There are certain sections of my two-year Bible reading plan that make me extremely grateful for the book of Psalms.
I believe all scripture is inspired by God and there for a reason. But at 6 o’clock on most any summer morning, Leviticus can get a bit tedious.
Several weeks ago, I wrote about my flowerbeds. I posted photos of special blooms and shared lessons about what my favorite garden spots were teaching me this year.
Things were looking good out there, and there was no reason to think the summer wouldn’t hold many more enjoyable gardening moments.
It was a good week away.
Last Monday, the girls and I packed up and headed north to my college roommate’s farm in Iowa. It was a week of respite—five days to reconnect with dear ones and recharge our batteries for the long road ahead at home.
Tucked away in the pages of Exodus, there’s a little verse that describes a beautiful scene of respite.
Shortly after God miraculously delivered the Israelites from the pursuing Egyptian armies, the Bible says the people “came to Elim, where there were 12 springs of water and 70 date palms, and they camped there by the water.” (Exodus 15:27)
Doesn’t that sound delightful?
This verse has long been a favorite of mine, but it’s been on my mind more lately as my family and I have been working our way through a crisis that began when my mom fell in the shower a couple of weeks ago.
It’s a long, sad story—too much to tell right now. For now, just picture daily trips with my dad to a Kansas City hospital. Family meetings with medical teams comprised of plastic surgeons, internal medicine doctors, palliative care experts and all kinds of nurses.
Long and heavy phone and text conversations with siblings near and far. Surgeries that hold great risk for an 85-year-old woman with my mom’s particular set of issues. Restless nights filled with thoughts of what comes next for her.
It’s been a lot—let’s just put it that way.
People around the world have been praying for my mom and our family. God’s healing power is clearly at work, and I can honestly say I don’t think there has ever been a time in my life when I have experienced more of His peace.
At the same time, I’ve felt like I’ve been carrying a weight that gets heavier and lighter, depending on the latest report from the doctors, the most recent news from whomever is in the hospital room with my mom, and how much sleep I got the previous night.
That’s why I’ve been quick to notice settings that offer respite, if only for a moment here and there. Like the long corridor that leads from the main lobby of the hospital to the parking garage. One day after the girls and I left my mom’s room, we got Krispy Kreme doughnuts from the cafeteria and ate them on a curvy bench in this hallway.
We were still at the hospital, but for a few peaceful minutes, it felt as if we were visiting an art museum instead (see picture above). In the midst of the stress, busyness and uncertainty, it was an oasis.
Then there was the day after my mom’s second surgery (following one of those nights of little sleep) that I sort of hit a wall. We had to be somewhere at 4 p.m. and we didn’t have enough time to go home first, so we stopped by the local Lifeway store to get a Father’s Day present for Randy.
Lilly and Molly took off into the store, but I spotted a little table with two chairs in the bargain book section right inside the front door. I was so tired, I couldn’t resist. I plopped down, pulled out my phone and started writing down my thoughts.
As I sat there, I slowly became aware of the music that was playing on the store’s intercom. One after another, the worship tunes reminded me of times in my life—and my mom’s life too—when God had made His presence known in special ways.
It was exactly what I needed to keep moving, which, at that point, was all I needed to do.
Now, we’ve entered a week of decisions for my family and transition for my mom. And I’m not there for it.
When you’re in an intense season like this, there’s no good time to leave. But sometimes, the worst time to leave is also the right time to go. So the girls and I packed up, and we went—just as we had planned to do before the accident.
Instead of 12 springs of water and 70 date palms, we are surrounded by rolling Iowa hills, corn fields and gravel roads. As I sit here typing this, I can hear mourning doves calling through the open window of an old country farmhouse.
I have nothing on my agenda for this week except long, relaxed conversations with my college roommate and watching my girls run around the farm with a batch of kids who are dear enough to us we might as well be related.
Back home, reinforcements have arrived, and capable, loving hands are helping my parents move through the next big steps.
Here, we’re getting refreshed for the long haul—however long that haul might be.
♥ Lois
Sometimes, the worst time to leave is also the right time to go. Share on XP.S. I’m linking up this week with Purposeful Faith, #TellHisStory, Coffee for Your Heart, Chasing Community and Grace & Truth.
I grew up singing hymns at church. Out of a hymnal, accompanied by a piano and organ. It was as traditional as you could get, even 35 years ago.
I’d stand in the congregation with my youth group girlfriends and we’d harmonize together. I mostly sang soprano, but occasionally, the hymnal in my hand helped me pick out the next note in the alto part.
Back then, my favorite hymns were the upbeat ones like “Blessed Assurance,” “When the Roll is Called Up Yonder” and “Wonderful Grace of Jesus.” I liked a few slower ones—“Great is Thy Faithfulness” readily comes to mind—but only if they had a chorus (or “refrain,” if you prefer.)
I’m sure we sang Frederick M. Lehman’s hymn “The Love of God” at my childhood church, but I’m guessing I didn’t care for it much. It has a chorus, but it seemed heavy and plodding—not the sort of music my teenage self particularly enjoyed.
Decades later, we sang “The Love of God” when the late Jerry Bridges came to my current church for a conference. I remember this clearly, even though it was several years ago, because this was the first time I had ever really paid attention to the lyrics.
Honestly, I don’t know how I overlooked this song all this time—the truth and images in Lehman’s words are as beautiful as they are profound.
We sang it again a few Sundays ago, and I was struck again by the prophetic tone of a song that was written 100 years ago. That, and the writing metaphors—if there was ever a hymn that would appeal specifically to a Christian writer, this would have to be it.
Since then, though, my family has entered an intense and difficult season. And as I visit my seriously injured mom in the hospital and lay awake at night wondering what the future holds for her, it’s the actual subject matter of this old hymn that comforts my heart.
No matter what happens—and none of the possibilities are very encouraging at this point—I’m resting in the reality of God’s perfect love: the love of a Father who knows each of His children by name and is with us in the fire and the flood, on the mountaintop and in the valley, for now and for all eternity.
The love of God is greater far than tongue or pen can ever tell; it goes beyond the highest star, and reaches to the lowest hell. The guilty pair, bowed down with care, God gave His Son to win; His erring child He reconciled, and pardoned from his sin.
Oh, love of God, how rich and pure! How measureless and strong! It shall forevermore endure—the saints’ and angels’ song.
When hoary time shall pass away, and earthly thrones and kingdoms fall, when men who hear refuse to pray, on rocks and hills and mountains call, God’s love so sure, shall still endure, all measureless and strong; redeeming grace to Adam’s race—the saints’ and angels’ song.
Oh, love of God, how rich and pure! How measureless and strong! It shall forevermore endure—the saints’ and angels’ song.
Could we with ink the ocean fill, and were the skies of parchment made, were every stalk on earth a quill, and every man a scribe by trade; to write the love of God above would drain the ocean dry; nor could the scroll contain the whole, though stretched from sky to sky.
Oh, love of God, how rich and pure! How measureless and strong! It shall forevermore endure—the saints’ and angels’ song.
—Frederick M. Lehman
♥ Lois
No matter what happens, I’m resting in the reality of God’s perfect love. Share on XThis spring, I’ve been reminded over and over why I love gardening. I’m no horticultural expert, mind you. There’s just so much divine creativity at work in the flowerbeds that circle my house, it’s hard to keep track of it all.
Not that I haven’t been trying, of course. Ever since I spotted the first crocus peeking out from under the heavy mat of last fall’s leaves, I’ve been chronicling the season’s progress with photos on Instagram.