Written on July 20, 2016.
For Immersion5StormBane: Thank you each for being you as you allowed Him to be Him!
Epic: a long poem, typically one derived from ancient oral tradition, narrating the deeds and adventures of heroic or legendary figures or the history of a nation.
Beneath a crystal, cloudless sky, a collection of comrades embarked upon a journey. Fourteen companioned by ancient antidote and now narrative, they set off to learn a land and enter an epic. The stories of stars, tales of tribes and memories of months before them to behold.
The sun stood strong as each one’s pace became the place the Author of their epic could tarry in the telling. Twelve intersections were woven within the journey for pause and pursuit. Rest wells for the drawing of the drama.
A happening began a few intersections in. Past and present met and manifested. For remembrance of a cloud by day, brought bold billows that covered the sun. They breathed deep in heat’s intermission. Creation collided with song and scene, characters in the eternal story of them all.
The companions crossed a threshold and found a table set and place prepared for feast and fellowship. There they found laughter and love their manna. A sweet Fragrance was Offered to the One who Dwelled with them. Hearts were Thrilled as the Whisper of His Character became an Ornament upon Garden gates Kept wrapped in Scarlet, ready for Beautiful treasures to be Discovered and Revealed.
As they set out once more, a rumbling began. The theory of thunder had already been told, so they each received the vibration and wave. The reset to make them ready. The cadence of creation continued, melding with sky song as the companions carried on.
From here, I must break away from the telling of all, to the tale of one. For each champion of our companionship has their own stanza to share. They will be sewn together, just as our hearts were that day and we each and every will pass the story on and down for the declaration of the mighty deeds of our Magnificent Maker.
For my part, I was bestowed the great honor of walking us through the passion of the play we are all made and moved for. Entering each chamber was like joining an act of the play in progress. We did not so much become characters in scenes as legends of story. We become legends simply by entering in.
We knocked on Chesvan’s door, and were greeted by quiet and still. Seeds are already planted in this place, though we can’t see their growing quite in the quiet. It is the place where tribes have the freedom to choose to possess the land given them or not. The faithful are found here. pierced people chose to remain in the place provided.
Understanding came upon me in Chesvan, that the GPS within us from the start is not fight or flight. Our eyes widen and hearts quicken in the wait of His wonder not the flee of our fear. We were made to stay when one comes to steal the seed and move with the One who planted it. Ever moving towards Someone not away from something.
The wind came then, pressing wildly at our backs as Destiny took us to our next destination. We entered Kislev just as a shrill siren sounded at the perfect time on the wrong day. Phones buzzed thereafter with alert and alarm. They said to take cover just as we walked into trust. Billows blackened as the narrative narrowed to a people called Macabee who could trust God and no other. To the season when miracles returned and the impossible implored. The invitation of trust is to respond, react or resist. Response resurrects miracles long forgotten and anxiously awaited. For trust is the greatest miracle of all.
Kislev is when heavy rain waters deep seed. During our visit, the rains began. And we were moved at the sound of His voice, not the force of the wind or welt of the rain. To Tevet, the land of testimony.
Clouds hung low, perfect clay for false towers that would swirl and steal from a land generous and gallant. And we unfurled our testimonies, banners of those beautifully broken by what HE has done. Over and over. Every day. And the clay crumbled. We stood below but not under. And a wind that could tear a tree from the ground, could not move us. For His mighty hand lifted us and held us tightly. A relentless rear guard devoured the stealer of seed and I saw a band of brave bloom.
Within me Shevat began to shout with the connection to Pappa in everyday things. When we feel Him, experience Him we extend Him. quick as lightening came the remembrance of a date night in the middle of hay bales a few nights before. There we read the storied sky and adventured through adoration. And now the map inside said to return to that place of power and do the most powerful thing ever. Express. Him. The story wasn’t told there. It was lived. Through dancing, singing, praying and praising. Through hands held high and inhales and exhales. By each doing what they could in that moment to translate who He was and is to them.
One held a scarf high and hopeful. Frantic in the wind but not in their hand. Surrounded by dark, a little light shined and the calvary that came for us – saw. Like needles in a haystack we were found. By Imagination, Voice and Intimacy. He always, always comes for His beloved. All I could say was “I’m so in Awe.” In the middle of memory making, I wasn’t aware of what part of Arubbah we landed. I could only say “the portion with the hay bales.” As one might imagine in a story such as this were were in the portion of Arubbah called Awe. In Awe in every way. I didn’t have to think about not being afraid there. I just wasn’t. Beneath the rage of reckless, in the Hold of Heaven I realized how unaware I have often been of His protection. A whispy wing is greater than a fiery dart. And that truth changed me forever.
Later, tapered in towels and colored by candlelight, one said to me they knew they wouldn’t die because they knew my person would come for me. I am undone to be part of a love story such as that. For it was birthed from the greatest love story every to be told. A calvary was sent because of love poured out at Calvary.
It all returns to us, this splendorous (auto corrects to splendor us) story of ours. So we can live it, exactly as He intends. Even and especially when the intent of another is to have us write our own. We do not write alone, we write with. We ride with. We journey with. We adventure with. The One called Epic.
Let the Spirit navigate you to the journaling of a place in your story that changed you forever. Maybe in that place, you said you would never be the same. But you forgot. You stopped passing the story on and down. Remember and revive. And choose never being the same forever.