Carried

It boasts a power it does not possess, turning my head away to bear up under it, even to breathe; startling me awake as from a dream. Deafening roar, it has not begun to still; drawing strength the more I fight, like the hopeless pull of sinking sand. Let go; He tells me, and I hold still tighter, determined. Already I have lost my will; forgotten will itself; receiving His alone, even as my hands are fists; closed and angry. Afraid. His cloak between me and the sting of its force; the wind in my ears becoming His Voice; Take my hand, He tells me; my own still frozen; paralyzed. Closed. Call to Me; He is pleading, and He alone calls... And with it peace, I am still; my head on His shoulder; it is not my power that holds me there; not I who draws this breath. Shadows casting down; light coming through the clouds. I watch them play on the ground below us. It is no longer the wind that carries me...

"In the same way, the Spirit helps us in our weakness. For we do not know how to pray as we should. But the Spirit Himself intercedes for us with groans too deep for words." ~ Romans 8:26

Mark 4:39

Talk soon. Cross my heart.

How amazing that God would speak this to my heart this morning....
It was faith that He placed into David's sling...he had only to release it...

Wow.
Talk soon:) Cross my heart.

1 Samuel 17

Living Water

Heavy, oppressive; any promise of breeze paralyzed and defeated in the heat, she walked. No scarf or covering could have shielded her from it; the sun intent, unrelenting; burning itself deep into her skin and beneath, as though it could see inside of her, judging her; knowing. Like the rest of them. It is good, she tells herself; this sun that beckons her; assuring her, having long ago taken the cool morning air and the others with it, baking the earth into crusted and curled scales like the skin of snakes.
Fill the jars, hot and dry; empty now, they are no burden as they are. And then... did she speak out loud? Emptiness itself is heavy; unbearable...she hears herself; what is left of her heart. Jerking her scarf over all but her eyes, she quickens her pace. The intrusion is unwelcome and angers her. There isn't any point in such riddles.
Head down now and determined, this day like hundreds before it; she can almost find her way in the shape of the stones as they pass beneath her feet; bread crumbs lining her path; familiar. Her eyes raise only as she nears the well; ears intent on any sounds or shadows; relieved each time at the silence; only the occasional warnings of a bird circling watch over the cold and gray oasis. She considers the well, imagining herself inside it; falling, falling,, breathing stilled, quiet, quenched. Pure. Clean.

He smiles at her. Startled, she steadies herself and the jug; refusing to meet his eyes, confused, embarrassed. Caught. The noise of the rocks under her feet, she longs to turn and run, sending them flying behind her; into the air between herself and the stranger, farther and farther between them as she runs. He carries no jug or vessel. Surely he is here to make sport of her; jeer, speak to her as they all do, except in the dark, alone, secret.
Her back to Him, facing the well; she draws the water even as something draws her to stay, and desperate to go; shaking it off again, another riddle. She studies him; his face visible in the mirrored water. Hurry, she tells herself, wondering if she'll get away in time; and frozen, immobile, unable to move; wondering at the depth of this well; this heart of hers, colder now it seems, the deeper she draws from it.

Lowered, it is filled; water rushing; turning the earthenware brown and smooth, overflowing; running over. Empty no more, for now.
Behind her, His reflection still evident in the rippled well. She doesn't see the love in His eyes.

Heavy under the weight of her jug, she readies herself for the journey home.
And then she turns at the sound of His voice...

John 4

"...Listen to Him..."

A quiet but constant buzz in the room, cutting the air; the tension...glasses clanking, low conversation, private whispers. Bread broken and wine poured; each of them seated, either side of Him, as they had always done. Each jockyeying for position, wanting to get closer, but lost inside themselves, grateful for the meal, the setting sun, the cool evening air drying their freshly washed feet. They took the bread, accepted the wine as Jesus offered it...heard Him speaking to them, as every evening gone before; though some sensing an urgency in His voice. Teacher.. it's late. What are you telling us? Rest, Lord, We will fight for you..

The man in Him must have been pleading...Father, open their ears; I need to tallk to them; need them to hear me. I have so much I want them to know before I go. I imagine His unspoken words; ones He never had the chance to say...knowing they so desperately needed to hear them; would hold onto them in the coming days as a life line; their only comfort and hope in the wake of the most devastating hours they would ever know. The greatest joy and most unspeakable gift coming, surely, if only they would hear Him. Father...Speak Your words again, deep into their hearts..."This is My beloved Son...listen to Him.." Yet they wouldn't be reached; carried on their own conversations and agendas, sat at His table and judged each other, filling thier stomachs with food they knew only as bread and wine, and not His body or blood.

He must have needed a touch, a prayer, possibly from John.. surely he, at least, has thought of that? Dear Father, be with Your precious Son and my Lord. My best friend. Have mercy, Oh, God, on this longest of nights; be with us all, keeping watch.. and on our knees, beside Him, hear His prayer, as He cries out to you, blood sweat falling with every breath... Abba, Father....

Strong, able young men; able to fight if called on to do it; and 10 thousand angels beside them. They could save Him, set up their earthly kingdom together. This execution would be stopped; His enemies defeated. This wine a toast...a call to arms.

But He never asked them to pray for Him, or Peter to speak out in His defense instead of Peter's own. He never begged them to stay with Him and wait; to defend Him, in His darkest hour.  It was only when He reached the Garden that He ever sought prayer, or comfort, and even then, this prayer was for them. There was no goodbye from friends; no kiss...but one of betrayal. Only this one thing He would have them to know, and to do. Love each other, He plead; eyes filled with compassion and grace beyond their comprehension or will to know...Love each other, my friends, just as I have always loved you.

   Seated at His wonderful table...so much He has spoken to my heart and shown me in past days; leaving me full of His amazing grace; yet longing for those "great and unsearchable things" I have yet to know... Open my ears...soften my heart. Heavenly Father, I will listen...

Mark 9:7

John 13:34

Jeremiah 33:3

Matthew 26:41

In Remembrance of Me

One simple thought in my heart this morning; one that He has spoken to me over and over in past days... ...LOVE each other. Just... love each other. It came to me yesterday (it had to have been the Holy Spirit; nothing I ever write here comes directly from me)... That this was one of the very last things He told his friends before He was crucified. Before they turned their backs on Him. Please. Love each other, imperfect as you are; as they are; just as I, Who is Holy, and perfect, have loved you.

My desire, this morning, above all else.

Talk soon. Cross my heart.