(Every year the members of our church spend some time writing and sharing “Living Psalms” which are original outpourings of our hearts to God. This was one that I shared in service recently.)

Come

Lord, You said, “Come”, and I did.

I walked with You as in an eastern forest,

in the days of my youth and in the days of my not so youth.

I walked with you as through a pine forest,

shaded by the shadow of Your presence,

the scent and coolness of the trees a refreshment from You.

The song of birds, the sound of water running over rocks were as words

from Your mouth, a speaking of Your presence into my wanderings;

sunlight streaming through the canopy of branches,

a lighting of a path for my feet.

Your presence, Your voice, Your guidance always there, always tangible.

I had come to You, and You made it easy, this walk.

You made it beautiful...

When did I wander into this place of barren openness and drought?

I look around and see no familiar forest, no shade to my liking.

The song of the stream is now silence in my ears.

Like Jonah, I grumble over my own private castor oil plant,

it springing up to shade me one day, withered and gone the next.

I fail to see Your hand in providing it, choosing instead to whine about

the lack of water, the scorching wind.

How did I get here? Have you led me here, Lord?

Or is this some strange spiritual climate change?

And the internal argument begins...

maybe this strange climate change is a natural spiritual evolution...

the world seems more violent,

more wicked than in the days of that easy walk with You.

I'm older, wiser now, more cynical, less romantic.

“The more time you spend on earth, the more you see unfold.”

(Why do those words, the worldly wisdom of an old rocker spring to my mind more quickly than the timeless wisdom of Your Word?)

Perhaps this strange climate change is man-made, me-made?

But I haven't changed since the days of the easy beautiful fellowship with You.

(I realize I say this to the never-changing, ever faithful Father...)

O.K., well, maybe I've wandered into this place

by my own carelessness, my own sin.

Do I no longer nurture the places where Your presence came easy,

Your voice clear? Are my quiet times shorter in time, less in quiet?

Is my daily walk with You shared by too many other diversions that are not just You?

Lord, You see my life from beginning to end in a single glance.

You know me, my heart, my walk, my sin, my faithfulness and disobedience,

all that I have ever been and done, all that I carry with me.

I can reason, and surmise and excuse and examine and peer so intently at it all

and not see a fraction of what You see in Your single glance.

Do You see too much in me now, Lord?

Have I complicated my walk with You with all of the debris of life

I have picked up over the years, some precious, some worthless,

but all crowding out Your best for me?

Is this land I see as dry and barren only dry of the refreshment of your Spirit,

only barren of more of You, simply a place of clutter,

a life that has accumulated too much stuff since that time

when I first heard You say “Come”.

So I sit and listen. And, there You are, You still call to me...“Come”...

Not “do”...not “serve”...not “study”...

Those other words can only have power in my life
after I am obedient to that first word...“Come”.
So I come to You.
I seek You for myself apart from the demands of my life,
the needs of others the call to know about the things of You
rather than to know You Yourself.

I come just as I am, wearing the accumulation of years, sitting in Your presence,

allowing You to sort through the junk,

transform that which You desire me to keep, removing, sometimes gently,

sometimes forcefully, that which has weighed me down and needs to go.

And I look around and see again Your presence.

I walk again in it, familiar yet different, not the trees of my youth,

yet still refreshing, giving a new shade for this now self.

I hear the sound of Your voice, like a stream rushing in the woods,

clearly Your voice, but one I've learned requires careful listening

with renewed ears in Your presence.

I look down and still see You ordering my steps, lighting my path.

You have been here all along in this place, waiting for me to come.

It was I who had wandered.

It is I who had forgotten to listen for that still, quiet call. “Come”. 

 

Come to me, all who labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.

 Take my yoke upon you, and learn from me, for I am gentle and lowly in heart,

 and you will find rest for your souls.

                                                                                              - Matthew 11:28-29