Comfort

365 Days

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Today marks 365 days around the sun since you joined us here. I remember the call. You were gone. I miss you more than I can say but I know it’s okay (I swear I didn’t mean for that to rhyme).

In my heart, I see clearly the serenity of the place you last walked. In my head, I want to call you and tell you about my day, my week, the weather, the sound my car is making, the dinner I cooked tonight…the stupid, little things.

I miss you! I wish you were here to run home to. I wish you were here to remind me it’s all okay. But I’ll have to wait until we meet again. “Remember who you are”, comes to mind.

I hope this year has been your best! I hope you’ve done your “special daddy dance” (which I demonstrate for my kids often) around the streets of heaven. I hope you’ve looked down on us and smiled. I smile for you daily!

One year, 365 days and everything has changed and everything is the same. Without you…

A hole in the center filled with light.

I miss you Daddy but I know it’s alright. (Oops with the rhyming again…whatever…I’m leaving it.)

Listening

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The dark can be so daunting

The light can seem so dim

Still, from heaven, you are calling.

Can I hear your voice again?

No fear in death or life, though all of hell presses in

Your voice, the roaring lion, shatters mountains and hangs on the wind.

Still small voice, speak to me. I’m listening!





It is Enough!

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This post is a little different from my standard posts. I’m sharing with you what I wrote this morning while reading my Bible. Last night was a particularly difficult night for me. This morning, Is brighter because His word brings life and hope. Hopefully, you can glean something from it that will encourage you today. If you’re unfamiliar with the stories I’m referencing, read I Kings chapters 18 & 19.

It is Enough!

God showed Himself mightily through Elijah. In I Kings 18, he proves himself by sending fire to consume the sacrifice and turns the hearts of the people back to the Lord. Then he hears the “sound of abundance of rain” and prays until the clouds form and outruns Ahab’s chariot. Still, he (Elijah) was under a tremendous amount of pressure and adversity. By chapter 19 of I Kings, he’s running for his life from Jezebel, and it finally overwhelms him. He prays in verse 4 that he would die, “It is enough! Now Lord take my life, for I am no better than my fathers!” He is tired and feels like a failure.

How many times in my life, have I felt exactly this way? The heaviness of it all gets to me from time to time, no matter how hard I try. I don’t think Elijah was suicidal. He wasn’t trying to hurt himself and if he really wanted to die, he wouldn’t have bothered running from Jezebel. He just needed to rest and find the voice and peace of God in the middle of the pain.

God was there and shows up to sustain him, just like he always does for us. For Elijah, he sent an angel to tap him on the shoulder and feed him. The angel says to him in verse 7, “The journey is too great for you”. God know what we can handle and when it’s too much for us. He doesn’t expect us to do it on our own or in our own strength. He is there with compassion and provision when we don’t have the strength to keep going. His provision strengthens us. Elijah went, “in the strength of that food” all the way to the “mountain of God”.

“What are you doing here Elijah?”

God could have been asking him this because he should have been somewhere else and he was hiding out in a cave instead, but I think God asked him this because He wanted Elijah to see where he was. He wanted Elijah to see his purpose and who he was and who God is.

“Then He said, ‘Go out, and stand on the mountain before the Lord.’ And behold, the Lord passed by, and a great and strong wind tore into the mountains and broke the rocks in pieces before the Lord, but the Lord was not in the wind; and after the wind an earthquake, but the Lord was not in the earthquake; and after the earthquake a fire, but the Lord was not in the fire; and after the fire a still small voice.” I Kings 19:11-12

When Elijah heard the “still small voice”, he wraps his face in his mantle, the symbol of his prophetic authority and “went out and stood”. “What are you doing here Elijah?” It’s then, when Elijah knows why he’s there and recognizes who he is and that he’s not alone, that he goes back and follows the instructions of the Lord and continues the work of the Lord.

Sometimes this life, these trials, are too much for me. I lay down just like Elijah and pray “It is enough!” God is there for me as well. He sees and provides and leads me through. I need to lean in. I need to trust Him. When he says, “Arise and eat.”, for me that means devouring the word of God and letting His word sustain me. I need to realize that though the winds, and earthquakes, and fire, break the rocks into pieces, He is still, unmoving, constant. The seemingly smallest of things contain the most meaning. I need to lean in and steady myself in that! I need to remember who I am.

Elijah wrapped his face in his mantle, his purpose. My purpose is to glorify God in and through everything…to show Him to the world. When I remember why I’m here, I can stand up.

Like, Elijah, I also need to remember I’m not alone. God has placed people around me strategically to fight alongside me. I don’t have to find alone, and I can rest in that. Still, Elijah had to go out and appoint and anoint them. I need to stop being afraid of being vulnerable and be willing to reach out and accept help and support. That’s a tough one for me, but I’m working on it.

Fear is a Terrible Driver

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It’s been a hard year. It seems like we’ve all said that so many times now, it’s become an anecdote. The reasons for its sting are different for everyone. I wish for me, it were simply the work of a pandemic and its’ resulting madness, but it’s been so much more than that. The darkness of all the broken parts of my story threatened to undo all of me, everything I’ve built, and the woman I’ve become. I am so grateful for the light I’ve found in spite of it, that lifts me.

The hand of God still reaches for me. His fingers lightly nudging the stony parts of my heart until it beats again with softness. I am slowly ambling my way out of the deep into the deeper, truer, reasonableness that is faith.

I read a quote this morning from Ann Voskamp, “He who is driven by fear delays the comfort of God.” I can see it so clearly now. I lost sight of truth for a time…of all the wonder and goodness. I let fear take the wheel and drive. It drove me in circles in a vacuum of sorts. I was unable to find the air that fear had stolen from me. I gave it away. I was just along for the ride until I remembered it’s my car and took back the keys.

Now the comforter is near, wrapping me up once again. He never left but I had kicked Him off when the room got too hot. I forgot that He alone is enough. Isn’t remembering the things we too often forget, one of the greatest things in life?

The hard stuff can either make us hard or draw us to Him. Choose wisely and don’t let fear anywhere near your car.

Welcome

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It’s been awhile since I took a moment to stop and spend a few moments at the keyboard. This is mainly due to the odious fact that in times when I need to release that spark of divine thought the most, I am tempted and often accede to occupying my mind with lesser things that require no thought or even slight use of intellect. Instead of tapping into the source of comfort, I so often delve into the well of apathy, a quality I wish I could observe like a speck in someone else’s eye rather than staring blankly at the beam obstructing my own. Either way, it’s been an eventful couple of weeks.

One week ago, I gave birth to my fourth child. He’s heaven wrapped up in baby skin so soft and kissable that I am forced by a power so much greater than me, to stop and breathe him in. I revel in tiny fingernails and the way he can spread and curl his toes. It is another reminder in this dilapidated world, that God not only exists, but creates with brilliant stroke, the most beautiful artwork. His hand reaches into the deep and molds and fashions perfection.

I recently heard of a study which showed a high percentage of people turned to faith in God after having a child because they felt they had witnessed a miracle. Truly, they have. My mind reels at the thought of someone looking into the marvel that is childbirth and a newly birthed baby and walking away unconvinced that there is a creator.

I write this now, with baby in one arm, partly to share our joy with you and partly to remind myself in the days to come, that I cannot forget to pour out that which is in me. Only in releasing what is given, can I attain more. Only in attaining fresh vision and revelation, can I continue to grow. Only in growth, can I teach or inspire those around me, my children, my sphere of influence.

Welcome little one! I am so in love!

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White Washed Tombs

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I took a drive today to a place I once lived. Something once so familiar now screams of distance and abandon, of days long past and reminders of how far I’ve come.

Even the sky is dim framing the homes fallen to disrepair, forgotten or ignored by the “noble” ones; still occupied by dreamers or those who’ve given up, a little of both, who am I to say?

The middle of the street interrupted by medians that were created a few years ago by those seeking to rejuvenate or beautify the otherwise dismal. Live oaks and palm trees stand like proud pillars lending shade to the mass of flowers beneath. Anything to train the eye to ignore the reality and focus on the seemingly lovely.

Money spent to cover up instead of resolve. Funds allocated to appearance instead of wholeness and recovery. An attempt to buy hope for the broken instead of introducing the need to the one who IS hope, the answer, the truth.

Maybe that’s what we’ve become. White washed tombs who hide our need behind proud pillar smile and flowery words. Broken and bound within but perfumed and covered by manicured skin and rote responses, “I’m doing great! How are you?” “Blessed and highly favored” though the words lack sincerity and genuineness.

My heart breaks for the broken ones, the ones hidden behind showcases of beauty. Can we acknowledge the need and do something or do we drive by and focus on the flowers? Am I willing to allow my eyes to see? Am I broken for others and pouring out in prayer and kindness? Am I offering my hands and my heart or am I content with the covering?

Not just on the street among the drug bound and needy, but in the grocery store when I see someone who needs a smile and a word of encouragement. To the cashier whose day consisted of complaints and busy people. In the church where the people so often hide who they really are for fear of rejection (struggling with secret sin but too afraid to admit it and find healing)? Do I walk by and join the others, refusing to go deeper into the fray? Will I not be moved to compassion for another?

Am I a white washed tomb, who appears to have the answers but never provides a solution? Am I real? Do my words show the genuineness and compassion of a loving, infinite, savior and comforter who longs to mend the broken-hearted and restore the weak.

Lord, break my heart for what breaks yours. Here I am, send me.

Pumpkin

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I fear that if I don’t go to bed before midnight, I might become a pumpkin

I worry only about change I cannot change

Anxious for nothing, I ponder the reasons I fall to deep emotion

Balance is sometimes hard to attain

The cliff of same before me, something sacred this way comes

Freedom from the ashes of the past

Beginning again each day the death of me in pursuit of the life I seek to live

Wrap me up sweet comforter; I need your arms tonight.

Prayer of Peace

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I always thought of peace in the still, the calm of the water as it sits like glass; so pure you feel like it could hold you. Maybe there’s peace there. But as I sit here listening to the babbling of the brook, the trickling as the water flows gently over rock, white tops bouncing playfully as creek meets stream, I see a peace I’ve never known.

Maybe that’s just another way your peace passes our understanding. We expect peace in the still when noise is dimmed to silence, when movement fades to freeze. Yet greater peace is found in the chaos. It’s in the way the water goes whichever way you send it, the way the speed increases as the path narrows. Yet the whole time it’s guided by the boundaries you’ve set in place. The banks were built to hold it, the boulder sent to divert it, the tree limb sprouting aimlessly out of rock like a mystic, misplaced giant. 

There’s a comfort there in the noise, the splash, the motion. There’s an alcove ahead where the water rests, if only for a minute. It pools with the other drops around it lazily descending toward the next narrow place where it will flow further down the mountain. There’s a safety in knowing that you guide the mountain. You hold the stream. You bring the melody I sing to the sway of the trees you created. You’ve given us this moment. You’re romancing me.

As I leave this place and find myself back in the clamor and commotion of life, let this moment sustain me. Let me remember that you are holding me.

Without the noise, there’d be no music. Without the movement, we’d be stagnant. Without the narrow, we’d never be sharpened and grow.

You are my peace.

Jaimie Dandridge