The Creek

The house I grew up in had a large creek in the backyard.  It felt to me like the creek went on for miles; of course, like any childhood memory, if I returned to the creek today, I’d probably find it to be small and uninteresting.  But my memories of the creek are filled with loud imagination and quiet solace.  I don’t remember my sisters joining me on my creek adventures, maybe because I charged a good hundred bucks to enter.  And lest you think their quarters would have sufficed…they did not.  One hundred bucks and that was that.  So, maybe that had something to do with it.   But in spite of the lack of friends joining me during these creek adventures, the hours I spent there were full of fun, and the memories are vivid.

I had the creek divided into sections; each section was a different “course” that progressively got harder to pass through.   Naturally, if I could safely get through the labyrinth and make it to the next stage, I was awarded a number of additional weapons and gifts.  I was a very decorated competitor in my creek game, proudly beating out every other competitor with ease.  And I wasn’t humble about my winnings in my imaginary world (well, duh). In fact, I remember standing on the largest rock I could find while I gave speeches about my amazing feats.  I also participated in several interviews with reporters who were flabbergasted by my talent.

So that might have been taking it a bit too far.  But I gave some pretty good, eloquent speeches in front of those reporters.  And I’m not entirely sure what to do with the fact that I still remember some of these speeches.

But at the end of the grueling course was the most beautiful part of the creek.  If I made it to the end, I made it to the greenest, driest, and warmest part of the creek.  The sun’s rays snuck through this spot providing a warmth that was absent in the other parts of the creek.  The rocks were large enough for me to sit indian style and bask in the glory… of my great accomplishments.

And I wonder where my youngest gets her flair for the dramatic.

But in my memories, this place was perfection.  It was safe, it was quiet, and it was peaceful.  Even as a child, I relished in the beautiful nature around me and found some sense of comfort in the quietness of this little hideout.

I’ve been reflecting quite a bit lately on the importance of stillness and contentment.  Psalm 131 has had a stronghold on my heart:

O Lord, my heart is not lifted up; my eyes are not raised too high; I do not occupy myself with things too great and too marvelous for me.  But I have calmed and quieted my soul, like a weaned child with its mother; like a weaned child is my soul within me.  O Israel, hope in the Lord from this time forth and forevermore.  

This verse brought me back to memories of the creek.  Whether I knew it or not as a child, there was an innate need for calm, marveling in simple things like rocks, earth, trees, and the rays of sun that surrounded me (while, of course,  admiring my own supernatural abilities).   There in that little creek, I had no need to grasp for contentment.  It was just there.

I’ve missed that feeling of late.  Instead of peace in the creek, my life has looked more like grasping for whatever I can in order to keep myself afloat, in order to keep myself from gulping up the waters that I’m desperately and tirelessly trying to tread.  I’m grasping for peace, grasping for grace, grasping for solace.  But in grasping, I’ve lost sight of the truth that God gives me what I need when I need it.  In grasping, I’m not resting in the abundant provision that God gives.

I worry about future doctors appointments, managing difficult relationships, my children’s health, and numerous other sometimes petty things (that fascinatingly become monstrous in the middle of the night), and I begin to drown.

But there’s no need to grasp.  When I need sustenance, the Lord provides it, when I need courage, the Lord gives it in abundance, and when I need peace, He grants it often in supernatural ways.  Frantically worrying about what may or may not be is grasping with my hands tight fisted around something that doesn’t save.  How many times have I missed receiving the Lord’s provisions because my hands were anxiously clenched instead of being open to His abundance.

When I received the news of my dad’s cancer many years ago, I remember running outside my dorm room and sitting under a nearby tree.  I cried out to God begging him to not take my dad away.  Because I couldn’t do life without my dad.  There was no way I could survive the death of my dad.  My attitude was pretty straight forward:  God,  don’t take him if you want me to keep on keeping on.

But the Lord took my dad home.  And I distinctly remember standing around his bed during his last day on earth and thinking about that time under the tree.  I couldn’t do it.  And yet there I was.  Doing it.  Saying good-bye and singing praises to God through the tears.  I wouldn’t survive.  But I did, moving one step forward at a time.  That ability, that strength and fortitude was the Lord’s provision; I didn’t need to grasp for it.  It was given to me when I needed it, even in the darkest of times.

A weaned child is content and peaceful and is not grasping for the breast of her mother.  The image here is pointed and beautiful.  On the one hand, we’re helpless babes dependent completely on Jesus just as a nursing child is dependent solely on his mother for milk.  But as we grow and mature as children of God, we’re not crying out, satisfied only when milk is received, but we become weaned children –  satisfied with the mere presence of the one who loves us, protects us, and provides for us. His presence is all we need.   There’s no grasping; there’s just contentment.

But we can’t get to the contentment without first going through some initial steps.  Like my obstacle course in the creek, I had to make my way to the place of peace.  Scripture makes pretty clear what we need in order to find contentment:

Quiet.  

Impossible.  Right?  Isn’t this our natural response in a hurried and frantic life?  Jim Elliot once said,  “I think the devil has made it his business to monopolize on three elements: noise, hurry, crowds . . . Satan is quite aware of the power of silence.”  Oh, how hard quiet can be for us.

And yet, it’s expected like so many other commands in the Bible:  Love your neighbor, honor the Sabbath, be still.  We can conceive of loving our neighbor, but this other one, well….kids activities, babies, sport chauffeuring, demanding jobs, very talkative children (I have one of them), and various other commitments, and we’re left with what seems an inability to be still and quiet.  

I’ve been stuck in this mind set for a long time.  In the last couple of weeks, I’ve fervently sought the Lord’s guidance in what it looks like to be still and quiet before him, and I have nothing abundantly profound to share about finding quietness other than I realized very quickly that I had to decide to make it a priority.  In asking the Lord to show me how to be still, I found moments of quiet.  These moments were there all along, I just hadn’t recognized them.

I found them in the car picking up my kids.  Instead of blasting Adele and singing like I had a voice to match (this wouldn’t embarrass my kids…at all…), I turned off the music.  And the few moments of quiet were refreshing.

I found them on a brief walk.  Neither sister picked up her phone, leaving me frustrated with the prospect of exercising without the needed conversation to make the minutes tick by, but the Lord impressed on my heart:  quiet.  For several moments, I walked while looking more intently at creation around me, reflecting on what the Lord was teaching me.  I had no idea how thirsty I was for this quietness until I found myself unexpectedly restored by the living waters I didn’t even realize I needed.

“God never hurries. There are no deadlines against which he must work. Only to know this is to quiet our spirits and relax our nerves.”
― A.W. Tozer, The Pursuit of God

For even some brief moments, turn off Netflix, turn down the music, put away the phone, shut off the computer, and Be still. Be quiet.  It’s amazing how much you hear when there is no noise.

Awe.    

 In Psalm 131, David says, “…my eyes are not raised too high.”  Isn’t this the same man who cried out, “I lift up my eyes to the hills…”  Are we supposed to look up or not, David?

Look up.  It’s exactly because the Psalmist stood in awe that he has the ability to have the right perspective of himself- we are not as great as we think we are.

I know, I know.  This was clearly not something I understood as a child while standing on my rock reporting how remarkable I was to the multitude gathered around me, but thankfully it’s something I’m learning.

God’s works are often too great and too marvelous for us to understand.   But we don’t need all the answers, we just need Him.  There is very little more satisfying than shedding our own needs and wants and our desperation to feel better about ourself, and instead gaze in awe of God’s sovereignty, God’s majesty, God’s mercy and grace, and His tender love for us, for me.  He loves me in my brokenness.  He provides for me in my need, and He comforts me when I’m questioning.  It’s too marvelous, too great, too wonderful for me to understand, but I’m eternally grateful that it’s true.  There is peace when I entrust to God the many things I don’t understand about this life.

My youngest made a fort a few days ago.  While she was happily playing underneath it, I asked her if she wanted me to turn on some music.

No. 

Want me to put on Adventures in Odyssey?

No.  

OK, but i could just put on some Disney songs.

Mom!  I just want it to be quiet!  

Right.

For the rest of my life, I’ll be trudging through the creek seeking to learn what contentment looks like.  For as long as I breath, I’ll strive to stand in awe, struggle to find the quiet, and will wrestle with stillness.  But in the precious moments that I enter into that serene place, I will bask in its sun’s rays, soak up the calm, and be grateful for its contentment.

And while there, with my hands wide open and my fists unclenched, I will stand on the rock giving all praise and glory to Jesus, the only one who gives us hope both now and forevermore.