DebraBee

Before the light of day

Arise, arise

Come to Me

Hush, be hushed

Quench your thirst

Drink, drink

Ask of Me more

It’s yours, yours

As a child and even recently, I’ve played dominoes. A young man I adore teaches me that I am to put them together as they match. Laying upon the carpet I bring myself down to a level where I can appreciate his wisdom. I laughed aloud at the simplistic message and stored it away for a time such as now.

Thinking back to that moment I remembered how each piece was matched to another, but the variables were many, depending on the choices each would make. Still, only when rightly matched could the game be won.

She takes the last twenty from her wallet, giving it to the woman sitting on the bench

The things we do for love

In a moment of charity, he takes off his coat, offering it to the man shivering in the cold

The things we do for love

Seeing the man trying to hide in the corner to keep warm, an extra cup of coffee is taken to his table

The things we do for love

She puts her arms around the woman tearing up as she talks of the children she misses

The things we do for love

Nothing complicated, all things simple, all things welcomed

The things we do for love

Without my asking a single question, the woman before me began sharing parts of her life. At first it seemed like shallow conversation, but as she continued, I realized I was getting a personal glimpse at something deep in her heart. She wanted her daughter to have a belief in something that mattered. She was bothered that at age 29 her daughter had greed, and still thought of Santa as a truth.

I shared with her about the birth of a King and how the Magi came to honor this child with three gifts. Gold, frankincense and myrrh. I recognized a look of incomprehension on the woman’s face. It was easy to see that she took in the fact only three gifts were offered but the significance of their importance was lost on her. Even the name Jesus didn’t register as anything she could be excited about.

Leaving her, I put my hand upon her shoulder to speak a blessing. I wondered like I often do if I’d see her again in eternity.

She came in a wheelchair pushed by someone who had patience. At first she asked with politeness for where she was meant to be, but when the answer did not meet her expectations, she became confrontational. Her question had been simple. “Where was she supposed to be?” Once she found out she wasn’t there, rather than follow the instructions for how to get there, she became obnoxious about the matter.

I sat in my chair observing, but I wasn’t the only one. All who were waiting with me observed her behavior. I could sense none approved since it did nothing to solve her current situation. I was even amused by the few who wanted to push her towards her destination. Still this woman was incensed that she thought she’d been given wrong directions. It didn’t seem to dawn upon her that she could easily solve the matter by going in the right direction. Instead she wanted to linger in the wrong place and berate all those around at how it wasn’t her fault.

After she barked an order to be pushed onward toward her final destination, I leaned back with a smile on my face. I couldn’t criticize this woman for a moment. I had often been in the same shoes throughout my life. I’d just never had such a vivid example of how badly I’d misbehaved in those moments.

The motel room smelled of stale smoke and lacked a view of more than an asphalt parking lot. Even in this dismal place I could not be swayed from the faith and hope I carried in my heart. The more I listened to a friend’s pain and hurt, the more I was sure she’d find the help she needed once she’d come to the realization no one else could save her.

Coming to the end of self isn’t easy. Watching her vent in frustration, I could offer nothing of comfort. Her pride was dying a slow death and the anger of feeling it was taking a toll on her emotions. She sat in her chair trying to understand the words of wisdom another friend shared, but it was uncertain how much was sinking in yet.

Out of money and out of time for the cheap motel room, it was time to leave. As we got in my car I turned on the windshield wipers for the rain. A dead leaf was stuck in the arm and I got out to remove it. Standing in the gentle rain I felt peaceful knowing she would be guided down the right path no matter how difficult it was for her to take the steps.

Windows allowed viewpoints in every direction and the carpet declared as much with compass navigation. In its center was a global rock piece fountain, continually flowing. Flags were posted everywhere; proclaiming the truth. This was about everything and everyone. Music was a constant for worship. Picking out one of the pillows, I desired to lay upon the floor, to soak in the joy and peace to be had.

One by one they came, and I set myself upright against a corner wall. The worshipers began to gather without any direction. Each brought their instruments and families. I watched a few chairs being arranged in a circle. Eventually a large drum was brought in to be set in the center of these chairs. A man stood up to speak, hushing all who were there with his words. “This is not a social gathering, if you want to socialize than you can go outside, this is to worship and intercede.”

A native American flute began playing and its notes reminded me of why I had come here. As the drums were struck, I knew I could hear the rhythm of heaven…..I’ve always heard it…..it’s the rhythm of the kingdom to come.

In the gray and cold, a rain was dropping softly about me. I walked with a friend to get coffee, and while listening to what was being said, I was also trying to listen to the nearby river flowing. Under my hoodie I couldn’t hear its rushing waters but I knew it to be there.

Later with my coffee in hand, I sat at a corner table engaged in conversation. The river drew me to look in its direction now and again for the moving waters. Puddles on the cement let me know waters were being added to it with each drop. Inwardly I await the flooding to come.

“Don’t give up, don’t give up, don’t give up!” I heard these words from an old song begin playing over and over in my head. I knew what and who had been upon my heart. The topic was about praying for those we love so much. Discouragement had tried to find its way into our daily lives when we didn’t see instant results.

I remembered a conversation I’d had the previous night. I had shared of an experience from many years before. While visiting St. Louis, I was drawn to go into an old cathedral type church. I was not a woman of faith at the time, but I sat amongst old wooden pews looking at the iconic architecture. My mind began wondering about the history of this church. Eventually I began wondering about the previous lives who’d sat in the same spot I was now in. I wondered who they were, how they lived and how they died? I wondered what and who they prayed for?

After sharing this memory, I laughed at the irony of God’s revelation. I told my friend they had probably been praying for the lost and all these years later, here I was; found in salvation because someone had prayed me into the kingdom.

“Don’t give up, don’t give up, don’t give up………..”