whisper.

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You do not realize now what I am doing, but later you will understand.

Later.

Later I will understand why He sold our house so swiftly.

Later I will see why we had to leave so much – and so many – behind.

Later I will be glad we took the risk and followed His directions, for we will be savouring the new life He has given us.

With red ink I recorded His words in my journal, adding them to the many revelations He’d been giving. As I put down my pen He draped a new layer of hope over my heart.

Weeping may remain for a night, but rejoicing comes in the morning.

I cannot see all that will unfold in the months ahead. But one thing I’ve learned from the  past – God can be trusted. Though this is a time of grief and pain, we will rejoice again. Perhaps, like sunrise after an especially dark night, joy will burst forth sooner than I think.

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Credit for first photo – Shaun Morrison.
Watercolour painting by E Brown, 2016.

A God’s Eye View

Have you ever wondered what your life looks like from God’s perspective? Ever considered what it’s like to lean forward from a heavenly throne and watch human history unfold?

I have.

Many times in recent months a picture has appeared in my mind. It’s a little like the puzzle image God has shown me many times before – where I discovered my place as one piece among many. Unlike the puzzle, though, this image has simpler dimensions.

It’s a line.

A time-line.

Long and slender, stretching out in both directions, this line extends along the span of human history. At specific points stand great civilisations, mighty rulers who have risen and fallen, seasons of rapid development and prosperity, periods of war, disaster and hardship.

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Studying that line with its mix of joys and sorrows could stir fear and uncertainty about the future. Instead it fills me with comfort. The word tells me that every moment in the past and all the days still to come are in God’s plain view. Nothing is hidden from His sight. Civilizations may crumble, as they have before. Kingdoms may rise and fall. Times of prosperity may come, shining bright till seasons of hardship dim their glow. Always God will reign, working out His plan and staying true to His promises.

I lean in to look more closely at that line and I see people – brave explorers, curious inventors, politicians, educators, business people and others – all taking their place in the progression of years. Each figure has been given a unique blend of personality, desires and talents that equip them for their task. By choosing to use what they are given they bring life and change to the world around them.

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Then there’s us. God has a place for you and me in this unfolding story. We are not mere specks, unseen and insignificant in this enormous stretch of centuries. We have been chosen by Him to live in this current time period. He sees and knows the number of our days and all He has in mind for them.

When I consider this, I’m simultaneously struck by two reactions – an eager longing to fulfil my role and a sharp awareness of my own frailty.

Then I hear His gentle voice, You are not alone.

The same one who watches over nations also, somehow, watches over me. He who is Lord over all calls me His beloved, His treasure.

Amazing.

As I yield myself to Him, His grace fills up every empty space, giving me courage and power to do what I never thought possible. Gently He takes my hand and leads me along the path He planned for my life – my part in His epic story.

 

My view of the way ahead is limited. I can’t see what twists and turns await me. But when I think of the line I find hope that holds me firm, like an enormous anchor. The one who walks beside me already sees the future. And He will guide my steps – all the way home.

Revelation 22:13

“I am the Alpha and the Omega, the First and the Last, the Beginning and the End.”

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