Puddles

How does a heart survive a storm?  I certainly don’t have the answer.  I do not know how.  A storm can stomp a heart, shatter it even, but I know that a heart can break and still survive. I know it is possible.  This I know with every thread of my soul. 

This I know.

What you are reading is not a post about God picking up the pieces and making something beautiful from the wreckage; He does, oh, He does. But when you are holding shards of your shattered-to-pieces heart in the palm of your hand, you can’t see past the hot, red mess of it all to the place where Beauty is born. You can’t see.

When a heart breaks, you are blind to beauty because your dreams are covered in death’s cloak.  Covered, invisible, gone.  And that is often where the Lie begins to speak. 

I am covered in this mess. 

I am invisible to God. 

My entire being… it’s gone.

And whether it’s a slow, agonizing death or sudden and tragic, all of life gets tipped upside down as you attempt to sort it out, all the while you are looking and searching and seeking and you cannot see. You can’t see.

I took the kids on a walk this morning since it finally stopped raining and the sun showed up after a long vacation.  The first thing they spotted was the puddles.  Flanking either side of the road, ripples of standing water reminded us that there had been a storm. Some were deep and ran like rivers. Others were shallow and still. 

My first thought was to classify each one as proof- hard evidence- that a storm had ripped through this place.  But the more I let it collide with the question how, the more it occurred to me that perhaps I was looking at this upside down.

Puddles aren’t just proof; they’re collections.

Words that have made deep impressions on my own heart in the wake of a devastating storm flooded my backwards thinking.

Blessed are those who trust in you, whose hearts are set on pilgrimage.  As they pass through the Valley of Baka, they make it a place of springs; the autumn rains also cover it with pools. They go from strength to strength, till each appears before God in Zion.

Psalm 84:5-7

The Valley of Baka never meant a thing to me until I figured out that I had been there.  Baka means “weeping,” and I know that place well.  Loss of any kind will bring you there, to the Valley of Sorrow, whether your bags are packed or not.  Tears brim from the not-seeing, and they overflow into reservoirs deep in the soul. But just as salt remains long after tears dry up, a puddle is what’s left of a heartache.  A puddle holds what remains, what is left after a storm.

And puddles can be pools of blessing.

At the park down the road, there were more reflectors of the sun, proudly announcing the presence of light that has been hidden for too many days.  Bending over one such water collector, I looked in.  Smooth as a mirror in the stillness of calm, I accepted its invitation to bend further and find myself.

When you are trying to survive a storm and water is rising up to your eyeballs, it is really hard to see.  Let me rephrase that:  When you are trying to survive a storm and water is rising up to your eyeballs, it is really hard to see anything but water rising up to your eyeballs.

Puddles help us to see beyond the water.  In that bending low to look at our reflection, gazing inward at the place we're in, we begin to see that where we are is not who we are. 

Stooping over puddles also forces us to come to terms with the truth that we are very, very small and somehow, that is the most comforting thought of all, because smallness means Someone greater is in control of the mess. Smallness means it’s not our job to figure out the how, but to cling to the Who. Smallness means we just have to believe that it is possible for a heart to survive a storm.  

Because aren’t all things possible with God?

Jesus left His throne and entered our mess, took on our pain. He was sent by God to heal every shattered heart.  Brokenness is what brought Him here.  Love is why He came.

Jesus sees you even when you can't see you.

I love how the Psalmist uses the words pass through. Passing through the Valley of Tears, not parked there.  Moving past the ache of loss, not sinking down into it. Going on, not in our own strength, but in His.  The passing through is what keeps us from standing still. That's what pilgrimage is: a long journey of passing through from here to there. 

Here- where storms crush hearts to pieces.
There- where there is no more pain, no more tears, no more loss and everything is complete and made new.

The passing through part is the daily part.  The becoming part.  The making-everything-new.  We are not there yet, but we don't have to stay here either.   

We can choose to move, to pass through.

God gives us a way to move: from strength to strength, one step at a time.  It’s a daily thing- kinda like the bread thing.  He promises to give us all we need to pass through today.  And when the storm subsides, beautiful reminders of His outpour of Love and Grace beg us to come peer in and see who we are in Him and how far we've traveled in His strength.

He has sent Me to heal the brokenhearted. Luke 4:18

Jesus looked at them and said, “With man this is impossible, but with God all things are possible.” Matthew 19:26

Give us today our daily bread. Matthew 6:11

Then the Lord said to Moses, “Why are you crying out to me? Tell the Israelites to move on. Raise your staff and stretch out your hand over the sea to divide the water so that the Israelites can go through the sea on dry ground. 
Exodus 14:15-16

Here and Now

Lift up your eyes and look to the heavens:
    Who created all these?
He who brings out the starry host one by one
    and calls forth each of them by name.
Because of his great power and mighty strength,
    not one of them is missing.   

Isaiah 40:26

I’m reading Isaiah 40 this morning and verse twenty-six catches me, corners me.  I write these words on the page next to today’s date, a replica for further study.  I circle the last six words, “not one of them is missing.”  The word missing is translated lacking, failing.

Not one of them is missing. Not one of them is lacking.  Not one of them is failing.

Later, I sit down at the kitchen table with two anticipating three-year olds.  They fire off their questions and leave no room for response as they climb up into chairs that just might give them a closer look at what I’m holding.

It’s one of Jake’s Christmas presents from his grandparents, a box that could hold a pair of shoes it’s so ordinary looking, and yet it’s the picture against the blue that captures their attention and interrupts their play. Jake remembers opening this box, but in the chaos of opening presents, this one was placed out of sight until now.

“What is it, Mom?”

“Is it a flashlight?  I want the flashlight! Can I turn it on, Mom?”

“I want a turn!”

“No, me! Mom, can I turn on flashlight, pwease?”

I put the box down and explain that it’s not a flashlight. They are intrigued, hooked, ready to see something amazing. Not taking a moment of their fascination for granted, I tell them it is a star constellation kit.

Jake tries to say it after me, constellation, watching my mouth, but he gets tongue-tied. Lilly just sits there with saucer-eyes like I’ve just told her Santa Claus is coming back tonight. If you know my Jake or you’ve read about his infatuation with the moon, you will understand why he asked Santa to bring him binoculars.  A $6 pair of binoculars summed up his Christmas list because it is yet another tool that allows him to look up into the sky searching.  So, I am not at all surprised that he can’t wait to see the stars on his own bedroom wall.

We get out the box of pencils, which will be used for poking holes into the cardboard hemispheres.  I grab a couple of pieces of black construction paper and some chalk so that they can make their own constellations on black sky while I assemble the thing. Lilly wastes no time getting started while Jake begins breaking the chalk into pieces in typical boy fashion. With tiny hands occupied, I pull out the directions and get started myself.

I read aloud some of the facts included in the box.

There are about 100 billion stars in the Milky Way, but even on a dark, clear night, we can only see a few thousand of them with the naked eye.

The stars are giant balls of glowing gas that give out light and heat.  Some are several times larger than our Sun.

The nearest star to us (apart from the Sun) is Proxima Centauri.  It is so far away that its light takes more than four years to reach us.

The constellations are not groups of stars that are close to each other.  The stars appear in the same areas of the sky when seen from the Earth.

Astronomers use the constellations (about 88 of them) as a way of finding their way around the night sky, so they can find the stars and other space objects they are interested in. 

I feel as if I’m talking to myself because neither one of them looks up or meets my statements with a question like usual.  I watch her making marks on her sky paper and then she’s asking for stickers.  I get up, find her some silver sparkle stars and she’s once again engrossed in her creation.

I smile as I continue gathering the pieces and making sure I know what I’m doing before I start piercing holes into the cardboard.  The directions use that word, pierce, and I can’t help but think about how God pierced the darkness with light.  I think about the astronomers (whom we often call wise men) staring at the same black sky all those years ago and how God used constellations to help them find the long awaited star that led them to the Savior.

I remember the verse I wrote down about the starry host, words suggesting the stars are called forth to the battlefield, like an army led by a mighty general.  But not only are they appointed to the place He assigns, the Creator knows them by name and this astounds me as I stare at this cardboard model I have set out to replicate the Milky Way.  Suddenly I get a glimpse of my smallness. 

We sharpen pencils and I ask them to count as I pierce the blue sky with the pencil, following carefully marked constellations made up of stars that are named by God.  We get to thirteen, Tucana, then Grus, both seen from the Southern Hemisphere. We keep on counting and I ask, “Who made all the stars?”  Jake thinks a bit and then Lilly blurts out, “Baby Jesus!” which has been her answer for everything the past month. 

We keep counting and soon we’re saying 48 and my hand is cramping.  I look over at the other hemisphere and I realize just how far I have to go and I sigh real deep. 

Lilly notices and says, “That’s really hard work, Mom.” 

“Uh-huh,” I agree.

In seconds, she’s up on her elbows, standing in her chair which I don’t allow, but I ignore it because I’m punching holes in the sky and already I’m tired and we haven’t even reached fifty yet.

“That’s makes us tired,” she says, trying to catch my eye.

I look up, force a smile. 

She tells me, “I just like a star- stars be quiet, Mom.”

Oh, good!  I need quiet, I think to myself, while Jake keeps asking me about the flashlight, wondering if he can turn it on.

After one hundred I stop counting and we are not talking stars anymore.  A sharpened pencil, battery-operated light bulb and cardboard cutout make up my simple spread of tools.  How hard can this be? I think, and I realize it’s only a duplicate, a tiny model, not even close to the magnitude of the real thing and I am tired after poking one hundred holes into cardboard.

My mom apologized to me when Jake opened this present.  She wondered if it might be a bit advanced for his age and worried we might not get to use it until he was older.  Cody agreed with her and tucked the box safely on the top shelf of Jake’s closet.  But Jake started his search not too long after that.  He didn’t know what it was, but he knew it had to do with the night sky.

About ten years ago, my mom bought my dad a telescope for Christmas.  I remember how he lit up as he hauled the thing out to the front yard. Each one of us were given a glimpse of God’s creation as he rattled off which star was which, pointing out constellations and planets.

Last month, outside a pizza joint, my dad grabbed me by the arm and pointed out Venus in the November sky.  It was brighter than any other star in the sky, but I would have never known it was a planet.  I remember now that his face brightened as he told me why it was visible this time of year. He hasn’t been feeling too well the past several months, but that night when he was talking stars and God’s creation, something was different.  A light was glowing inside him and I see that in my son- that same glow, the same excitement over lights in the sky and for a split second I wish that I had it too.  

I wonder why it hits me just now that maybe Jake gets this fascination from his Poppy.  I never considered it before, but here I am tracing star patterns with a pencil, and I smile at this thought.  As I pick up the Northern Hemisphere, they grab their snack cups.  She drops a Cheerio on the floor and I tell her to find it.  He mimics me, bossing her around like a second parent.

She tells me after only half a second, “It’s really hard work.”

I get the entire thing put together and we find a dark place to turn on the light and see the stars.  We sit there on the floor in the closet, the three of us, and I ask if they can count the stars on the ceiling. 

“That’s really hard, Mom,” Lilly responds on the heels of my question.

Jake gives it his best, but in seconds the door is opened and they are running upstairs to find their blankets. While they are gone, I sit in the dark and I think about Lilly’s comments throughout the morning.  I don’t know where it is found, but I know this verse well and I whisper it in the dark under the stars.  Nothing is too hard for you.   Later, I would look it up once they were asleep in their beds and add it to the page with the words about God naming the stars.

Ah, Sovereign Lord, you have made the heavens and the earth by your great power and outstretched arm. Nothing is too hard for you.   Jeremiah 32:17

They return to the closet, armed with blankets and breathless and I chuckle at how important it seems to have covers as we lie on our backs to look up at the stars that God made and named.  But as we settle in, I stumble into it.  Comfort.  There is comfort under a blanket of stars that my Creator has stitched together, purposely, intricately, beautifully.  There is comfort in knowing that not one of them is missing.

I leave to go make lunch and they stay for a bit in the closet with the stars that God made.  Hours later, I find the glowing cardboard model still lit, projecting light into darkness.  They’ve abandoned it already.  There it sits after all the time I spent carefully attaching the two hemispheres and lining up the quadrants just so. 

They’re too young.  Mom was right.  When they’re older, I guess.  More mature.  More patient. Oh, well.

I gather it up and turn off the light, but then I realize I am too young, too. At night I’ve been reading about how God speaks through His word, sometimes revealing His character or reminding me of His love or guiding me in a certain direction.  I’m faced with this truth and it pierces my heart. 

God speaks loudest through the Now-Moments in the Here-Place. 

I am too young to fully grasp God’s character. I am only able to understand a small part of Who He is and that’s OK.  It’s alright that I’m not mature enough, not complete enough to fully understand because He is Here and Now.  And I am never too young, never lacking in this moment in this place.

I am here now.  And I am listening. He is a Here-and-Now God.  I Am.  

Present.   
Here.   
Now.

Whatever I can grasp here and now is just right.  The way my little ones gaze into the dark and talk about the stars that God made is right where they need to be.  I realize, too, that there is beauty in God’s creation being celebrated by a three-year-old boy and a fifty-something-year-old man.

 

When it’s quiet, I return to Isaiah 40 and Jeremiah 32 and I add another to my collection, as if I’m threading jewels on a string.

 And God said, “Let there be lights in the vault of the sky to separate the day from the night, and let them serve as signs to mark sacred times, and days and years, and let them be lights in the vault of the sky to give light on the earth.” And it was so.

Genesis 1:14-15

The bookends stand out to me, applauding the Creator who pierces darkness with stars I can’t even count or see and who knows them each by name and places them just so in the magnificent galaxy, a masterpiece reflecting His character and glory. God said… and it was so.

I have labored poking holes through flimsy cardboard and I’ve not even scratched the surface with this tiny replica of the constellations. 

I haven’t even come close. 

If Creator-God calls out each star by name, each taking its position where He has appointed, can’t I find comfort in knowing He does the same for me?  So often I think my success or my completion of a task or even a mindset I’ve grappled with then finally conquered is due to my strength and knowledge, my ability.  Yet right here in God’s word, in this verse I've scribbled down in the waking hours when the sky is still dark and the sun is yet to peek above the horizon, I read why none of God’s creation is lacking, why He will not let me fail. 

Because of his great power and mighty strength, not one of them is missing. 

Because of Him, not me.   
Because of His power and strength, not mine.

The sun, the moon, the stars all stand where He tells them to stand.  They haven’t figured out some mystery or reached some higher level of understanding.  He simply spoke and they were.  And not only that- they are right where they are supposed to be and I see that so am I.

I am here now.  I am where He has called me to be, in this place where I can praise Him for Who He is with everything I am.  I add one more verse to my list, because the wording is so very close and this one I know by heart.  It’s about sheep, not stars.

He calls his own sheep by name and leads them out. When he has brought out all his own, he goes on ahead of them, and his sheep follow him because they know his voice. 

John 10:3-4

The Almighty One calls out the stars, the Shepherd calls out His sheep.  He knows these by name, as well.  He leads them to the battlefield; they are among wolves.  But right here my heart finds peace and I know that I am reading truth.  He goes on ahead of them. I look around and I have new clarity in this Here-Place that He’s already been.  He is here now.  He goes before me.  There is not a place I will go that He hasn’t been and there is such comfort in knowing that and I want to wrap myself up in it.

I will continue to follow Jesus, because He speaks, and I am learning every day to listen for His voice, to find His imprint in creation and His truth in His word and His glory in these Now-Moments that rush on by me like sand falling through an hour glass.

It’s the end of 2013.  I normally have a list of things I want to do better or start doing in the new year.  But today, I hear God saying, Live here, now. I don’t feel the need to reach for tomorrow when today is right here in my grasp.  I don’t want to place my dreams on the top shelf, waiting until I’m older, more mature.  Here and now is where I am and God is a here-and-now God.  A Present God.  He is I Am.

As 2014 begins, I want to seek Him here and now. I want to hear Him... and follow. I want to praise Him here and now for Who He is.  I want to thank Him for showing me how small I am yet how loved I am. I want to see His glory and proclaim it here and now, because that is all I have: Here and Now.

He who made the Pleiades and Orion,
    who turns midnight into dawn
    and darkens day into night,
who calls for the waters of the sea
    and pours them out over the face of the land—
    the Lord is his name.

Amos 5:8