You can sometimes feel it early, that tap tap tapping on the shoulder come two or three or four in the morning when bones are heavy as lead and so are eyelids. You turn to shake it but it won’t so you contemplate its origin—your own restlessness? His Spirit?
And nine times out of ten if we pay close attention we’ll feel Him, like an affectionate puppy's warm breath waiting unconditional for our rousing, waiting patiently to lavish love and cuddle close.
Yeah, happens a lot here, and it’s become a real anticipation despite the ache for sleep.
It’s 3:00 this time, perfectly three I know because I turn over and lay there for no less than a minute, no more than two, then roll back over and peek at the clock . . . exactly 3:02.
They say there’s a lot to be said around that time, if we’ll just listen. If we’ll throw the covers back and slide to the side and force ourselves up to this place He’s called us . . . aware, alert . . . awake! When the noise of the day is hushed and all you can hear is your own hushed breathing and pulsating heart along with all those revelatory thoughts swirling about your head.
Sometimes we have to escape the noise to hear the Voice.
We have to thrust our feet to the ground and take those first few wobbly steps in the dark to feel the strength of His Light.
We have to push the smothering blankets of worn-out off to pull the reviving warmth of His love on.
We have to fight to come awake just to realize He’s been fighting to wake us, to win our affection, fighting tooth and nail the distractions and intrusions that invade His Holy space in the center of our beings.
So this morning I pry tired bones off the clinging king-sized mattress and make my way to the kitchen, run water and hear it splash the metal sink, then splash some on my face to come alive. It helps.
I consider bended knee time but notice a full moon’s pale light drift through the blinds and it draws me Home like a magnet. Pulls me right outdoors underneath its mystic gleam. I walk the path, the rocky asphalt as it curves but never mind the bare feet. It’s this beautiful ball of speckled luminosity I can’t resist, the Great Pearl hung on a string of twinkling lights, suspended there for my pleasure, dangled perfectly in front of the deepest rich black backdrop.
And it reaches all the distant miles down and takes my hand, pulls me along in a glorious dance—just me and the moon.
Ah, but of course. . . I’m here and it’s there and I can’t really touch it, so I sit down at the end of the long worn driveway next to the weathered fence wishing it’d come get me, wishing somehow it’d hold me close and twirl and spin me in its deliberate smooth rotations through brilliant celestial bodies. Oh, wouldn’t that be outrageously lovely? Dancing with the moon?
Creator, look what You’ve done! Look at your splendor! It is sensory overload and I can hardly take it in, like a gasping in His presence, a holding of the breath as if to try and save this sacred moment, as if to capture it and lock it up in my soul somewhere.
Stars shimmering bright, night creature sounds, gentle breeze against my face—a kiss of his grace—and this MOON with its glowing halo!
Green eyes glisten in the stunning moonlight. Liquid silk falls along cheekbones and drips over trembling chin reflecting the heavens unleashing them. He’s released my tears from the depths of awestruck wonder, He’s lavished this beauty so divine I have no choice but to let them stream wild and free.
It’s His presence that finds a heart humbled and I can’t take my salty eyes off of it, the pure elegance of the night sky!
And a singular star falls. Falls all over me, it does.
And I remember the boys little, curled up next to me all those years ago, one on each side. I’d taken them to see a meteor shower, woke them up on a starry night just like this . . . tired but willing. We’d grabbed some blankets and pillows and drove that Ford truck down to the primary school parking lot where the sky was vast and crisp and clear. And stars they fell all over us like gold nuggets into open pots. A moment so special. So brief. So forever. Etched deep in my soul.
I blink, look twice, but it’s gone. One fleeting glimpse and it’s gone. That single falling star a reminder of God’s grace. This is His grace we’re all hanging on to here, you know, this one brief moment in God’s infinity.
Because only sacred moments with our Creator outlast us, outlast our mortal shells. All this nonsense we chase after will be rolled up like an old worn robe it says. And only He will last.
“You, Lord, laid the foundation of the earth in the beginning, and the heavens are the work of your hands; they will perish, but you remain; they will all wear out like a garment, like a robe you will roll them up, like a garment they will be changed. But you are the same, and your years will have no end.” Hebrews 1:10-12
It’s the striking reality that all I witness will pass away, these billions of magnificent galaxies, this microscopic sphere I’m sitting on, the shimmering pearl I behold, everything held in His palm—it’ll all fold up and roll away one day—It’ll all be made new.
Makes me desperate for the union . . . for a connecting of my spirit with His, the very connection Christ talked about—God in Jesus, Jesus in me, all of us one.
And I plead for the union, tarnished soul stripped free. I ask Him to penetrate bone and marrow, to peel back fleshly layers and dip deep into to core of who I am . . . to bring me supernaturally as close as I can possibly be.
Oh, it’s a calm relief His words are true, His promises never broken—His peace WILL outlast it all! We ARE one, this Holy Being and I.
Because of Christ, no sacred moment is ever wasted and I am right with Creator, right here, right now . . . and I don’t want to leave this sublime moment in time. So I revel in the beauty pausing only to smash the occasional ant on my leg with its disrupting sting until the thought occurs that the neighbors just might call the authorities come daylight I’m still sitting here! I turn a half grin at the thought.
It’s not easy leaving. No, it’s working to pry myself away from this place, same as when I struggled out of bed.
But I make my way back inside, look at the clock now . . . 3:50 a.m.
I tilt the head, smile serene, and all I can think of is all I would have missed had I closed my eyes and fallen back to sleep an hour ago, had I cherished the bed more than His nudge, had I followed my own inclinations instead of His still small Voice.
And the pale moon shimmers through the blinds, His embrace smiling back at me.
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