Grandma’s Alphabet
My grandma would have had no idea what a blog is or what it means to guest post.
But earlier this evening, my mom dropped a gift in the comment box for my earlier post on my grandma. What she left there, really a gift from Grandma, begged for a little more attention than it might get tucked away in the comments.
So it seems Grandma has written a post for us without knowing it.
During her last few years here, Grandma had a harder time holding onto the day. She might struggle to remember who she was talking to. She would confuse dates, or times, or places. At times, what she said simply made no sense at all.
As Grandma began to drift away more and more during her visits, my aunt encouraged her back to the daylight by rehearsing her alphabet.
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Orange Juice, Taters and Summers at the Lake: In Memory of Grandma Margaret
She waved me into a chair, then dropped into the rocker across from me. Grandma’s Bible landed hard on my lap. The old book was thick and heavy. My little girl legs, not so much.
“Open it right down the middle. You’ll always land in the Psalms,” she said as we sat knee to knee. “Let’s go, Kidlet. Read to me.”
How blessed is the man who does not walk in the counsel of the wicked,
Nor stand in the path of sinners,
Nor sit in the seat of scoffers!But his delight is in the law of the LORD,
And in His law he meditates day and night.
I looked up from the tattered pages. Grandma’s head lolled to the side and she began to snore.
Looks like my work here is done. I closed the Psalms back against Job and watched her from the corner of my eye as I started out of my chair. Sure enough, she snapped her head up and ordered my behind back into the seat.
“Find it again — the first Psalm. And don’t stop reading,” she barked. “I’m awake.” For a split second, the corner of her mouth twitched into a knowing smirk.
And then it was gone.
Not that Micah
There was a prophet, Micah, who spoke of days coming when men would rest securely, each in the tranquility of his own home.
From Micah God’s people would learn of their coming destruction for rejecting and replacing Him with little-g gods. And they would also discover what God truly desired was that they would love mercy, do justly and walk humbly with God.
This same Micah foretold of one coming Messiah who would stand as Shepherd and who would be for His flock a living, breathing, tangible peace.
But there was another Micah. The one of whom the writer of Judges told.
This Micah was not that Micah.
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Unboxing God
God will not be boxed.
I look at God. I mean, those times when I really see Him. (By really see Him, of course, I mean sort-of-catch-a-tiny-glimpse-of-an-itsy-bitsy-part-of-Him-that-is-not-shrouded-by-the-limitations-of-my-fallen-mind.)
And then I look at the cramped storage space I’ve set aside for Him, and my skin tingles a little.
In an anxious sort of way.
Because that box I’ve built for Him to sit down in, I know it’s not spacious. Not in the same way that He is spacious anyway.
That anxious feeling creeps in when with wide eyes I realize I’ve packed black powder into a crate and set it next to an open flame.
It’s only a matter of time before He blows the sides off.
He will not be boxed.
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No Other Argument
The mornings are a little lighter now, but it seems I still rise while it’s dark.
Habit, I suppose. Or perhaps my joints are just growing older and less tolerant.
I don’t have to get up early any more, but sleep still leaves me at the usual time.
This morning I pulled back the warmth of downy covers and slipped out of bed into a darkness that filled the room but seemed also to envelop my soul. Even as the lights went out last night I sensed the darkness encroaching. Not the darkness of space that invites sleep, but that of spirit which steals rest clean away.
I swatted at it with a weak threat to doze off and thought to pretend it away. But by morning, it had its grip.
It held me with a firm hand.
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God Still Calls at Home
I am, at least for a time, reordering my days.
This morning I slept in until 6:30. By the time noon rolled around, I’d checked in on the online world, been to the gym, sat still with the Father, read from A Praying Life, done dishes and laundry, vacuumed a day’s portion of mud from my living room carpet, attended a business meeting and talked to the outplacement folks.
I even saw my kids standing upright before they left for school instead of the hunched shapes that would grunt back from under blankets when I stepped into their darkened rooms to whisper, “Love you, Bud. Have a good day at school.”
From rising late to leisurely reading in the daytime, this takes some serious reordering. I didn’t even drink my coffee until nearly 9:30. This is not how I am accustomed to spending my days.
Not that I’m complaining.
With the exception of the housekeeping, I relished the morning.
But at 9:00 this morning, I jumped.
(Just a little.)
And then I remembered: God still calls at home.
This part of my day, while all else changes, this part remains the same.
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The Conversation