Lapis Lazuli in the Morning

I think I may have taken a different route and ended up in heaven somehow.

Sun rising.
Mist on the water.
Not a hint of a breeze.
Air clearer than it has been in days.
And so silent.

I am the noisiest thing out here.
So I hold my paddle for a while
and receive the stillness.

 

All the way around.
Even on the open water.
So, so still.
So, so quiet.

A loon diving.
Two ducks paddling.
The heron unmoving and invisible as I glide respectfully by.
A doe and two fawns!
No pictures please, they all said.
I am obliged, since I am here in their space.
And they are so welcoming, thank you.

The water is so still.
So still.

(pause to be still on the still water)

Heaven is described in various ways throughout Scripture.
One is this image of a 'glassy sea'.

"Also, in front of the throne there was what looked like a sea of glass, as clear as crystal." Revelation 4:6

This is reminiscent of when Moses and more than 70 elders "saw the God of Israel. Under his feet was something like a pavement made of lapis lazuli, as bright as the sky." Exodus 24:10

The water is that still, yes.
Precious gemstone polished and spread out.
The powerful, perfect Presence of peace.
Perfect peace.
Shalom, shalom, it would render in Hebrew.

"You will keep in 'shalom shalom'
those whose minds are steadfast
because they trust in You."
Isaiah 26:3



"Something of heaven touches earth," we sometimes sing in church.
Yes, like that this morning.

I will tuck this away against the chaos.
I will speak this into places that so badly need it.
Into hearts riding out waves of real life.
Because sometimes when we get a peek of it
we need to just sit still in it.

Sending this out to anyone riding treacherous waves today.
Or just dealing with the general chaos of life.
May you know still waters soon.

Lament for Evelyn Hope

Ah Baby Girl,

How is it that the unspeakable has happened and you are gone from us?

We are flattened by the devastating power of our love for you pulsing forward into the cold emptiness of your horrifying absence.  Every tear is a scream against the vicious void that shocks us awake each day now, since that day you were delivered to us silent.  

This we did not see coming.

But sweet baby Evelyn Hope, you need to know this.

You have rocked our world and we are forever changed.  Perhaps in the brevity of your time with us there is a mystic distillation of your spirit, granting you in the nine months of your growing hidden, and the less than 24 hours we had you in our arms, the same profundity of impact that takes the rest of us a life time to realize, if we live intentionally enough.

I’m so glad I had the chance to hold you.  Your Momma loved you strong and brave even in her heartbreak, to deliver you to us so we could meet you.   And I held you and sang to you, songs about strawberries clinging to the vine, and songs letting you know that this is not the way I want things to be, or I’d be with you now. 

And now what?  How do we live like this?  What is to become of these aching hearts chasing after our phantom child?

I don’t know.

Except.  Except. 

The ocean of love that pours out of us for you does not come out of a vacuum.  This family already knows how to hold on to each other in the midst of the unspeakable.  How to love no matter what.  How to watch for all that God wants to do redemptively because of this, because you were born to us, and then had to go. 

You are now part of a family that loves fiercely, little one.  We will never forget you. 

I see you dancing.  In my imagination – some might call it a vision – there is a swish of yellow, like satin soaked in sunshine that catches my eye off to the right.  And I turn my head and a little girl full of delight grabs my hand and says, “Gramma! Come dance with me.” 

So, I will wait to dance with you, Sweetie. 

Yes, we will dance together, and none of this will be sad any more.