Thursday, March 24, 2011

Letting Him Find You

Roy walks beside me on the first warm day and he knows delight. He runs through the pond, mouth open, drinking up, tossing head, wallowing joyous.

All these treasures strewn under leaf and studding sky await discovery. They fill me with such happiness. But why? How can moth delight and flower startle to the point of overflowing? And wouldn't you think I should get tired of blogging about this day after day, week after week?

But how can the freshness of God ever be exhausted? His creation made new every moment speaks a language that rivets soul and does not weary.

There are places so deep, so tremulous within -that beauty speaks what words can't. It's why eyes and heart flood when sky unfolds at dawn, pouring out His glory. My eyes well with joy tears and the recesses of my soul are made bare before God. He has probed the depths in creation all spilled out and raw.

I stand so small before God, so painfully aware of the lack and depravity....and yet, yet..

He doesn't hold back. He gives all.

And the longing for wholeness, needing Him, being loved by Him and all made good in His grace and
Why?!! Why does he love me? Why does He love us? What would make a God, infinitely good and merciful choose to love such wretched creatures who can do so little for Him?

But that's the beauty. He in his greatness, wants our smallness. We can do nothing for Him, but he longs for us, seeks for every soul like the shepherd looking for His lost sheep. And won't I let Him find me?

Will you allow God to find you today?  Will you bask in His presence and be awed by His being empty and Him filling up,  you being still and not trying to figure it all out, you trusting and letting your weakness being perfected in Him?

He is waiting...He is waiting for You.

God's Grandeur  by Gerard Manley Hopkins

The world is charged with the grandeur of God.
It will flame out, like shining from shook foil;
It gathers to a greatness, like the ooze of oil
Crushed. Why do men then now not reck his rod?
Generations have trod, have trod, have trod; 
And all is seared with trade; bleared, smeared with toil;
And wears man’s smudge and shares man’s smell: the soil
Is bare now, nor can foot feel, being shod.

And for all this, nature is never spent;
There lives the dearest freshness deep down things; 
And though the last lights off the black West went
Oh, morning, at the brown brink eastward, springs—
Because the Holy Ghost over the bent
World broods with warm breast and with ah! bright wings.