It’s not often that I can see. Really see.
And yet there are moments when Father gives the ability to look into His eyes and see that place that He has been speaking to us about. Regardless of what twist in the road we currently find ourselves on, we recognize that place as the fulfillment of the promises He’s spoken over us.
For some it is a vast place where children are fed, sheltered, educated, and where fresh water flows freely.
For others it is a deeply personal place where freedom reigns within and longed-for healing washes over us and on to our sons and daughters.
For some the place we see is an extension of ourselves in the marketplace …where truth and Kingdom stuff happens as a result of our day-in and day-out pursuit of His glory while making bricks in the land of Egypt.
For still others it is a place where we are laid-down lovers of the King and His love emanates from the work of our hands, touching nations.
The birth of Isaac must have caused that kind of keen insight for Abraham and Sarah of the Old Testament. In Genesis 21 it says, “And Sarah said, ‘God has made laughter for me; everyone who hears will laugh over me.’”
The complete fulfillment of the legacy made to Abraham would come later through Jacob, and the naming of the twelve tribes of Israel. Nevertheless Abraham had in this moment a glimmer into the complete fulfillment of the promise, just like I’m talking about. Those moments are brief, and we usually respond with at least the thought, “This is what I’m created for!”
In those moments we can see into that place He’s called us to and we recognize the dreams He planted in the soil of our hearts. We can see where they germinated in darkness and began to take root. Like Sarah we feel the laughter bubble up within us and overtake our being. We can smile easily with belief and with faith in His goodness toward us. And if we look closer we don’t even see ourselves actually because we’ve come to be hidden in the secret places of Christ. We only see the fruit and the laughter. The knowing, like Isaiah expresses so deftly, “This is the LORD; we have waited for him; let us be glad …”
The journey has not been for naught, Friend. The sharp turns and deserts have been for our good.
Let us find our footing in His heart once again….till again we see.
I remember when I was growing up, my Dad would show us stuff. He was intent on teaching us to identify trees and plants, like Morrel mushrooms, Bittersweet and Sumac. Of course he taught us useful stuff too, how to back up a truck with a trailer; how to drive a boat; how to collect sap and make Maple Syrup and, best of all, how to fish. Although my growing up years are mostly wrapped in nostalgia and I have few opportunities to exercise those skills, what I actually learned was this: I am limitless in my ability to learn a skill and do it. Dad taught us to be learners, and to not be afraid to try new things.
One year Dad decided to build a cabin on the back edge of our property. Dad was neither a builder nor an architect but he and my lovely, artist-in-residence Mom put their skills together. With the help of generous builder-type friends, the tiny, humble building came together. At the time the cabin served as the best fort and doll house a girl could ask for! We loved it! With it’s steeply-sloped corrugated roof, woodstove and dry sink, the cabin stood on stilts and overlooked the trout stream that ran through our property. My friends and I would traipse around in the woods and slosh in the creek for hours at a time.
It wasn’t until I was well into my adult years that I learned the strain that building the cabin placed on our family. Apparently it wasn’t the most fiscally responsible undertaking, nor was the building designed to withstand 25 years of rugged weather. My Dad has been gone for some time now, and yet the cabin stands perhaps as a tribute to his tremendous influence on our lives.
Talk is cheap and we spout ideas of who we are and what we’ll one day become. The fact is, we are not who we say we are. We are what we do.
Dad didn’t leave behind a cabin. He left behind a legacy of attempts to show us how important we were to him, how deeply he cared and how much he wanted us to love the things he loved.
Plain and simple, Dad wasn’t great at communicating. I still wonder about who he really was, and why he called me Scout.
But I know he loved me.
And I’m not afraid to try stuff.