My daddy is a no-nonsense kinda guy. All business that one is. But with some creative coaxing he can laugh with the best of them.
Last evening a grimace was all he could muster as ER doctor applied pressure to his bleeding head. My hand resting on his chest, I ached for his legs to be the way they were when I was no higher than his waist. His hands thick with muscle—now boney and bloodied by time, age, and the cruelty of gravity. How does a soul keep standing when the body crashes against this hard, sharp, unforgiving world?
Christ fell to the ground so every soul could know what it is to rise like midsummer heat when it hits rock bottom. Three times to His kingly knees He prayed and sweat red that we might follow His footsteps from grave to glory. The Lord is not far from your busted heart. Let the dark say what it wants—the Light is in charge.
My husband, David, stepped in front when Dad held his breath against punching pain. “Breathe, Joe. That’s it. In and out.” Just like he did with me in the heat of childbirth. The voice of God is not condemning and loud, but gentle and lowly. A whisper to a writhing, willing soul.
We can say our piece to God who knows our fallen state. Then . . . when done, turn to the Spirit who is closer to those with broken hearts than He is with them who have it all together. Because the Breath that bore you into being—bore your sin—will bear this daily cross with you.
Heat has been steady here lately. Yet, crops, trees, animals remain well watered. You can barely see between lush leaves. Sprays of white, yellow, purple, and orange pop up throughout the landscape—but you’ll have to look for them. Bright blue chicory has garnished the rocky shoulders of long country roads—but we can whizz right past if distracted. If we’re not watching, not expecting the Impossible to come through for us, we can spend our lives grimacing in agony.
In the blister of July, pray the fountain of living water to open your weary eyes. Pray the breath of rest to your headstrong ears.
Are you in need of more soul rest? Head to Psalm 73. He’ll meet you there.
My daddy is a no-nonsense kinda guy. All business that one is. But with some creative coaxing he can laugh with the best of them.
Last evening a grimace was all he could muster as ER doctor applied pressure to his bleeding head. My hand resting on his chest, I ached for his legs to be the way they were when I was no higher than his waist. His hands thick with muscle—now boney and bloodied by time, age, and the cruelty of gravity. How does a soul keep standing when the body crashes against this hard, sharp, unforgiving world?
Christ fell to the ground so every soul could know what it is to rise like midsummer heat when it hits rock bottom. Three times to His kingly knees He prayed and sweat red that we might follow His footsteps from grave to glory. The Lord is not far from your busted heart. Let the dark say what it wants—the Light is in charge.
My husband, David, stepped in front when Dad held his breath against punching pain. “Breathe, Joe. That’s it. In and out.” Just like he did with me in the heat of childbirth. The voice of God is not condemning and loud, but gentle and lowly. A whisper to a writhing, willing soul.
We can say our piece to God who knows our fallen state. Then . . . when done, turn to the Spirit who is closer to those with broken hearts than He is with them who have it all together. Because the Breath that bore you into being—bore your sin—will bear this daily cross with you.
Heat has been steady here lately. Yet, crops, trees, animals remain well watered. You can barely see between lush leaves. Sprays of white, yellow, purple, and orange pop up throughout the landscape—but you’ll have to look for them. Bright blue chicory has garnished the rocky shoulders of long country roads—but we can whizz right past if distracted. If we’re not watching, not expecting the Impossible to come through for us, we can spend our lives grimacing in agony.
In the blister of July, pray the fountain of living water to open your weary eyes. Pray the breath of rest to your headstrong ears.
Are you in need of more soul rest? Head to Psalm 73. He’ll meet you there.
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