“I tell you, open your eyes and look
at the fields! They are ripe for harvest.” John 4:35b
Too often, I forget to look up at the
fields. My head downcast, or so preoccupied with “self,” or
looking at somebody elses field, my own easily gets ignored. The
glamor of a different ministry becomes appealing, maybe a stage
somewhere, or a big platform, or being a missionary across the seas
where I would be “super Christian” and be worthy of the title.
Not the mundane of another day of home school in March with two feet
of snow still left on the ground to battle through to do chores with
a predicted high of only thirty-six.
In the midst of my pity party I am
impelled to go back and re-read the words of Scripture:
“I tell you, open your eyes and look
at the fields! They are ripe for harvest.” John 4:35b
I literally look up and see a teenage
boy sitting at the island eating breakfast and reading his Bible.
Either way, if even only for the sake of duty to cross it off his
daily list, the living words are still being drunk in. I watch him
for awhile, wondering where thirteen years have gone. I pray for him
once again. No earthly desires top the list, only eternal ones. I beg
God, please God, grant salvation to this son, too.
I am reminded of long-ago prayers
whispered over sleeping children, standing next to their beds,
touching their silent forms that were snuggled under handmade quilts.
Prayers, particularly for Trent, that God would use his life in a
mighty way for His glory. A prayer I didn't expect to be answered in
the way that it was. A prayer that I am scared to request again. My
words want to stay guarded before they leave my lips, frightened of
what God may ask of me next. But He knows my heart. He knows the
uttering of it, He has made the longing for His glory, no matter the
cost, to reign.
Fear wants to sneak its way in –
fears of what might be for their futures, fears even for this day,
fears of more suffering. How quickly my eyes stray from the field
where I have been sovereignly placed, stray from my Savior. Quietly,
the thoughts of grace eventually calm the fears. I look back to the
Bible and read the words again: Jesus answered [the Samaritan woman],
“If you knew the gift of God...” (John 4:1) To truly know the
gift of God compels me to endure.
In grief there is so much time spent
trying to learn how to live without your loved one. Whether you get
out of bed or not in the morning, it doesn't make a difference, they
are still not here. Every event is met with a brokenness, a neon sign
reminding you again and again that all is not right. There is a
continuous aching in a mother's heart and arms that refuses to be
comforted while your mind is forced to learn to live with the loss
lest you literally go insane.
As much as I am learning to live with
the loss of my son, I can't escape the continuous thought of Heaven.
If Trent were just spending the weekend at his best friend's house,
or staying with Aunt Traci for a while, or enjoying time at kid's
camp I could associate with where he was. I would not doubt his
“being.” Death is only an absence to those left behind, not to
the person who died. Trent is still Trent.
As I sat in my recliner late one night
last week, enjoying a book in the quiet hush of this old farmhouse, the
startling revelation came to me: Trent is in Heaven. The
thought nearly took the wind out of me. Tears soon followed as the
reality was fresh yet again. The brevity of this life once more
became glaringly apparent. The gospel of John reminds me over and
over of Jesus' words, “I am telling you the truth,” and “Believe
me, woman” echoing truth today while I sit drinking my coffee
and crossing the Bible off my own list. (John 4:21)
So somehow I try to measure everything
against that eternity. The short days here, the lives around me that
God has given me the privilege of influencing, my own heart that has
nowhere to hide. Like the Samaritan woman, though, (John 4) I quickly tend to change the subject, busy myself with the cares of this world, consume myself here in some new project rather than face the reality of eternal life.
Jesus met people where they were, even
sinful women going about their daily duties. There was no
prerequisite, other than brokenness, to feel his healing touch. Jesus
meets me where I am today. He answers my prayers and renews my
longing for His word, He breaks through my vitamin D depraved brain
and lights the fire again so that rather than being lukewarm I may be
hot. Rather than investing a little into eternity I may see the
worth, as much as my human brain can conceive of the idea, of fully
longing for redemption, longing for Christ to reign, longing for that
glory that Paul talks about so often.
3 comments:
Your posts are your ministry. Blessings from Ringle.
Beautiful. Happy Easter.
Your words always touch me. You are so gifted with them.
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