Wednesday, August 29, 2007
You guys all know by now that my heart is deeply rooted in the days of The Farm, my grandparents and family and the traditions and days we have spent together. It's easy now to wonder if all the sweetest things are left behind with the troubles of the world closing in and the 24 hour access to the worst things at our finger tips. Surely this world is an uglier place than it was in my childhood. After all, the Word tells us it will be increasingly ugly until the return of Jesus.
I long in deep places for that old farm and even for the hot side walks under bare feet when I was a little kid and summer vacation was endless. I hope my kids had the same naive hearts I had when they were little enough not to notice the things happening outside of their backyard fence. I have to be careful not to let the enemy convince me that all is so corrupt that their childhoods were somehow tainted. It's a fear that creeps up on me in quiet moments.
Something we don't hear that often about any more is the Holy Spirit. In those innocent days of The Farm and jumping through sprinklers, the Holy Spirit was ever present. Whispering dreams and joy into the ears of those who would be still enough to listen. This summer the Holy Spirit has swept through my home like a freshening breeze in ways that I've never heard preached. He has spoken in crickets and birdsong and believe it or not, in grass and cracked sidewalks.
As I lay in my bed recently I've felt a reminding in my body of the goodness of crisp sheets and warm wind through the windows. I've had a cricket in my basement that I cannot find and I don't know how in the world he has survived for so long down there. Being the chronic insomniac who awakens way too early I've been treated to birds just outside my upstairs bedroom and I've noticed something. The birds sing the same songs as they did on The Farm. The crickets chirp in exactly the same voice. The sheets feels the same against my bare legs at night and the warm grass under my feet has not changed. If I choose to live in spiritual places, the world cannot out-yell the sweetness of the earth. The good and right things remain the same, there as a constant reminder of what was meant to be, what remains and what will always be.
I don't want new sod in my yard. The old fashioned rough grass interspersed with crab grass and prone to dandelions cradles my bare feet just like it did when Grampa made green beans and children didn't know how to read terror alerts on the CNN crawl.
Summers lasted forever then. They still can if you listen for the Holy Spirit. He speaks the language of crickets and birds and cracked sidewalks warmed by the sun.
2 Peter 1:13 I think it is right to refresh your memory as long as I live in the tent of this body...