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- Written by: Don Goulding
The light of the full moon will be like the sun’s glare
and the sun’s glare will be seven times brighter,
like the light of seven days,
when the Lord binds up his people’s fractured bones
and heals their severe wound. (Isaiah 30:26)
Our moon is temperamental. One night she’s a coy thumbnail wrapped in wispy clouds, while on another she’s full and brazen. Her mysterious moods make her appear all the more beautiful.
In reality, our moon is a crater pocked ball of dust. She’s a blight who, in her hidden new moon phases, blocks any stars caught behind her.
How can the moon stop our hearts with splendor one night, and become a sterile obstruction another? The answer is in the sun. It’s his glorious reflection from the moon’s surface that captivates us. Gray barrenness transforms into white radiance. For her part, the moon has only to hold herself in the presence of the sun. Yet, if she refuses, the sun’s brilliant rays slip unnoticed into the blackness of space.
God declares a lesson in our moon. We are like her. Left to ourselves, we’re homely chunks of dirt. Our love is sterile, our lives sin pocked, our hearts cold and rocky. We block the beauty of God’s creation by the darkness of our presence.
Nevertheless, bring any pitiful, barren soul into the brilliance of the Son Jesus, and every contour of their heart becomes irresistibly attractive. Our weaknesses, temptations, and losses, when brought near him, are the very surfaces from which his light shines with white radiance.
Mirrors are made of layers. Only the foil-thin silver coating does the actual reflecting. Just so, it’s my micro faith that reflects the magnificence of God Almighty. There’s not much there to do the job—and yet, when I refuse to hold myself in the presence of Christ, the glory of God slips unnoticed into the blackness of space.
Prayer: Let your glory, oh God, shine from who I am.
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- Written by: Don Goulding
If you faint in the day of trouble,
your strength is small! (Proverbs 24:10)
On day twenty-six of rain, I hid behind the window, brooding over the wetness of my forest playground. Every green bough dripped water. Glass beads swelled, then fell to the ground, where they joined the soggy mat of last year’s pine needles. And still, the drops continued—shaped like millions of exclamation points taunting, “We’re not done yet.”
The trees didn’t complain. They anticipated the coming summer, held their arms wide, and said, “We’ll take all you’ve got, thank you.”
Even less daunted was a fat squirrel, merrily scurrying to the pinecones, and nibbling seeds. She didn’t seem to realize it was raining.
The rest of creation puts me to shame when it comes to resilience in adversity. God must wag his head at the frailty of my heart. Weather happens. It’s normal. Storms of pain, change, even death are part of the system I was born into. So why does losing my rights shock me? Even too much rain upsets my delicate equilibrium.
Taken as the totality of events, I could understand crumbling under earthly suffering. But good days follow bad ones. I’m given whatever strength I need to continue through inclement times. If all my days were filled with pain, they would still only constitute a short season. Summer follows winter in the physical, and in the spiritual realms. Paradise will swallow the earth’s winter.
Nature looked through the window, saw me dry and warm, and said, “Buck up Buttercup. You'll make it through with the Lord.”
Prayer: Savior, I will rest in your timing for making things right.
- Details
- Written by: Don Goulding
Without warning, a furious storm came up on the lake, so that the waves swept over the boat. But Jesus was sleeping. (Matthew 8:23, 24) (NIV)
We shot under the Golden Gate Bridge, skimming at full throttle into an enormous swell. Our little boat plunged on the bias into the pit of a trough, and lost sight of everything save walls of saltwater. We raced up the mounting face to hurl the bow from the top. There was a moment of weightlessness before crashing down on the wave’s backside. I nearly panicked, but then . . .
I looked into the face of our pilot. He was a friend I knew well enough to detect any concern. What I saw was a Cheshire cat grin. He liked this.
My tension eased. I anticipated the waves, and enjoyed the intervals of defying gravity. My senses sharpened as my face pushed through an icy aftershave of brine wind. We flew off the crests, and I had to suppress a corny urge to yell, “Wahoo.”
Life’s waves are intimidating. Abandonment, illness, anxiety, addiction—they seethe and foam above my head like so much hateful seawater. Then I look into the face of my Pilot.
Jesus takes great pleasure at being on the ocean. He likes the feeling of salty wind and trusting his Father at each leap over a wave. He delights at swooping into the valleys.
Am I relaxed yet? Jesus is. Look at that face, he’s laughing. I don’t see fear there. I see confidence and resolve, calm and sovereignty.
My Pilot knows what he is about. We are not headed for disaster, but for some other destination to which he’s steering. He knows his course, and he’s sure of the landing he has already experienced. I can loosen up and relax, because Jesus is at the helm, and life is under his feet.
Prayer: Strong Savior, I look into your face and take on your confidence.