Night Music

May the glory of the LORD endure forever; may the LORD rejoice in his works. Psalm 104:31


By the time I hit the bed my thoughts are tough knots. Worry has tangled many concerns into a twist of charged-up strands.

I usually don't get this way.

But tonight I'm wound tight.

"You okay?" Lonny asks.

I curl against his side. "Sure," I say. But I'm not being honest, really.

I don't know why I've given myself over to worry tonight. There are concerns I have for the boys. Different things. From the oldest to the youngest. Needs. Concerns. A hundred reasons to fret.

I try to find the off-switch to my thoughts, but my mind seems to have taken on a wild life of its own.

I flip over. Fluff my pillow. Think about charging from bed to find a good book.

Then I hear it.

The windows are open because the night air is cool. And it has started to rain.

The rain is gentle. It's a soft rhythm ebbing into my room. It's a pattering. The kind of rain my dad calls a "soaking rain". I can hear it, kind and soft, falling on ivy outside my window. I think of it, refreshing the flowers and the spring green grass.

Then comes the frog.

He's croaking. The croak is deep and it's coming from somewhere behind the house. I can hear it through the bedroom window that opens to the pool.

Everything else in the world seems quiet, except for this rhythm.

Even my thoughts go quiet, and I understand that this is a music of praise.

Nature is offering praise.

I lie still for a few minutes and listen. My fists uncurl. I hear Lonny beside me. His even breath has joined the rhythm, too.

And my own heart joins the praise.

Thank you God that You are faithful.

Thank you that You meet our needs.

Even in this song I see Your kindness.

And there is peace.

The rain continues to fall and the frog continues his song.

In some strange way I feel safe. Hemmed in.

And I understand, in that foggy-warm place before sleep, that this night music has become a lullaby, and in the Lord's sweet goodness, I am going to rest.

Rejoice And Be Glad - A Morning Song

I'm flying down the road. Late. As usual. It's seven-thirty in the morning. I'm wondering if I was half mad when I scheduled this appointment because I can't imagine willingly arranging to have my mouth probed at this time of the day.

Green digital numbers remind me that I overslept. I don't like to be late. I feel like I'm stealing the dentist's time.

There's a string of traffic in front of me. It slows. Stops. And I understand that we're going to wait for a train. The blasted train that moves at a death-crawl. The train that inches over the tracks and then goes into reverse for some hitching process.

The train that takes six or seven minutes to complete its business.

So I sit, fingers laced tight, my head running a crazy clip of the rest of my day. Places to go. Things to accomplish. To-dos that stretch far and wide. It brings a rope of stress. It tangles around me and feels altogether too tight.

And then I see him.

This man.

He's walking down the sidewalk. He's lanky. Thin. Tall. He's moving in a motion of gangly appendages. But there's a bounce in his step. He looks light. His arms are swinging. His legs are moving. He's carrying a cooler and he's dressed in washed out blue.

But what grabs my attention the most is his mouth. It's opening. Closing.

This man is singing out loud.

I want to roll down my window to hear, but his song would be covered by the clatter of the train.

I wonder where he's going. To work, most likely. I wonder what he's singing. I'm drawn in as he throws his head back and sings.

And suddenly I don't care what he's singing.

I only know that I want to sing, too.

It's a beautiful day. Crisp and clear. The sun is still strong. It's warm - a gentle spring heat. Not-too-humid. The day is fresh, ready to be unwrapped. Unrolled. There are people to love and kindnesses to be shared. God's love to be enjoyed and reveled in.

This is the day that the LORD has made; let us rejoice and be glad in it. Psalm 118:24 ESV

The man continues down the sidewalk that ribbons along the road. The train finishes its hitching thing and traffic begins to move.

I'll probably be late for my appointment. I'll apologize.

But as I step on the gas, I notice that my hands aren't gripping the wheel in white-knuckled anxiousness anymore. The knot of stress, the tangles of troubles and time, have relaxed.

I press forward toward my day. Toward the good things that await.

And I drive along, I begin to sing.

Connecting Heart Deep

“Want to take a walk?” I ask. The winter weather is mild. Lonny and a couple of the older boys are away and Zay and I have the afternoon alone.

“Sure,” he says. My fifth child. My easy-to-please.

We pull on boots. Mine are for snow but his are cowboy boots. As we walk down the drive, they clickety-clack. 

 

And we walk.

We walk down the road that runs from our house to the country. We walk until we see open space and fields and farms.

And while we walk, the sun is on our backs.

And while we walk, my son’s heart opens.

At first, we talk about the weather and the want of snow. We chat about the runner sled that waits in the garage and the hill that's a weak green. Conversation skims the surface. But as we move along, things change. Isaiah begins to share from the soul. He speaks little-boy life and childhood dreams. He speaks of things hidden deep.

I ask questions. I respond to the beat of his heart. By now we’re away from the crazy. We’ve taken reprieve from the wild. Though we’re only a quarter- of-a-mile down the road, we’re far enough from fast living that I can hear my son. I can hear his heart.

 

These moments, this undivided, unshared sliver of time is gold to me. It’s worth more than anything  I could hold with my hands.

And I wonder, is this how it is with the Lord?

Trust in Him at all times, O people; pour out your heart before him; God is a refuge for us. Psalm 62:8 ESV

Pour out your heart.

Oh, the grace in this. The sweet amazing grace. That the Lord would want me to share from the heart.

Heart-pouring, soul-sharing, takes effort and time.

I think about this, as we walk along. As my son has grown quiet. As his soul has been shared and there’s peace.

This time of reaching past the superficial into the things that matter, into the things that make a person, into the precious-intimate things, was the result of an effort.  A separation. An intentional, purposeful act.

Lord, give me the wisdom, the desire, to walk alone with You.

As I’ve delighted in the soul-sharing of my son, I understand how the Lord must delight in the times that I share with Him. In the times that my spirit opens wide. In the times when there is no distraction, no barrier, and I’m like a child, wanting to be known.

While we walk along, our shadows fall and Isaiah reaches for my hand. We move down the hill, toward our home. The winter sun begins to slip but the two of us are settled and still.

There is value in quiet moments.

Quiet moments shared with the One we love.

 

Winning the Battle of What-If Worry

We’re sitting close, four of us on two loveseats, but we still lean in to listen. This is our prayer group and what we share here comes straight off the soul. We’re transparent. We’re open. We praise together and ache together and it’s the prayers of these ladies that sustains me when the struggle is hard.

We all wrestle with a tough circumstance. We all fight an unseen foe.

I share about what’s happening in my world and then my friend shares of what’s happening in hers. As she speaks of difficult things, I’m compelled, drawn, to her countenance. My friend’s words come in a soft, even flow. Her shoulders are relaxed. Her hands aren’t curled to knots and there’s something beautiful on her face that pulls the attention of my heart.

It’s peace.

“How do you do it?” I ask later. “How have you gotten to this place – this place that appears quiet and  calm?”

My friend thinks for a moment and then shares spirit-deep. “It’s the Lord,” she says.  “I’m learning to surrender. It takes time, and I’m not always there. But it’s gotten better.”

Later that night, the winter wind howls over the dark and my what-if worry rages strong too. I get caught here often. Worrying for the future of one I love. Conjuring what could happen and getting lost in the murk of fear. But as I lie in bed, the Lord reminds me of the conversation with my friend.

Surrender.

The LORD shall  fight for you , and ye shall hold your peace. Exodus 14:14 KJV

The wind keeps blowing, it’s harsh and shrill, but these Words that have come to my Spirit become a salve. I close my eyes and think of the Lord’s power. His glory. His compassion and faithfulness and even His love for me. And though He is more than I can imagine, I feel my muscles relax. My heartbeat slows. I let each what-if worry run through my mind but this time I hold it against the Lord’s strength.

And it becomes powerfully clear to me that the only way to win the battle of worry is to lay my own weapons down.

To disengage.

To recognize that the One who is all powerful is powerful in battle for me.

He’s fighting the war in my mind and he’s fighting for my loved one too.

Oh, the peace that I can hold when I’m willing to let go.

I pray into the night, for some time, but the prayer has changed. It doesn't flow from a place of panic or from the ragged place of a heart consumed with fear. There is, instead, gratitude. I thank the Lord for His Presence in the battle and for the things that He will do – for the things that He has done.

And as I fall asleep, I think of my friend and the peace on her beautiful face.

The way to win the battle of worry is in the strength to let it go.