A Good Swift Kick

The house is quiet. Too quiet for 8:32 on a Monday morning when there should be bustling kids getting their day started with Bible reading, school and chores. The boys aren't squirming in their bunk bed yet, starting the brotherly affections of headlocks and tooting contests. The girls aren't whispering and giggling, sharing secrets as the sun comes up.

But a quiet Monday morning house is nice. I see a few floating snowflakes out the kitchen window. The wood stove is going, the coffee has already been drank, the tears have been cried and my mind is overflowing with the word of God as my soul tries to comprehend the realities of it.

Everybody is tired out from a crazy schedule. The busy-ness is a defense mechanism. One that I am good at. Fill the days, keep your hands and feet moving, wait for eternity to begin. And then John tells me in direct answer to desperate prayers to work for the food that will last, not to invest in food that spoils (John 6:27). He reminds me that what Jesus said was true.

And I needed to be reminded. My natural tendency is that if I can't be busy, then I'll stay in bed and doubt, and whine, and complain. Against God. The God of the universe who has everything under His control and the God who only beckons me to press in harder, to hide in Him, to trust and wait.

I can still envision the scene in my mind from this summer when it first began. A camping trip with my sister, and only ten kids instead of eleven. The same campground, the same fishing boats, the same little sunfish ... The tears that haven't stopped flowing, and the indulgent baby steps of entering into the realm of allowing doubt to rule. I am entitled to my pity party. I have a lot to complain to God about. I am only human. My son is dead. So I ventured in, and enjoyed myself.

Like Job, who did I think I was to accuse the Almighty of anything, especially of making a mistake? I am but dust (Psalm 119). A vessel, made of clay of course (2 Corinthians 4:7), but a vessel none the less of a master craftsman (Isaiah 64:8). I cannot fathom how He works, I cannot fathom the glory to come, I cannot fathom the distance between His ways and mine (Isaiah 55:8-9).

I can also still envision the rebuke. The shower room where my heart doubted, the curtains separating the sinks and the shower heads, hiding two hurting hearts and the tears on both of our faces on opposite sides. "Don't ever indulge me in doubt," I finally proclaimed. I don't want to be encouraged to doubt God. His promises are enough. And, thank God, this sister of mine is good at giving swift kicks in the behind.

No, there is no room for doubt. Did Jesus doubt? What does doubt accomplish? For me it creates uselessness, for myself and my family. It creates despondency, and wastes the precious moments that I have been granted here, of the fleeting shadow of my days, which are already flowing as grains of sand through the hand, of which I will give an account for before this Holy God who has opened my eyes to Him.

If I say I believe, then I better be believing. There is much Kingdom work to be done, and it won't be accomplished while I am crying in my bed.

Jesus said, repeatedly actually, that He was telling the truth (John 5:19a, 5:25a, 6:26a, 6:32a, 6:47a, etc, etc, etc.). The prophets even testified to His promises and foretold of a time to come, a glorious time, when all would be made right.

Jeremiah 31:16

 This is what the Lord says:

“Restrain your voice from weeping
and your eyes from tears,
for your work will be rewarded,”
declares the Lord.

 

The puppies are awake and the kids are getting noisy, which means Monday morning has officially begun. Here we go again, one day closer to eternity. What treasures shall I store up today?