Disjointed musings...

A moth flitters above the water, seemingly to drink but obviously in trouble.  The delicate wings prove to be weak when encumbered with moisture, while the effort remains great to reach dry land. 


To escape a cat, a mouse lies dangerously still...but watchful for the feline's attention to be captured by a falling leaf or whistle of wind.  Scurrying away, the cat leaps to snag the tail of the mouse, only to let it loose again.  A game to the cat, but life and death to the mouse.


A young deer, unable to jump the fence, paces and peers through at her mother on the other side.  The mother exhibits no concern, but the fawn is deeply distressed and frantic, continuing her search for a way through.


The fear of our demise is real.  The horror of desertion can debilitate and wound. 


Life journeys teach independence, self reliance, even to the exclusion of family ties and community life.  God journeys teach dependence, grace and service in the name of love.  But what in this universe plants any desire to know God, much less know of His promises?

"The burning bush is right in front of us some days and we don't even know it!"  (Bryan Basham)

Is our view of religion one of "a psychological crutch required by neurotic people to enable them better face the rigours of life?"  Is our self-worth and independence so vital that no space exists to reflect any inadequacy on our part...or horrors... any error.

There contains a poem, "The Hound of Heaven", penned by Francis Thompson (1859-1907) which begins:

I fled Him, down the nights and down the days;
  I fled Him, down the arches of the years;
I fled Him, down the labyrinthine ways
  Of my own mind; and in the mist of tears
I hid from Him, and under running laughter.

 

How can we know from whence we run but that the Lord God will know and find and bring us back.  Back to His truths, His way, His plan...for He will not be thwarted, overcome or undone.  He will always be the one we long for, search for and listen for.  He is the object of our inconsolable longing, for which there is no water to quench our thirst. 

How big is our God?  Bigger than our deeper fear, bigger than any loss, bigger than life itself.  And He pursues us!  In the last words of Mr. Thompson's poem:

Is my gloom, after all,
Shade of His hand, outstreched caressingly?
  "Ah, fondest, blindest, weakest,
  I am He Whom thou seekest!
Thou dravest love from thee, who dravest Me."