Monday, February 9, 2015

A planting of the LORD.

Let the peoples praise You, O God; let all the peoples praise You. Let the nations be glad and sing for joy, for You judge the peoples with equity and guide all nations upon the earth. Let the peoples praise You, O God; let all the peoples praise You. Psalm 67:3–5

I have seen the travail, which God hath given to the sons of men to be exercised in it. Yet God has made everything beautiful for its own time. He has planted eternity in the human heart, but even so, people cannot see the whole scope of God's work from beginning to end. Ecclesiastes 3:10-11

I woke up this morning, oddly enough, with a song on my lips: His name be praised in all the earth.

So today’s Call to Prayer did not surprise me one bit. Let the peoples praise You, O God. Let all the peoples praise You.

Because my prayer these days is immediate and full obedience to Him who dwells within. And I am a little embarrassed to say that as I stood in front of my Aunt Carol’s bookcase crammed full of amazing books, the same Aunt Carol who was head librarian of New York City libraries and sent each one of her nephews and nieces the most thoughtful and perfect book every birthday and every Christmas, and I learned how to read on my fifth birthday because my mom read Little Bear over and over and over again until all those little black marks suddenly made sense, that I only took three books. And I am embarrassed to say that one of them was not a signed leather-bound first edition; I actually pulled off Eat, Pray, Love for my trip home. I hate admitting trendiness. Especially late trendiness. And of course there was no opportunity for light reading on Jim’s and my adventure to Tucson, and yet somehow I know God wants me to read this book. So I am reading it. And gaining fresh insight into eternity being planted in the human heart and He faithfully guiding all nations of the earth. And yes, I confess to being in the middle of my Eat, Pray, Love year like everyone joked about, but I am still in India praying.

Although I still hesitate long and hard before praying for people in Fry’s parking lot, even though there was lots of Spirit-prodding as I watched a nice man limp by, holding just a tan plastic bag with red lettering exactly the shape of a whiskey bottle and nothing else. But I hung with Nicole when she prayed for another nice man in a wheelchair with arthritis who has twenty-four grandchildren and one of them was with him, putting noodles in the shopping cart.  

But Sunday a guy with a baseball cap and funny beard ran across the room to prophecy over me, he said, because my face was shining with joy and that I am entering a time of producing much fruit because my roots are planted deep. And he stretched out his arms to show how very heavy the branches would be laden. And that all would gather round to rest in my shade because I am full of peace. And that so many would be welcomed into my home and into my life, to eat of the fruit.

Which reminds me of the planting of my feet appropriately with toes pointed in during the seven hours of silent and still meditation. And somehow the seven hours left me thirsty for more silence, more being led by still waters. And the priest had given me a slip of paper to mediate on, Blessed are the poor in spirit. May I be poor in spirit. Be still. Breathe in, Breathe out.

And I just rode my bike up Sentential Mountain. Way slow, but fairly steady. (Yes, those are adjectives describing me, and not adverbs, how I rode.) And as I rested before the way too fast descent, I considered Tucson sprawling out in all directions, under its little dust cloud. And I was ever aware of people cannot see the whole scope of God's work from beginning to end.  Not at all. But let me praise His name. His name be praised in all the earth.

And yes, I am just noticing all of the planting words. Promises. It seems so long ago but really only two days ago, that I was staring at a promise that seemed could not possibly come true: Those who sow with tears will reap with songs of joy. Those who go out weeping, carrying the seed, will come again with joy, shouldering their sheaves.

With all the peoples.