Saturday, June 7, 2014

The language of Heaven

All my brokenness is a whisper that I don’t belong, and every time I don’t feel like I belong, the Scarred and Rejected God whispers, “Come here, my beloved.”
-Ann Voskamp

And suddenly its June again. Its raining. And its cold. But I can hear this magical sound, and I'm inspired again.

The past few months of illness and family and Church and work, play and sun have unravelled messily behind us, distant and blurry because of the pace we move at. Winter has settled down to stay here, down near the bottom of mainland Australia. We can light fires and drink more tea, make things with yarn and snuggle. But its still a challenge.

My beautiful friend Dee has pointed me to a place of joy lately and while I'm sure I'm probably the last one to find it, it is most definitely the right time for me to have 'a holy experience' on this crazy world of online distractions. My Maisy and I lay and listened to the beautiful music of David Nevue and both fell in love with the sound. An hour before I'd been touched by Ann's words and her little corner of joy and grace, her focus on Jesus.

{from this post}

So we bought the album, and I signed up to read when I can, it brings me back to a place where can drink in the beauty in my day and in the very place I am at, weary and clinging on, often hanging out for sleep time, and really truly it opens my heart to see some of the beauty of Jesus.

Lately my brief daily snippets of Spurgeon wisdom have nudged me, and the women who I meet in our community group have reminded me, and the Spirit is so gentle but persistent when He tells me that I must make time to be with God, to hear each day of grace that rescues a heart like mine and love that waits and stays and reaches out.

Its amazing how small life can get when we are missing that external thing that is bigger and greater than us. That thing that takes our eyes off ourselves and our family and our own pleasures or distractions. The seasons around us change gradually but yet so quickly and when the summer nights are steamy and blanket-less we can't imagine ever needing socks or electric blankets. I cannot imagine here in my warm bed in the middle of June, the feeling of a starved belly or no place to rest. I'm distracted by the list of things that need doing in my big house, the washing and the cooking, the endless cleaning and improving. Simple gratitude is crowded out by our need to do and to consume. We are small and our lives are so completely fragile in the eyes of a Creator who sees all. And when we are always looking down, the parameters of our hearts close in a little tighter and we miss joy and real beauty, and yes even as believers we miss the glory and grace of Jesus.

I am grateful that despite my semi-blindness I still see bits of beauty in my day, that I feel joy when a friend speaks of the smallest of gifts from above that are actually giant when seen through uplifted eyes. After a long, sick, low, frustrated day I might just want to curl up and wait for sleep time and the hope of new mercies tomorrow but tonight my family spur one another on amidst grumbles and bouts of frustrations at lost shoes and scratchy scarves to walk the dog in the dark under the fresh night sky. And the ten minutes of breathing and literally looking up together makes the day's disappointments fall away. He is in control. And I'm not meant to understand it.

So what pulls on my very being and what I seek to do often is to be quiet and still. Because my real home is waiting for me in Heaven, and my body tells me daily that I don't belong here, most especially in winter, I have to keep on learning to speak the language of Heaven.


When heaven is really your motherland, then prayer is really your mother tongue, and you can’t help but yearn to speak in the language of your Father now.
-Ann Voskamp

1 comment:

  1. This is beautiful. "And the ten minutes of breathing and literally looking up together makes the day's disappointments fall away. He is in control. And I'm not meant to understand it." Sums up how I often feel. X