When I'm overwhelmed, I rant. But maybe I need to stop ranting so much and just pray more. In the past month God has tattooed 1 Peter 5:7 into me: "Cast your cares upon Him, because He cares for you." "Casting" doesn't mean just throwing up your hands and turning your back on what worries you. It means prayerful, continuous, conscious, worshipful relinquishing of whatever comes between you and the Father. Idols, worries, fears, insecurities, sins. It takes time and repetition and scraping the bottom of your soul for more faith, but the utter FREEDOM and JOY that it brings is beyond words.
These days (this week) in early morning light
I've driven to a trail some miles away
and walked and wondered, awed, with all my might
and while in nature's presence, I've learned to pray.
It started as a peaceful stare,
this soaking-in of green and gold.
Trembling emerald leaves, up where
their canopy framed the sky, would hold
my gaze and whisper secrets on the wind.
I'd trace the creek, running dark and cold
through the trees, hearing its gurgling rush send
trills of wet harmony into this chorus so old--
birds sing, sing. The wind. The water. Footsteps.
Crunch of gravel, squeal of squirrel, plump of rain.
Birds sing, sing. The wind. The water. Footsteps.
Old, yes. But tapping in time to its refrain,
the footsteps of God echoed on the floor of my soul.
He knew I'd come to talk. But not to him--
I came to rant and ram my thoughts into their hole
they'd peeked out of that week. A whim
wasn't enough to pull me out of bed to go
trek these trails in chilly autumn air.
The voices in my head--incessant, low,
and bumbling--knew I didn't
care to worship. Not right here, not now.
So they chattered and I mimicked loud,
until... I crossed the parking lot,
and stood, all silently suddenly bowed
over the edge of a sing-song spot
of creek, and then the peaceful stare
and soaking in of green and gold
shut me right up, seemed to dare
me to speak--me, this cold
thankless narcissistic beast.
Birds sing, sing. The wind. The water. Footsteps.
A prod.
The Holy Spirit's good at that--
at slipping into that little niche of warmth that lets
him in and then I'm vulnerable and the
rhythm's all gone and I can't remember
the last rhyme.
I ask when did I ever
actually control my life?
When did I ever fall into HIS control?
"The trail," he says quietly.
"Keep walking."
Psalm 116:7
"The LORD has dealt bountifully with you."
Falling.
So I walk these trails and fight to walk in Christ--
some days I know they're one and the same
(the walking)
and go wild in the woods because JOY.
Some days I smear tears into my sweatshirt,
and give up.
And when I give up--
that's where
weakness caves into grace,
grace upon grace upon grace,
and I'm held as a faithful Father
carries me
down trails of mercy.