Lullabies of Zion

The Virgin Mary’s heart was a soft tablet of flesh upon which the Holy Spirit inscribed her ponderings with His supernatural Writer’s-script. Unlike the young Shepherd King of Israel, David the Psalmist, who wrote his poems for us, Mary’s love poems were written on her abundantly teachable mother’s heart. And often, as sweet rhythms of contentment, she must have devised what we could call her Lullabies of Zion. They were so needful for her little Son who cried from His bed of hay as He was placed in the animal’s feeding trough on a cold and friendless night.

She would have thought about these lullabies while she was on the donkey with Joseph, headed to Bethlehem to be registered. The road was so rough, and the little donkey could not soften the bumps that the young pregnant Mary had to absorb on the very night that she would give birth to her baby. The lullabies would calm both her and the divine infant in her womb as the little burro stumbled in the deep holes on the road and as the swirling winds whipped around them.

The songs would soothe her little one for His unusual birth. They would keep her heart pondering on the promises of the angel, and not upon the darkness of the night and the fact that no other mother had conceived in just the way that she had. Joseph was such a caring and protective husband, unlike the family in Bethlehem who were unwilling to receive them into the Inn for a clean and warm place for their Son’s birth. Mary’s songs unfurled throughout the common stable making it sacred until early the next morning with her baby’s first cry that must have come like the most  ethereal note among all of her holy lullabies.

In sheltering and raising a little Boy, who seemed in many ways a normal son, with muscles to grow, sustenance to be given, cleanings to be administered, and speech to be taught, she was happily busy, as were all the mothers she knew. Mary didn’t have the time to write her treasured reflections, but the Holy Spirit kept them safe in her submitted Magnificat-heart, as she sang in her Holy Spirit tongue.

And still, even after her little Son was a toddler, He would surely remember His mother quietly singing the peaceful songs that had always accompanied Him. They were like a prayer set to music that contained all the incense of the temple, and the promises of the Israel’s prophets within them. They would have been rare, unlike any of the songs Jesus had ever heard in the homes of His little friends, or even in the Synagogue. He certainly must have loved these songs as they surrounded Him with heaven’s love and courage as He grew in wisdom and strength. They made Him desire a day when He would be old enough to serve only His Father in heaven.

I imagine Mary always singing as she thought about the powerful prophesies and mysteries that surrounded the birth of Jesus—the hopes of Israel for the Immanuel, who indeed is be God With Us. These hopes were almost more than the dear wife of Joseph could carry as she helped clean the carpenter’s shop, as she brought her family their meals, as she went to the market, and so her songs would often help her hold on to the mysterious messages that were far beyond her understanding.

In my heart, I can hear her sing especially when she remembered Simeon’s statement in the temple on the very day of Jesus’ circumcision. Simeon was so joyous to finally see, in his extreme old age, the baby Jesus. He also predicted such wonderful things: That he had now seen the Lord’s salvation; that her Son was a light of revelation for the Gentiles, and the glory of the Lord’s people, Israel. But she would also harken back to the words that her Child was appointed for the fall and rise of many in Israel, and for a sign to be opposed. And then came the part about a sword that would pierce her own soul—to the end that thoughts from many hearts would be revealed. It sounded so very ominous. What could it mean? And all of this would keep her singing the rocking and surrounding Lullabies of Zion.

Mary’s comforting songs must have been so loud during the three days when Jesus was lost in His twelfth year, after their trip to Jerusalem. Her songs, a veritable shout to keep her and Joseph focused on finding their son, who was now, by Jewish Law, a young man. Where could He be? How could He have strayed? He was always so aware and obedient to their discipline of Him. And then they found Him among the greatest sages of their faith, and it was Jesus teaching them about His Everlasting Heavenly Father. What about His earthly father and mother’s fears? Oh! The songs had to become louder upon her heart as she started to see the beginnings of the sword that would pierce her soul.

Years later, beneath the Cross of her son, and now Savior, Mary would whisper her songs—the only ones that could give her any measure of comfort. And she left a message for all of us with parents’ hearts to sing with our Lord, even when the sword looms, and the Cross stands before us, because by His sacrifice, we who love the Savior, will know the Resurrection of the Lord, if we believe His message--that by His death, we live eternally.

Down through the many ages since the little mother would have started her lullabies to Jesus from the back of a donkey, we have been given the unction to sing to Him. All the praises that we lift up to the Lord have their tradition in the submitted heart of the earthly mother of Heaven’s King.

Hallelujah! Sing! Dear Mothers! Sing! And Sing! Dear Fathers! Sing! The darkness is pushed back by our hymns, and heaven hears a song that, in turn, instills courage for the impossible within us and among us—a Virgin giving birth to the Father’s Son, our virgin hearts facing impossible new territories to glorify the King who now is no longer a baby, but seating us, always with Him, at the right hand of God—a lullaby to calm any fitful heart, even in the darkest night!

Thank you for the grand legacy, dear Mary— you are the lullaby-maker to Jesus, and our hearts are brightened by those brave and tender hymns to keep singing!

The Shepherd that I Want

Psalm 23

The Lord is my shepherd,

I shall not want.

He makes me lie down in green pastures;

He leads me beside quiet waters.

He restores my soul;

He guides me in the paths of righteousness

For His name’s sake

Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death,

I will fear no evil, for You are with me.

Your rod and Your staff, they comfort me.

You prepare a table before me in the presence of my enemies;

You have anointed my head with oil;

My cup overflows.

Surely goodness and lovingkindness will follow me all the days of my life

And I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever.

The 23^rd Psalm has so many abiding resonances for me. Along with great throngs of little ones, I was also taught to memorize this Song to give me comfort and to hold it close in my heart when I was alone. The simple rhythms of its meter, and the direct statements that a child admires always surrounded me with the Lord’s Presence long before I could fully understand the words. After my parents left our dark room at night it was the cadence of these words that guided me into sleep.

The paintings on ancient family walls of Jesus with His staff surrounded by His confidently protected flock, or those paintings of Jesus with children on His knee were the images that came into my young mind as I said the words. I knew that like the little lambs I wanted to stay close to the One with the resources to get me through. I also wanted to laugh with the other children knowing that Jesus never hindered one of us from His side. It was clear that I needed a Shepherd of this kind because in my heart I was sure about how very little a child can really do for herself, and I wanted Him--this Jesus--to be my Defender, since my parents could not be with me at all times.

But it was always the first verse that gave me such a startle. I actually did not want to grow-up because of that line: “The Lord is my Shepherd, I shall not want.” I wondered what was wrong with the adult way of thinking and behaving if they both knew that they had such a magnificent Shepherd, and yet they had to act as though they didn’t want Him! What happens to the understanding when it matures that grown-up people had to pretend to not wanting Some One so marvelous? I would not do it! And I promised the Lord each time that I prayed the Psalm that I would never stop wanting Him as my Shepherd, no matter how old I got.

The Psalm’s message delivered me with great protection on a family vacation to the busy New York City streets when I was six years old. Somehow, on a Manhattan sidewalk I let go of my mother’s hand, and instantly I was lost in a moving sea of strangers’ hands.

I started to say the words to the Psalm as the Lord moved me out of the bustling place, and by His staff He directed me to move back against the building, and to stand still, and to look into the sky. I wanted to cry because of awful fear, and over how much I missed my mother. When I looked into the sky, He had placed there an image of the one who I thought was His own mother to calm me, and I was amazed over her peaceful beauty. It was as though Her face said that I should fear no evil as her Son had shepherded me into a place of green pastures and quiet waters. I don’t remember seeing anything else during this time--only the assurance on a mother’s beautiful face, and how the words of the 23^rd Psalm were so real to me until my own mother found me with tears of joy and embraces.

Back in our hotel room, surrounded by the love of my family, I was sure I would always want Him and no amount of aging was ever going to change this. I was so grateful for His leading and will never forget the words as they were spoken to the kind gaze of the vision of His mother, or she may have been one of His angels. I simply knew that she was the mother in the heavens, keeping my gaze, until my own mother retraced our steps and found me, looking up into the sky on a frenetic, garish, neon-lit New York City street, in complete peace.

The 23^rd Psalm is obviously quite important to me--little saved lamb that I was. During the following years I was untiring in asking questions about what I was reading in my Bible about the tenderlovingkindness of this Shepherd.

By the time I was 12 years old I still held this perplexing view that as an adult you would have to feign not wanting the loving Shepherd if you were going to follow the natural order of things. It was then that I read an illustrated poem from my mother’s Ideal Magazine. The drawing and the poem told the story of a girl and boy, just about my age, setting off in a tiny craft upon the waves that definitely looked a bit too high for their talents. They were headed, the poem told me, to the Land of Maturity leaving behind their small and charming ways on the shore. No one ever saw my reaction to this piece of literature, but I cried with my whole body wracked with spasms over the whole repellant idea.

I knew that my boat was sailing, but I just couldn’t think of not wanting Him--the One who could sail this scary boat with such great Authority!

I have told you these childhood stories in an attempt to make an important point! The issue is about growing-up and about how an adult must finally choose her own faith, not because she was a particularly pious child, and not because her family easily handed it to her, and not because her maturing proclivities readily followed her childhood tendencies.

None of these will do! I am here to testify that for the next 18 years of my life I turned away from the Great Shepherd of my soul. I couldn’t stay a child, and many things intervened which hardened my heart. I found that growing-up took toughness, and the loneliness that I felt seemed to bounce back at me from an iron heaven. I made so many wrong choices. The little craft that sailed out to the Land of Maturity for me was shipwrecked on a cruel and empty island that could only support near starvation of the heart. These were years of confusion, sadness, emotional violence, and choices filled with self-hatred.

The only things that I admired during these years of torment were people whom I thought were seeking the truth. I stayed on in my Campus town long after graduation just to be around such people in all of the grand disciplines studied at a great university. When I got to know the brilliant people beyond their chosen fields, they also seemed to share a similar brutal island--the same as mine. I couldn’t imagine that their wonderful learning and stellar abilities in their studies couldn’t redeem their lives more successfully.

Truth was still the pursuit. I read, and sought-out people of learning, only to be dismally disappointed by the quality of their lives--full of jealousies, and manipulations, and lying.  They studied truth, but they lived a lie. How could this be?

Some years later, I met the man who has been my dearest husband for the last 33+ years.  The Shepherd’s staff was again leading me out of the mad foray, back to a place, against the building, actually His temple, where I could hear and see His glory. It had been a long absence from such tenderness as I allowed Him to guide me to hear from this person. Jim was very smart, but humble. He was a top scholar in his field, and the first thing that he ever said to me was: “Debbie, the Truth is not a thing, it is a Person, and His name is Jesus!” This singular phrase, that my hungry heart awaited, sent me off to meeting Christians and studying His Word with the most passion-filled application, and to an ongoing study (to this very day) of the Love of Christ with my dear gift of a husband.

I awake each morning now with the child-like heart that knows clearly the meaning that: “The Lord is my Shepherd, I shall not want (for anything.)” Italics are mine.  And with a fully adult heart I chose a Truth that lives, and walks among us, and has sent His Spirit to dwell in the Holy-of-Holies-Temple within us--a Truth that would die for all my so many terrible sins to give me freedom and victory. This Truth is fully compatible in experience as He is in Word. This Truth loves the Children of His Daddy. This Truth never leaves us alone. And I will always want Him and He leaves me never wanting for anything because His love is eternally bountiful. Dear Jesus, Your paths of righteousness are so lovely because of Your glorious Name’s sake! Your Truth never ends, it never fails, it stretches beyond heaven, and it reaches to each one--lambs bleating for a Shepherd. As it says of us in Matthew 9:36: “Seeing the people, He felt compassion for them, because they were distressed and dispirited like sheep without a shepherd.” He is all Love, Dear Friend, and all Truth! He is my only want.

Journaling Out of the Fog

A recent walk in the fog had me thinking about what we can really know in those times in our lives when we, like Abram in Genesis 12:1, are told by the Lord to head out: “…to the land which I will show you.”

In the image posted of the lover’s bench with foliage, right in front of me in an otherwise foggy morning, they were found to be very clear, almost highlighted in distinctiveness, by the surrounding mists and as I moved further from the little outlook it lost its shape fairly rapidly. It must be that there is something extremely significant about the present moment in those times of moving without knowing the destination (metaphorically, in the fog)--something that really should not be missed.

How can we value the gift of the here and now when we just want to get to the then and arrived? The lover’s bench kept impressing upon me a message and it had to do with a favorite passage of mine in Psalm 45:1: “My heart overflows with a good theme; I address my verses to the King; My tongue is the pen of a ready writer.”

I was transported to the very beginning of my marriage to my dear husband, Jim, and how we moved from our Eastern roots to San Diego by a call of the Lord. We had, neither of us, ever been beyond Chicago in this great Country. We took a Greyhound Bus across this new land. We didn’t know anyone in our newly appointed home. We had no idea about a church home. We had no jobs. We didn’t know how we would find housing. We used public transportation in a city that even in the early 80’s made this to be quite a challenge. We had a tiny, very small, savings to live on. And as well we were just launched into the grand adventure of seeing how the two become one in the poetry and authenticity of such a remarkable union.

It was writing then, and always has been for us, that surrounds us in the joy of the journey--keeping us alive to His Presence when the future seems so uncertain. I am looking at, even now, an exchange of letters (150 pages worth) that we penned upon the exhilaration and trepidation of this first pioneering event to become established in a place that the Lord would show us. They are delightful--really like the writing of someone else since in a sense, by distance, we are new and deepened people, by this first trek and so many more godly stretchings that we would never have wanted to miss in sweet Jesus!

We wanted to keep the present-day indelible for the following times that may be surrounded in fog--as an exhortation to stay at our post with the Lord’s leading--the map ultimately in His hand. The letters are indeed love letters to the One who guides with His arm around our shoulders, whispering: “You’re a Child of God! You’re a Child of God!” As well they are a record of the deepening fervency of the love that the Lord can grant over the decades of the long gift of a godly romance. Without these lovely sharings, the remembrance would have been a wonderful evanescent feeling without the gift of the words that astound in retrospect—things that surely would have been forgotten.

This first series was entitled: Letters: Sharing the Spirit of Christ. We also have an extended group of letters on our reflections on the book of Acts from the New Testament. This was especially helpful as we searched for a church home to be able to ponder together over how the first Christians lived out the love of Christ. These shared writings have paralleled individual journals that we have both kept, and exchanges of poetry, stories, essays, aphoristic lists, and love letters that we have given to each other, and always read aloud, on holidays, anniversaries, birthdays and in those grateful just-because- times.

By the time of my return walk the rolling mists had lifted, and there before the lover’s bench was the expanse of the broad and beautiful Torrey Pines Golf Course with the stunning cliff to the Pacific crashing below. The fog that preceded our trip to San Diego continues to open out upon such glory. I sat on the bench knowing of the deep surrounding of the Lover of my Soul and also that I would have to document this reflection because writing can make the mundane stunning, glistening in the dew of a gliding fog that brings with it the clarity of the Lord’s plan.

If you will write, even a paragraph, in the midst of times of seemingly foggy tumult, I can assure you that a new peace and gifting can descend upon the lover’s bench where you will submit to stop and give thanks! Even if you think the words themselves are chaotic, if you will just be real with Him, He will come to settle you down. You are loved back in your love letters to the One Who is Love! On the bench provided for you by Him you will see the fog lift and feel His good right arm around your shoulder. Your heavenly love letter today reads: “I love it when you write to Me. You are endlessly fascinating!”

A Monumental Hummingbird

How is it possible to be uninterested in a hummingbird? Their speed of flight which must be one of their greatest defenses, the way that they hover and can fly in any direction quicker than the eye can see them come or leave, their iridescent colors that glimmer in the sunlight, their need to eat nectar and insects nearly constantly to maintain such acrobatic energy levels, their ability to go into a torpid state at night if the temperatures go too low while they can’t eat, their diminutive size as compared to their outright boldness, their claim to territories even if they have to mob other birds gigantic in size when compared to them, their eggs that are smaller than an m&m candy, their nests woven of  elastic spider webs and mosses that expand with the rapid growing sword billed chicks,  and their outright fearlessness over the presence of a person near their feeding place—all of these things, and so much more make them astonishing wonders of the Lord’s creatively speaking voice. I often wonder how Adam could actually choose a name for such a marvel (“…and whatever the man called a living creature, that was its name.” Genesis 2:19)!

In San Diego we have the Anna’s Hummingbirds, with their crimson red markings, that stay with us year-round. They are a delight in all seasons. I have watched them puff up at our feeder even in the windiest winter storm coveting the vital sugar water that is provided on our porch. In the ease of summer they come like a brilliantly lit-up Christmas decoration out of season. I am familiar with their sounds and behaviors, but always curiously excited over their antics.

The picture posted here though is of the autumnal orange Rufous Hummingbird—the first that I’ve spotted in several years. We really have to watch for them because their visits are so brief as they are only passing through on the longest migration route of any hummingbird, from southern Alaska to southern Mexico. They are 3.75 inches long with a wingspan of 4.5 inches—a mystery of flight with their unimaginable 12,000-mile round-trip migration.

I am not at all accustomed to the Rufous’ behavior since I see them so rarely, but I do know easily when they arrive on the porch. The sound of their widely spread wings is like the roar of a motorcycle that appears alongside in traffic, seemingly out of nowhere. Even though the Anna’s are twice their size they can immediately chase them from the feeder with the sheer force of their superb flight. Nothing will stop them in getting the nourishment needed for the unbelievably long trip. I look at them and I am amazed at their monumentally determined behavior. They are, indeed, little to our eyes. But I really think that for this kind of tenacity they must find themselves to be giants, perhaps measuring against a gnat, or a piece of pollen on the wind.

I really like the curious story of the amazing Rufous, and I’m drawn by what it means to me spiritually. Within we can have the power of the Holy Spirit, and I have witnessed miracles of such broad proportions to my small woman-sized dimensions ever since He came to live within my heart. I also know that Jesus said: “…I say to you, if you have faith as a mustard seed, you shall say to this mountain, ‘Move from here to there’ and it shall move; and nothing shall be impossible to you.” Matthew 17:20

For me, the rare visitation of the fiery Rufous makes him my mustard seed reminder in my faith. I can become a great flier on the whirring and most skilled wings of the Holy Spirit--hovering, or dashing with lightning speed as He guides. I can ingeniously construct nests of protection for the little ones by His instructions. The nectar for the serious energy to persevere for the longest journey is the Communion of Christ, in His broken body and His blood shed for me. And I can be fearless because He tells me in 1 Samuel 17:47 that the battle is the Lord’s. And what about the colors of his love for me—dazzling in the Light of His Son!

Blessed preposterous flight dear Rufous! My faith flies along with you on Holy Spirit wings.