I love books. Not as much as my friend, Kellye, but ... I do love a good book. In an effort to divert my mind of German grammar at present, I picked up The Chronicles of Narnia. I've read the series, years ago, have watched, multiple times, the 3 major motion pictures ... but I longed to refresh my mind with some of the simple, Aslan reminders of a love so deep and passionate between Creator and created. So, I read The Boy and His Horse.
I love ... love the part when the boy, who has only heard of Aslan, not knowing him to be real or myth, has his first encounter with this illusive character. It's not thunder and lightning or fireworks and bright flashes ... it just a whisper, a knowing presence.
Then, after the first initial "Oh my goodness you are real" kind of moment the boy, Shasta, has with Aslan ... they just talk. Actually, Shasta talks ... and talks ... and talks. He tells Aslan about every hurt in his life ... asks him why certain events happened ... and where was Aslan during all of this. I love Aslan's answer. He, the creator of strength and mystery, was there all the time. He was fear that pushed forward, tenderness that offered a companion during a dark night, director that divinely shifted circumstances toward protection. Beautiful. He was right there all along. Only in looking back could Shasta see this ever-present, ever-working intervention of a tender, strong, fierce and all-knowing ... Aslan.
Too often, I admit ... when I'm not reading a book and I am doing real life, I feel just like Shasta. I don't take the time to look around me ... to look for the fingerprints of Aslan. ( Now, not to confuse you ... or better yet myself, Aslan is a lion symbol of God.) They are there ... these fingerprints ... you just need to look for them.
I live in a city where few know, like Shasta before his encounter, there is a Creator who is ever-present and desires to walk alongside them ... listening, whispering their names ... in hopes they stop long enough to notice His presence. Just as Shasta could do nothing else but jump off his horse and fall to the ground ... as if the ground had a magnetic connection to his heart that forced him to lower himself at the feet of this Aslan ... encounters with God change us.
I amsomewhat dramatic. I want to have encounters with God that are ... big. Really big. I want to have thunder, lightning, fireworks and bright flashes. I want to be able to see God do big ... really big ... things through me. I want others to see something so uniquely wild in me that could only be explained by the indescribable presence of God Almighty.
Mostly, I get whispers. I get whispers that tell me I am loved ... even when my hair looks stupid. I get whispers that remind me to pray for precious Parker and her math test. I get whispers that tell me to stay a little longer in my big blue chair with Libby because time slips through fingers and 9 year old girls grow up ... fast. I hear whispers that beg me to hug my Addison tighter ... because she isn't 9 years old any longer ... and her time has come. I hear whispers that tell me to call my Chris ... and tell him I love him ... just because. I get whispers that ask me to offer prayers for a woman on the streetcar that looks like her affluence has outlived her happiness. I get whispers for a little baby that may never hear the words to the song "Jesus loves Me". I get whispers that tell me what I am doing ... in this city ... has eternal consequences. I get whispers that affirm that He is always near ... always working ... always strength in weakness.
I would probably not know what to do with the thunder and lightning. It would probably scare me. Being a simple girl ... God ... knows that whispers are enough. Whispers are majestic signs that a holy Father loves me. He is there. He is guiding. In the whisper, I hear loudly the voice of the One who has always been walking alongside me. I've learned to not only hear, but to obey the whispers. It's in the obeying that keeps me alert ... and on track ... and pleased ... because in the obeying ... I feel the breath of my God ... knowing in His presence is where I am meant to be ...
Hoping you, too, hear whispers ...
I love ... love the part when the boy, who has only heard of Aslan, not knowing him to be real or myth, has his first encounter with this illusive character. It's not thunder and lightning or fireworks and bright flashes ... it just a whisper, a knowing presence.
Then, after the first initial "Oh my goodness you are real" kind of moment the boy, Shasta, has with Aslan ... they just talk. Actually, Shasta talks ... and talks ... and talks. He tells Aslan about every hurt in his life ... asks him why certain events happened ... and where was Aslan during all of this. I love Aslan's answer. He, the creator of strength and mystery, was there all the time. He was fear that pushed forward, tenderness that offered a companion during a dark night, director that divinely shifted circumstances toward protection. Beautiful. He was right there all along. Only in looking back could Shasta see this ever-present, ever-working intervention of a tender, strong, fierce and all-knowing ... Aslan.
Too often, I admit ... when I'm not reading a book and I am doing real life, I feel just like Shasta. I don't take the time to look around me ... to look for the fingerprints of Aslan. ( Now, not to confuse you ... or better yet myself, Aslan is a lion symbol of God.) They are there ... these fingerprints ... you just need to look for them.
I live in a city where few know, like Shasta before his encounter, there is a Creator who is ever-present and desires to walk alongside them ... listening, whispering their names ... in hopes they stop long enough to notice His presence. Just as Shasta could do nothing else but jump off his horse and fall to the ground ... as if the ground had a magnetic connection to his heart that forced him to lower himself at the feet of this Aslan ... encounters with God change us.
I am
Mostly, I get whispers. I get whispers that tell me I am loved ... even when my hair looks stupid. I get whispers that remind me to pray for precious Parker and her math test. I get whispers that tell me to stay a little longer in my big blue chair with Libby because time slips through fingers and 9 year old girls grow up ... fast. I hear whispers that beg me to hug my Addison tighter ... because she isn't 9 years old any longer ... and her time has come. I hear whispers that tell me to call my Chris ... and tell him I love him ... just because. I get whispers that ask me to offer prayers for a woman on the streetcar that looks like her affluence has outlived her happiness. I get whispers for a little baby that may never hear the words to the song "Jesus loves Me". I get whispers that tell me what I am doing ... in this city ... has eternal consequences. I get whispers that affirm that He is always near ... always working ... always strength in weakness.
I would probably not know what to do with the thunder and lightning. It would probably scare me. Being a simple girl ... God ... knows that whispers are enough. Whispers are majestic signs that a holy Father loves me. He is there. He is guiding. In the whisper, I hear loudly the voice of the One who has always been walking alongside me. I've learned to not only hear, but to obey the whispers. It's in the obeying that keeps me alert ... and on track ... and pleased ... because in the obeying ... I feel the breath of my God ... knowing in His presence is where I am meant to be ...
Hoping you, too, hear whispers ...
