somewhereinthestory

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Hope.

“I lift up my eyes…”

 

When I picture hope, I see those two pairs of dark brown eyes looking up, believing in something more.

 

“…to the mountains…”

 

Where to turn? What hill after this valley?  What refuge after this battle?

They’ve begged her to put the bottle down, pleaded.   They want to see her smile, laugh, check their homework, do the dishes.  Be there.  Yet deeper into the valley she goes, towing them along.

 

“Where does my help come from?”

 

 

Is there a place where help flows down, where you can drink hope like water?  They’d travel anywhere, wouldn’t they?  Search high and low for this help, this well.

But hope is here.  Because Hope has come.  He has seen those eyes, felt the wet of their tears.  And has come to be there.

 

I read the words aloud to these precious children, “My help comes from the Lord, Maker of heaven and earth.”

 

These words, truth spoken into their life, have been sung over me as well…

We could squeeze more than 50 of us high-schoolers into that living room.  Every Tuesday night we came, gathered, prayed, grew friendships, told stories of Hope come and coming.  In that giant circle we sang to our Maker.  And we also sang to each other.  Sang that precious truth that Help has come.  One guitar and tens of yearning voices raised this psalm of hope.

 

I must now sing these words to them.  Their Help has come.  Even where I cannot be, He is there.  Hope has come.

 

May that truth ring in their ears, in mine, in yours…

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Make a joyful noise.

It was as if he knew.

Big blue eyes stare down at chubby fingers with wonder.  “These are my hands?”  They reach, grasp, hold.  He always seems amazed at just what his little fingers can do, as if each time he grabs his red block it is the first time.  So much wonder in a child.  Eight months new, and everything fresh, real, alarming.

So when two little hands first meet, finding each other, clapping – instant surprise, immediate joy.

It was as if he knew… that this is what his hands were made for.  His first applause – for who?   His joy, giggles – for what audience?

These little hands, so perfectly crafted, ten grasping fingers, palms outstretched, give praise back to the One who made them.  These hands – his hands – were made to worship.  He must know.

Know what I must relearn daily, hourly.  That this body is not mine.  This vessel, meant to be used.  Intended for great joy.  Intended for worship.   A child discovers they can make a noise, and it is filled with joy.  When he sees that his hands can come together, make noise, and do it all over again, he finds joy so freely, so simply.

How can I praise you, my King?  When my hands come together, do I smile at the sound of it, knowing You receive some glory in my living as I was intended to live?   My life worshipping as it was made to worship?

Teach me, child, your simple joy.  Let us worship our Maker, together.