slow light

This fear of the Lord—it orders our days. Every minute and second, every act and thought.

I read the words on the page with the sun streaming in through the window and all over my room—light after a long night of rain, and all the trees shimmer green with beads of sunshine.

To whom then will you compare me,

That I should be like him?

Says the Holy One.

Lift up your eyes and see: who created these?

He who brings out their host by number, calling them all by name,

by the greatness of His might and because He is strong in power

not one is missing.

(Is. 40:25-26)

And like the Psalmist, my heart asks—what am I, my Father, that You are mindful of me?

Grace upon grace through the course of my days, and goodness and mercy have not yet failed.

I see my dark heart, and there’s nothing here to draw the God of the universe. This God who is of holier eyes than to look on sin, He’s called me His own, and when I’m in my right mind it’s utterly inexplicable. He’s drawn me near, called me His own, and loved me to the point of death.

I’m slow, like the disciples. I fail to grasp, or I forget, that these are realities which ought to possess me with gratitude every minute of every day and compel joyful obedience in every area of my life. That’s the real problem—I forget I owe my very life.

As the moon shone in the early hours this morning against a dark sky with a light not its own, so may I remember that I have been called, awakened, and renewed by my Savior. I stand under the blood of His cross, and His Spirit remakes me as He promised.

Surely, here is a hope worth living for all the days of my life. And whatever is worth living for is worth dying for, as they say. It’s here I’ve found my answer, here I’ll stake my claim.

Heart of my own heart, whatever befall,

Still be my vision, O Ruler of all.