I’m not sure how that works, how one taps into a lake spring, I’m more of a turn-on-the-faucet kind of gal, but I know I have a river, a life-giving, fresh Living Water source, too. It runs deep and it’s best realized when my life isn’t blue skies and sunshine, but steely gray and stormy and iced-over. It’s at those times that I can locate the source of peace and tap into it’s goodness, finding life and refreshment and hope, even in the midst of winter.
How much energy do we spend battling our doubts and disappointments rather than focusing our aim and finishing the race, the task of testifying the good news of God’s grace? Do we ignore that the enemy’s goal, as C.S. Lewis’ character, Wormwood, declared in The Screwtape Letters is this, “Do remember you are there to fuddle him”.
Oh, I was fuddled.
Have you been there, too? Muddled and fuddled and stuck in the puddling thoughts of your own making?
And now I am here, normal again. Recovered. Yet it chafes.
And like an uncomfortable jacket or maternity pants that clench too tightly around the middle, I wriggle out and slough off normal. And like old Bilbo, I think often of the adventure and feel often a misfit in my own life.
And today, it occurred to me that the sweetest presence of God I’ve ever known came through like birdsong in winter or the warmth of spring sunshine after a long season of ice and snow.
I felt God’s presence most when my singular objective was to be alive.
We’re buried under a foot of snow, but the birds won’t stop singing. In the gales of winter, in the dark of night, there is hope and a song and the strength to go on. We may feel the bend, the risk of perching upon that solitary stand of hope, but we have this strength called faith that keeps us ever winging, ever singing about the spring to come.
He called my story a sob story. That would make me the “sob-ber” –not really attractive. He then proceeded to call my story and how I told it –dumb. Three times dumb, said he. And it cut a little, like a strip of stray wood cuts the soft flesh of a palm, digging into the cutaneous layers, unwelcome. And my first response was to flush pink in a rush of hurt and anger. After all, I am my story and my story is I. And yours is you, is it not?