Going Under

They’re talking about spending the afternoon in the pool like it’s gonna be the best thing ever and I’m thinking about going under. The heat is settling in and the lines of traffic are suffocating. Better to focus on how I really could use a cute pair of red shoes. Because that is so much easier to face than the chicken feed spilled across the carpet, the chicks escaping from their box, the girls in Nigeria stolen from their school and held as living ransom. Moms at school are dragging, shuffling toward summer, throwing their hands up in despair at projects and events, dreaming of summer. And the realists are saying that summer won’t solve the problem. It will simply reshuffle the issues. It’ll be bliss for 10 minutes and then the kids will start fighting and we’ll all be praying for school to start again. I’ve got piles of laundry, a dishwasher that needs emptied and refilled, and a drought. Somehow I’m to cut 25% of our water use while tending my farm, my pool, the gardens and the children. Perhaps we just bath in the pool going forward. And I’m thinking I’m going under. It’s a hot, red mess out there. And going under sounds about right. But God. He shows up. There’s a surprise donation from old friends for CompassioNow. There’s a letter to Cindy Cunningham that speaks to the hearts of all the children of Uganda who have been rescued, the heart echoed in the letters from my own sponsored child. She’s come from a hot, red mess that I can’t even begin to fathom, that makes my hot, red mess look like a cake walk. She’s 11 and she lost her parents 9 years ago. How and why are up to the imagination. How and where she’s been living since… again, up to the imagination. And she’s thanking God for us, for the part we are playing in giving her a safe home, consistent food and medical care, love and Jesus. It’s so little on our part. So little. And it’s making such a difference. But God. He shows up. And I’m on my knees praying for the friends with cancer, the job interview, the waiting friend, the hurting friend, and He washes me with a stillness. And He says, “I’m God. I’ve got this.” From the beginning, He’s got this. Until the end, He’s got this. In the fiery furnace, He’s got this. In the cold, waiting night, He’s got this. He’s there in the cry of the newborn and in the sigh of relief, in the anguish of disease and the peace of a fulfilled promise, the long, endless hours and the short blink that really is life. He’s got this. I preach this to myself. Because I need it. Like a parched desert wanderer, I chug this truth, this reality instead of mirage. Guzzle, inhale, take it in as fast as possible. I’d rather drown in this truth than in the craze of the world that forces me under.

Be still and know that I am GOD. Psalm 46:10

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