Yes, Lord, Your Word, Your ways, are the constants in the far-flung places I have found myself. Since I was a babe, I have found myself a nomad, always the stranger. That sits heavy on me today, as it sometimes does. Yet wherever I have lived, You have gone before and have pitched your nomad-tent there with me. This morning, with some ache, I recall pieces of that, and release to You in confession and repentance, all the pieces my hands can grasp of that chip on my shoulder.
Here in the stillness these words abide, repeat, and draw me deeper into Your pure presence. Later, as this late-Advent day rolls out, as I roll into its opportunities, choices, and doings, may my soul be a container that carries this inner stillness into this corner of the world. May this desire form my pace and my rhythm, and reach out to brush the souls of those whose paths I cross.
Indeed there is heaviness. The solitariness of our walk with You in this beautiful place during this Advent season; the ache for a warring region and the refugees that flow through here on their way to Hope; for those who dwell here always and who suffer the darkness of brokenness in all its forms; for those far-flung dear ones who suffer this day. I cry lament: “How long, O Lord?” Yet again, “O Lord, wouldn’t now be a good time for You to come?”
|I am aware these days that when we pray we join in the prayer of that great cloud of witnesses who have gone before us. High privilege!|