I enjoy my jaunts to the chicken coop each evening. And now that the days are shorter, it is fully dark by the time I walk up to the barn. Last night was gorgeous. The waning full moon, rising above Kirkhaven’s grassy brae, threw random moon-beams across the wet gravel under my feet. A slight breeze ruffled crispy leaves on the maple trees beside my country driveway. Just a hint of wispy fog drifted through the treetops across the ridge. A twinkly, bronze star Betelgeuse, hanging low in the eastern horizon, announced the arrival of my favorite constellation: Orion the Hunter.
It was chilly outside, but not really cold. I was wearing my favorite pink flannel pajamas and wondered if I should have worn a jacket.
The joy that began trickling into my heart as I walked up the hill to the barn was unexplainable. I wasn't thinking about anything in particular. My day had been fairly unremarkable.
I began to smile. I hummed a favorite hymn. My steps were light . . . unencumbered. I stood underneath autumn’s huge night sky and marveled at its tranquility. I thought about going back to the house to get my husband . . . or phone my son . . . or text my daughter-in-law . . . and encourage them to join me outside. It’s probably dorky, but I have done it before. I just hate for others to miss such beauty. But instead, I raised my hands into the cool night air and exclaimed:
“Ohmygosh! Who can I share this with?”
I heard an answer, believe it or not. The question was meant to be rhetorical, but the answer I received was quietly emphatic. A clear, familiar voice spoke softly in the depths of my startled heart:
“Me. Share it with Me.”
All thoughts and emotions settled into an awe-struck stillness as my small East Tennessee farm became a moon-lit sanctuary. I had been invited to share an astoundingly beautiful nighttime walk with the King of the Universe. I hadn't brought a flashlight, so we walked by the light of a million twinkling stars. Words are not sufficient to describe the wonder I felt.
This year Thanksgiving and Christmas come to Kirkhaven with much celebration. There will be gratitude and joy. There will be decorations all over the house, warm fires at the hearth, and deliciously aromatic goodies baking in the oven. There will be parties and family and friends. We at Kirkhaven are so very, very blessed.
But this year there is something different. There is a fresh breeze of freedom and fellowship here. I am astounded by the calming presence of the Lord Himself. Like He actually wants to walk with us through our rolling meadows and wooded trails. As if He delights to join us in our simple farming chores . . . feeding the chickens . . . tilling the garden soil. It is impossible to feel alone here because He is so very present.
I am becoming more and more convinced, however, that a person cannot experience the rich filling of the presence of God until there is an emptying to make room for Him. If you are full of your own agenda and your own opinions and your own wisdom and your own religiosity and your own well-constructed-well-insulated community of yea-saying friends and family and colleagues . . . then you are full. And a full vessel has no need.
But an empty vessel is very needy. It has such poignant elegance. Unembellished. Unpretentious. It claims ownership of nothing. It is simply waiting. To be filled. To be poured out. And helpless to do neither . . . fully dependent upon the Master’s Hands for everything.
Life doesn’t need fanfare to be exciting. You don’t need religious credentials to experience real encounters with God. And prayers don’t have to be perfectly uttered to be heard.
But you must be empty to be filled.
May the Lord be your treasured guest and ever-present companion this holiday season.
I wait for the Lord, my soul does wait,
And in His Word do I hope.
Psalm 130:5
1 comment:
great post! love the "TEXT my daughter in law" ha. have a wonderful Thanksgiving my family with out me. . . I am in there in spirit. love you all!
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