Last post about the rain for awhile, ok?
Occasionally, I have the ability to see further than my own nose. Sometimes, I manage to see the world beyond my own circumstances.
There is this set of eyes that I love to wear. I live with them for weeks at a time, excitedly looking at the world and waiting for what’s around the corner. Everything is important and everything is simply a thinly veiled metaphor of something entirely more massive. Life is so good in those eyes. Life is big and deep and appreciative.
Of course, I then go weeks wearing my own eyes (-5.50 if my optometrist is reading this). They are very temporal, very-much centered on how everything looks to me. The only metaphors they see are ones that relate directly to a need of mine that I’ve convinced myself must be met imminently. In these eyes, I don’t see the street-kids begging on the corner, I see the McDonalds and the Big Mac and McFlurry that would make me feel good for about 43 seconds/
Whatever the case may be, I love that first set of eyes.
Last weekend, it really stormed nicely for about 24 hours. Lightning and thunder and the whole production… Andre had just died and I’d just learned of Beauty’s unfortunate issues with the puddles in her house.
So, the rain fell and I thought of Beauty and of Andre. And as we climbed the stairs of the Mission House after a long day, we noticed a puddle of our own. At the top of the stairs was a sizeable amount of standing water. Naturally, we looked at the ceiling above the new indoor pond and found that it was dripping from several places.
The rain had invaded our home, which isn’t the least bit surprising. Stef and I joke that we’re going to be awoken one night by our bed plummeting down from the second story to the first as the creaky old floor we walk on (ever-so-gently) finally gives way. We find vines growing in the walls and little critters everywhere, so the rain dripping through the ceiling was simply another facet of our very old, very dilapidated accommodation.
Then came the metaphor…
I don’t know exactly when the rain had become associated with mercy. And I don’t know if that’s something I made up or something Oswald Chambers snuck into my brain or what. I do know that I always equate the falling rain with the mercies of God falling upon his earth. Every time. Undeserved, life-sustaining mercy.
So, as I hydro-planed into our room, I remembered His mercy. And after a very (VERY) trying week of death and relational strain and loss and sadness, our roof leaked. What a beautiful picture.
I could not outrun His mercy. There was no place that could hide me from His love or His embrace. No man-made structure, physical or otherwise, could combat His overwhelming force.
He alone, the author of all that is good, gives rest to the weary. He finds the destitute in their most desperate places – and He pours His love out upon them. He found me there. He continues to find me. And remind me. I cannot outrun Him. I cannot hide from His goodness, His holiness, or His all-consuming nature.
Today, I am again thankful for the rains. And the leaky roof.