Pondering Psalm 46:10 Anew

To write that Psalm 46:10 is my favorite verse would come at no surprise. I like quiet and stillness – it's my default setting. Too much noise frustrates me. All this is a bit overstated, over written even, but deep truths generally are. Just lately, my niece gave me a mug and journal that she designed around Psalm 46:10. Just for me. She's so kind. She even included a lovely seaside scene. Southerners like me call it "the beach" and my niece knows I love the beach (another over written deep truth). Yet she didn't know that I had also been gifted with a red book entitled, A Meditative Journey Through the Psalms. A thoughtful friend, who has taught me so much about discernment and prayer, gave it to me.

Life with the mug, journal and red book encourages me to “be still and know that God is God" all the more. During these winter days, even in the south, all I want to do is be still. Quiet time with God is commendable, but it's very good that spring will be here directly. In that vein, the author of the red book, Dr. Timothy Tennent, encourages me to ponder with clarity the whole of Psalm 46. As I do, the earth gives way. The mountains fall into the heart of the sea. The psalm is written from a deep place of turbulence. Not a peaceful beach scene at all. The author reminds me that Psalm 46 is the basis of the hymn, A Mighty Fortress is Our God, penned by Martin Luther, the great reformer of our faith from centuries ago. The hymn and the psalm remind me that no matter what, God is always in control. My attention is called to the scene in Mark 4 where Jesus speaks to the turbulent sea waters and commands them to "be still." And, of course, they do. All to say, I'm pondering Psalm 46:10 anew and may I better know that God is indeed God. May I continually be aware of Holy Spirit within me. Not just in the still and quiet places that I long for, but in turbulent places where sin brings noise, chaos, confusion and division. Finding such places isn’t difficult. I want to be so led by God’s peaceful presence, that turbulence gives way to stillness wherever it erupts about me. Let it be, Lord – and, thank you.

Praying with Sweet Caroline

 

I meet at times with a friend to pray. Her name is Caroline. More often than not though, she's simply referred to as Sweet Caroline. She's so amazing. I often wonder if she's the real muse behind Neil Diamond's pop song by the same name. But I don't think they've ever met. Well, at least she never mentioned it.

When we meet, my friend and I talk about how kind God is to us and we share many things; some of which tug at our hearts. We laugh too. We talk about good food, shoes with open toes, great nail color and the beach. Fine books, our children and husbands are also in the mix.

Smiling that we are in His book.

 

            Once, when our time reached well spent and we had not yet prayed, Sweet Caroline said we needn’t worry or fret. With her Bible in hand, she found Malachi 3:16 and read aloud:

Then they that feared the Lord spake often one to another;

and the Lord hearkened, and heard it,

and a book of remembrance was written before him for them

that feared the Lord, and that thought upon his name.

            We like this verse. We like it so much that the whole Old Testament Book of Malachi made for a hot topic when next we met. We read that God’s people were in a very sad state. The pride of their priests had led them into sin of all sorts and shapes. Many of them put more trust in their wealth than in God. Some spoke harsh words about him and said, “what good does it do to serve God?”

             Yet not all of God’s people were in such a sad state. Some still feared the Lord and thought upon his name. Some still had deep trust in him. Some still spoke kind words about him. And God heard them and wrote them in his book.

             While that was more years ago than we care to count, my friend and I agree that not much has changed since the book of Malachi. Verse after verse–book after book–age after age, God’s people are still the same. So is God. We read in Malachi 3:6 that he does not change. He still hears us.   

             And so, with a sweet peace in our midst, Sweet Caroline and I now read Malachi 3:16 each time we meet. Didn't I say she's amazing? She taught me to be sure and speak kind things about God even while we share things which tug at our hearts. She said that is a good way of fearing the Lord – to think upon his name. Oh, we still talk about good food, shoes, nail color and the beach; books, children and husbands are still in the mix. But now when we meet to pray, we also think about God with his hand cupped to his ear. We like that he hears us even though we have yet to bow our heads. We think he smiles as we talk about him.

             And we smile to think that we are in his book.   

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Similar pieces of today's post have been published as follows:  A Fine Book as a guest blog post for Katy Kauffman of Lighthouse Bible Studies, In His Book  a compilation by Susan King's Short and Sweet Goes Fourth, and Smiling That We Are in His book by the Valdosta Daily Times/Faith & Family column.  

Guest Writer, Nancy Enna Cowart

Above

the

Sting

of 

Sadness

    

I grew up with two brothers. Watching them at the family table kept me entertained. I laughed at how fast they’d consume a full carton of milk. Their love for grilled cheese sandwiches and frozen pot pies escaped me. 

Handsome and gifted with a great laugh, my first brother debuted ten years before me. On a day when toddler legs journeyed onto a path away from home, my brother searched for me. He found me and brought me home. Four years separated me and my second brother. Quite handsome too, he tolerated me with great patience. One time he let me camp out with him in the back yard under an old green Army tent. Instead of toasting marshmallows over the campfire, I stuck mine directly into the flames on both ends. It’s the closest I ever came to twirling a fire baton. But once the star counting began so did the yawning and I took back to the house to wallow on my pillow.

My only complaint with my two brothers: they left this life much too early.

In the wee hours of New Year 1971, my first brother lost his life in a fire. He was nineteen. Since I was the youngest, the adults and my teen-sister were diligent in sheltering me from the details but I’ve often wondered what life would have been like had my first brother lived. I’ve often dreamt of more laughter and more toddler legs around the family table. I’ve missed what could have been. 

In December 2002, my second brother suddenly took sick and died. He had reached forty-five and had grown into a man of great faith. Upon his death, a lovely and devoted wife, along with two fine children were left behind. And so, with this brother, I’ve missed all that was.

Yet when I happen upon words such as these  . . . But there is a friend who sticks closer than a brother,  (Proverbs 18.24–NKJ) my heart quickens. How grateful I am to be reminded of someone, a true friend who never leaves life too early. I know this friend. We go back a long way and he does stick close. I’m prone to wander – to journey onto paths away from him. He searches for me, though. His kindness causes me to always turn back. (Romans 2:4) And he invites me to camp out – to actually live in the safety of his shadow. Even better than my own pillow, I wallow on his ever present help. Especially when my heart is broken. (Psalm 91:1; 34:18)

These are all deep truths. Tested and tried, I believe them without question. At the setting of each sun, I count my blessings by pondering the benefits of these truths. (Psalm 103:2)  Much like the stars on a clear night, there are too many to count. There are times, though, that I still feel sad. After all these decades, I still miss my brothers – their laughter and patience. A mere carton of milk, a grilled cheese sandwich, or a pot pie can bring back a score of memories. And it tugs tightly at my heart. 

Of course, this life is fraught with sadness. It’s a universal truth. Anyone who ever journeyed on toddler legs will feel the sting. Sadness hangs out relentlessly in our global community. It’s where we all live. But I remember that this life is but a sigh and declare to prevail over such. Wallowing in sadness is not good. It makes me anxious and anxiety doesn’t serve me well. It’s unbecoming to my countenance. Anxiety has the power to lead me into depression. (Proverbs 12:25)

So I declare to wallow in the deep truths of my friend – the very One who sticks closer than a brother. By their own short numbered days, my brothers pointed me to my friend. With each of their deaths my deep need for my friend has been quickened. And truly, he sticks closer than my brothers, or anyone else, ever could.

On days when sadness tugs tight, I’m learning to be still. Quiet moments with my friend are essential because, from everlasting to everlasting, my friend is God. The maker of the stars calls them all by name while calling me by mine. (Psalm 90:2;147:,4; Isaiah 43:1)

And so, I exalt my friend above the height of the stars. Way above the sting of sadness. 

***********************************************************************************

Nancy Enna Cowart 

 is the pen name for a southern writer. 

 May you enjoy Nancy's first-time post on Sensitive on Purpose.  

 

I'm delighted to share this column published by the Valdosta Daily Times in their September 25, 2021 weekend edition. It's my nod to World Wide Communion Sunday.  

On birthdays and breaking bread

Long ago when my daughters were still under my roof, they liked to quiz me about birthdays. By their randomly calling out a family member, friend or an acquaintance’s name, I’d recall that person’s birthday. We had fun with their birthday recall game. These days, still being able to recall a person’s birthday is a good thing. Yet, more often than not, I fail to remember to wish the person happy when the birthday actually arrives. And, somehow for me, remembering to acknowledge a birthday is more personal than simply recalling it. In the coming and going of daily life, I pass houses of worship bearing symbols of my faith. Crosses are in abundance and I easily recall what the cross represents. Yet, when I come to the Lord’s table to partake of Holy Communion, I’m invited to remember why the cross is so necessary to my faith. I live among people with birthdays. I even have my own share, so I’m in dire need of forgiveness. It’s my human condition. As a life-time-churchgoing Christian, I fail at loving God with my whole heart. I forget my first love (Revelation 2:4). I rebel against the grace God offers me. I break His law at every turn. And more often than not, I don’t love others very well either.

I don’t remember to wish them happy birthday. Moreover, I ignore their worth as image bearers of the Holy God. This is especially true of others who don’t think like me.

So my sin list is exhaustive. There’s never been enough ink or space. That’s why I need Jesus, and I’m like the psalmist who is so glad to go into the house of the Lord (Psalm 122:1). Especially when we celebrate Holy Communion.

Partaking of Holy Communion, which is also called the Lord’s Supper, is my favorite act of worship. As I worship I’m reminded of the actions of Jesus on the night He gave up His life for my redemption. While among the disciples in the upper room of a house where they were sharing supper: “He took bread, gave thanks and broke it, and gave it to them, saying: ‘This is my body broken for you; do this in remembrance of Me.’ “Likewise, He also took the cup after supper, saying, ‘This cup is the new covenant in My blood, which is shed for you.’” Luke 22:19, 20 (NKJ) I’m reminded that before I knew anything about God or even celebrated my first birthday, Christ died for me. Through His death on the cross, my sins are all forgiven (Romans 5:8). Long ago, the Creator of the Universe prepared a table for me through the sacrifice of His son, Jesus Christ. While partaking of the broken bread and juice, I remember all that has been done for me through the birth, death and resurrection of His son. And in remembering these things, I better understand God’s goodness that follows me every day of my life (Psalm 23:5, 6). It is so personal.

By celebrating Holy Communion, I proclaim the mystery of my faith: Christ died, Christ is risen and Christ will come again. This simple act of worship is an outward sign of a beautiful and inward work of grace. Christ died centuries ago. Yet I somehow sense the presence of my Savior while partaking of Holy Communion. It warms me. Unlike a hot flash or a digestive ailment so common for a girl with my share of birthdays, it’s delightful.

And I think about the two disciples who walked beside the resurrected Jesus. As they traveled from Jerusalem to a village called Emmaus, they didn’t realize it was Jesus walking with them. That is, until He later blessed the loaf of bread and broke it to share with them: “Then their eyes were opened and they knew Him ... and they said to one another, ‘Did our hearts not burn within us while He talked with us on the road, and while He opened the Scriptures to us.’” (Luke 24:31, 32) So it is, when celebrating Holy Communion, I don’t just recall the cross. I remember the cross and my heart burns anew with God’s forgiveness. Oh, how I need it. I need it simply because I have a birthday. And it’s just that personal.

Becky Hitchcock a member of Valdosta First United Methodist Church and a life-long resident of Old Clyattville in Lowndes County.

BECKY HITCHCOCK

-cnhi-app.newsmemory.com/?publink=12628c751_1345f12 

God Stills Lives at the Beach

As I wrote in an older post from July 12, 2012, our family enjoys visiting the ancient shore of St Augustine Beach. It's our go-to happy place. We still stay in the same modest yet ever so clean and comfortable villa that is just steps away from the beach. The owner is continually making updates to the place. She's great like that.  Yet, there's one thing I hope she never changes.

There's a plaque quoting a Spanish Proverb that greets all who enter the front door. Inviting us to relax, do nothing and then rest after. It's a beautiful thing.   

Of course, one day the plaque might come down. One day the lovely little villa might not be so readily available. That's the nature of  the beach rental property business. 

Yet I never worry about God not showing up when I visit the ancient shore. He still lives at the beach. I like to think He awaits my visits. Actually, we visit together quite nicely. No lack or awkwardness at all. 

As I sit and watch the tide move to and fro, we delight over the squeals of children riding waves and dogs prancing by begging to be admired and petted.

When we walk together, I thank Him for houses situated so grandly. I feel grateful on behalf of those who have the means to own a beach home. And for those, like me, probably most of  us enjoying the beach, who only rent and visit.   

As we pass people of all shapes, colors and sizes, I feel God smiling. For each one is an image bearer that He created, loves and made an elaborate plan for redemption.  He's so wonderful like that. How grateful I am to know Him.  

God and I have such wonderful chats by the water.  If it isn't too rough, we wade out a bit. I thank Him for the beauty of His creation. I marvel at the refreshing water temperature and the width, depth and breadth of the massive body. And, I'm reminded time and again, that even in all its glorious splendor, the ocean is merely the creation. Not the Creator. 

Just as the sun begins its going down, I thank Him profusely. The years He has met me and mine at the beach, granting us safety and wonderful memories are more than I can count. Blessings are like that. Too numerous to count but oh the joy in doing so. Despite all that counting, I bring to His remembrance the many things that tug at my heart. One thing, especially too close at said heart to be written for public view. And He gently reminds me that He is at work hastening to perfect things that only He can perfect. That's His job. Not mine. And He does it oh so very well. He reminds me that He knows me and knows all things. 

He seems to say that all the while I'm caught in the beauty of relaxing. doing nothing and then resting afterward, He is still at work.  I think He wants me to trust Him more. 

And, there's just something about visiting Him at the beach that helps me do so.

Pondering Ash Wednesday

 

From dust you were formed and from dust you shall return.
  Genesis 3:19 (NKJ)

The season of Lent begins on Ash Wednesday. Lent is a 40-Day journey that spiritually prepares me to celebrate Easter. So I gather in the sanctuary with loved ones for a quiet and solemn Ash Wednesday service. 

During the service, I'm reminded that ashes represent mourning and repentance. And in the ancient world ashes were used for cleansing in the absence of soap. Fields were burned to give a chance for new life. 

And so, I'm invited to ponder my human condition . . . my sins of commission, my sins of omission and even those of my disposition. Such pondering brings me face to face with my own mortality. Especially when the pastor applies damp ashes to my forehead and declares: From dust you were formed and from dust you shall return.  Repent and believe the Gospel.

The quietness in the sanctuary is lovely. The history lesson is nice, too, but I don't like pondering sin. Especially my own. I like worship services to comfort and encourage. So I open my Bible to Psalm 103, a family favorite chock-full of declaration about God's love. The verses leap straight into my soul.

Yet, in the spirit of Ash Wednesday, the psalmist declares: 

For He knows our frame; He remembers that we are dust. 

                                                                        Psalm 103:14

By ancient design God created me (Genesis 1:27; 2:7).  He is acquainted with all my ways (Psalm 139:3).  He knows the best I try to be. He knows the worst I often am. He is familiar with the failings of my introverted disposition. And that stings. Yet I'm told these are fitting thoughts for the Lenten season because I'm reminded that I need a Savior.

How grateful I am that my Savior arrived at just the right time (Luke 2:11; Galatians 4:4,5).  And because of what He accomplished on the cross, my sins all lie beneath the ancient ashes. Their power over me is no more. This is a deep and wonderful truth that I'm prone to forget.

So maybe, Ash Wednesday is comforting and encouraging in its own way. A way worthy of my pondering.

First published in The Valdosta Daily Times, February 22, 2020 edition.

The Slow Work of God

This post is a devotional from The Power to Make A Difference, a compilation of  Strategies, Insights and Encouragement in Forty Short Bible Studies.

Meme designed by Barbara Latta.  

A few years ago, I came across these words: "Above all," the author quoted Pierre Teilhard de Chardin, "trust in the slow work of God."

I'm not familiar with the late Chardin, but I like the quote. It reminds me of my notebook. I'm quite fond of my little notebook. A thoughtful friend gave it to me. It's useful in my times of being still and knowing that God is God and I am not. These times of stillness are based on Psalm 46:10.

In the measure of an hour that turns into a day that soon turns into a decade, a multitude of prayers will cross my lips. Many are answered with great joy. So many that I always fall asleep before I'm done counting them. 

       Truly, God is good. He has compassion on all that belongs to Him. (Psalm 145:9)*

However, one very BIG request, a fervent desire, has yet to be. It continually stays on my mind, heart and lips. It's ever before me. My prayer -- what I want so much to see -- is in keeping with Scripture. When the answer comes, many broken people will be healed. Great glory will be given to God. Unspeakable joy will peal throughout the small corner of my modest plot. That joy would then reach to the four corners of the globe.

So the waiting is difficult. It's hard to understand the delay. Especially when it seems with each passing day, the answer is farther from my grasp. Waiting for such an answer makes me re-think my stance on liking things slow. I want the answer right now. And I find myself anxious, weary, and impatient even though I don't want to be.

Yet in my times of being still, I find God is always present. Even though He takes His own sweet time in bringing things to pass, He is so trustworthy. He is the Creator of time. He is the Master of time. He's not limited to the passage of time in the way that I understand it. He never runs late so any attempt to rush Him is useless.

The writer of Ecclesiastes tells me in Chapter 3 that there is a season for everything. Everything has its own time. I read in verse 11:

      He has made everything beautiful in its time. 
     He has also set eternity in the human heart; 
     yet no one can fathom what God has done from beginning to end.

In Deuteronomy 29:29, I find:

    The secret things belong to the LORD our God, but the things revealed belong to us and
     to our children for ever, that we may follow all the works of this law.

My angst is eased when I ponder these words. I'm reminded that time is a matter of eternity. Even though God has put eternity in our hearts, the timing of eternity is all God's doing. His business, so to speak. And there are some things -- secret things -- that belong to Him alone. 

When my prayer will be answered must be a secret thing. It must not be something for me to fathom. It's not for me to grasp.

But the things He has shown, the things He has revealed, like His Word that became flesh and is so full of grace and truth (John 1:14) and those already answered prayers that are too numerous to count. I can fathom these. They are mine to grasp right now.

I want to enjoy them. I want to follow them. I want to share them with my children and with those who struggle with their own unanswered prayers. Many are waiting, just like me, for an answer to a prayer that stays continually on their minds, hearts and lips. In this life, waiting is like another standard operating procedure.

And so, in my being still time, I will think on these things. I will remember that God is God and I am not.  I will ponder the Chardin quote. I will keep my notebook handy. And I will not rush God because rushing is rude.

So maybe, just maybe, I really am learning to trust in the slow work of God.

                                                                        ***************

Prayer:
Gracious God, thank You for hearing my prayers. There are so many crossing my lips and staying on my heart and mind. Grant me a greater sense of You. Help me grasp the prayers You have already answered. Help me grateful. Forgive my futile attempts to rush You. Teach me to trust You with the secret things that are not yet revealed. For truly, there has never been a more caring God than You.  In Jesus' Name, Amen.


*All Scripture verses are taken from the NIV.

1.http://www.deeper-devotion.net/slow-work-of-god.html.

The Power to Make a Difference,
a compilation by Lighthouse Bible Studies, LLC,
Available on their website and Amazon.