Held

Life upon a spinning globe can feel at times, a bit off axis. It’s not that the world is really so wonky, just that we haven’t quite taken hold of living in two places at once.

David, whether staff steward or crown bearer, grasped the phenomenon. Peripheries were places he was happy to be held, within the outer limits of Who God was. When face to face with now and not yet, he planted his feet in the mystery of Who his God had ever been and embraced the curiosity of Who he could allow Him to be.

My steps have held to your paths, my feet do not slip.  Psalm 17:5

Held, David could bear witness to the world as it was and marvel at the thought that it would not remain as such. For there is an uncharted sea for unruly hearts and ancient rhythms lead to a current flow. The message in a bottle comes from an exiled heart. Its watery lines proclaim the Kingdom is still coming, every day.

You hold a broad path for my feet… Psalm 18:36

A path is held beneath, each time Pappa is held high. This is not a space of immeasurable size, but one that will constantly and continuously grow, widening as we wonder.

How much room does He need? A world’s worth.

The road we travel is a calligraphy trail, full of slant lines and twists and turns. It grows narrow where it borders our tapered thoughts and imploding ideas, so we might remember His great things are birthed in small spaces. What a sweet stretch, for we often need a plateau upon which to pause our thoughts and awake our hearts.

We so often want concrete lines cemented on a page beneath the title of “plans”. Yet it is not our most “well laid” that tethers us. It is His mighty acts that keep us in place, intact.

Twists and turns lead to spun stories. Tall tales don’t come from rigid walks.

Taking a shortcut to bypass the long way might just lead us right past where His best is held beautifully. What if His loops in the lines are gracious gardens filled with little bits: dandelions, rosebuds and sprouting seeds, a fragile rosary made of answered prayers? What if we found bloomed flowers, those awaiting the fellowship of a bridal bouquet? For won’t we hold something in our hands when He comes? A manifestation of the truth that we never let go?

It is good, being in His hands. When we are held, we say swiftly moving prayers for a fast-paced world. Wonderful comes out of nowhere, from what we normally look past or absently ignore. We find beauty in a simple scene and let it break us, so He breaks through.

Held, we turn our minds towards reverence and realize that our recognition is a type of wide worship, our adamant attention a deep praise.

Minuscule things become worthy of praise, in His hold. When we adore Him in little things, we adorn our lives with markers for epic encounters.

Amazement is contagious. Maybe we should spread it around, purpose ourselves for a new kind of pandemic! Because we are captured in the image of the most generous community.

Elohim is ever here in the space we inhabit; in the room we make. What might we pencil into our purpose from dancing in starlight and basking in moon glow?

He who can no longer pause to wonder and stand rapt in awe, is as good as dead; his eyes are closed. Albert Einstein