STRETCHMARKS

Faithing Reality

 

Yes, I know...faithing is not a real word and I don't speak with a lisp. I woke up a few days ago with this phrase in my head and I got to thinking...

Disciples of Jesus are sometimes confronted with crisis and the age-old questions surface. What happens when our prayers aren't answered? Or, the reality of it, what happens when our prayers aren't answered the way we wanted them to be answered?

The litany of questions begins. Didn't I have faith? Did I not have enough? What did I do wrong? Is God punishing me for bad things I've done? Am I not good enough? Ad infinitum...

The reality is that we don't always get our way even when we've done things well. We have faith. We exercise that faith. And still the unthinkable happens. But so-and-so said that he/she would be healed. It's easy to torment ourselves with this ping-pong match of the mind.

We embrace faith, but it is necessary to look at reality as well. This tightrope walk is never easy and some fall and never get up again.   Sad, but true.

During my years in hospice work, I encountered several patients who believed strongly in divine healing. One young mother was adamant that she would be healed; so adamant, that she refused to sign legal documents on the house and car she jointly owned with her husband. She chose not to talk to her teenage children about the possibility of her death and she died grimacing and angry.  Her children were bitter for a long time.

My friend Barb walked her journey differently. She “faithed reality”. She longed to return to her home for the last few days and she was granted that desire. Barb said, “I want to go home...but I think I'm going to my other home (heaven).” I asked her to clarify and she continued, “I just want to be in my home. I realize I may die, but I will continue to pray for a miracle.” She prepared her children before she died.

There was such a contrast in the outcome of these two believers. Both had faith and trust in God's ability to heal. One was bitter; one was not. One prepared her family; one did not.

Someone asked me recently, “Do you think that if you're praying for a healing miracle you should still prepare for death?” The simple answer is: yes, we should prepare for death. We prepare for most everything else in life—we have auto insurance in case of accident and injuries. We have healthcare insurance if we have physical needs. We purchase life insurance “just in case” we die! Why do we avoid speaking about death and preparing for it? It's very uncomfortable and depressing!

Faithing reality does not mean there is lack of faith—at least that's my opinion. I have prayed for precious loved ones to be healed and they were not and the questions persisted. Will I continue to pray for those that need a miracle? YES!

Not getting the results I want does not change who God is or what He can do. I don't understand the way things unfold in life but I have found God to be trustworthy.

The questions surfaced again this week for thousands of folks who knew and loved Dr. John W. Watson.  We prayed, we believed and we waited for the miracle. This precious pastor's life impacted thousands around the world and we will miss him terribly.

Now we faith reality of a different sort.. He lives on in eternity and we embrace faith to live in reality without his physical presence and encouragement. It won't be easy but it is possible.

We will have questions and suppositions... We will pull together as a faith family and lend support to one another. This will stretch us further in our faith walk. Dr. John was all about “stretching” ones!

A Country Bumpkin's Taxi Ride

 

I live in rural Ohio where Amish buggies pass by my house every day. I can count the number of times I have taken a taxi on one hand that is missing two fingers. My first taxi ride was in Honolulu, Hawaii and the second was in Lima, Peru.  Both were memorable, but do not compare to the taxi ride in Long Beach, California.

I had been in Southern California helping my sister care for her ill husband and now it was time to return home. I had an early flight and no one was available to take me to Long Beach airport. Ugh! I dreaded the thought of calling Yellow Cab taxi service.

I imagined all sorts of scenarios... What if the driver decided to take me somewhere else? Suppose this person harmed me and disposed of my country-to-the-core body? What if he doesn't speak English? That was a real possibility in this city! I was gripped with fear of the unknown and my wild imagination.

It was dark at 5:30 a.m. A short "beep" outside signaled the taxi's arrival.  I said a tearful goodbye to my sister and brother-in-law and headed for the street, pulling my luggage behind me. My heart began to pound in my chest. A tall, dark and handsome man got out to take my luggage. “Good morning!” he greeted in his thick African accent.

He opened the door for me and I stepped inside.  Wow! It was like entering a peaceful, holy place. Okay, so far so good. He asked, “You're going to Santa Ana, yes?” Oh, dear God. “No, I need to go to Long Beach airport.” “Sorry... I was told you're going to Santa Ana.  I will take you to right place,” he said and sped off.   Please, God, let this be okay. 

I was calmed by the familiar praise and worship music he played. The medley began with I could sing of Your love forever (Sonicflood) followed by Thy word is a lamp unto my feet and a light unto my path (Amy Grant). I teared up. I was so afraid--and for nothing!

I commented, “I like your choice of music. Are you a Christian?” He responded, “Oh, yes ma'am. Are you?” “Yes I am. My husband and I are in ministry in Ohio.”

"Did you come here for vacation?” he asked. “No, I have been here to help care for my ill brother-in-law. He needs a miracle,” I replied. “Then we will pray for a miracle!” he declared as he thrust his hand in the air.

The music continued—Our God is an awesome God...(Rich Mullins) and What a Mighty God We Serve. As we approached the entrance to the airport, My Life is in You Lord(Marty Nystrom) resounded in this Yellow Cab turned sanctuary.  I jotted down the titles so I would never forget this moment.

 

Yes, my life is in You, Lord, I mused.  I felt deeply comforted and loved by my heavenly Father for watching over this country bumpkin in such an unusual way.

 

He unloaded my luggage and I gave him taxi fare plus tip. He thanked me and looked me in the eye as if looking into my soul. I waited...and watched him pull away. I thought to myself I think he just might have been an angel. 

 

My Photo: Signal Hill overlooking Long Beach, California

Senior Citizens Shack Up Too!

 

We picked up our reserved tickets at the Franciscan Center of Lourdes College in Sylvania, Ohio to hear a lecture by Wm. Paul Young, author of the fictional (and controversial) novel, The Shack. Those waiting in line were older than I expected.

The lecture was slated for 1:00 p.m. and many folks are at work, but where were the college students?  At least ninety percent of the theater style auditorium was filled with people over age sixty; the remaining ones were high school students from the Toledo area. I was surprised.  Why are so many senior citizens “shacking” up?

I asked a young man seated in front of us if he was a student there. “No, I just came to check this place out. I moved to this area recently and don't know much about the school,” he offered. So I asked if he liked The Shack. He smiled and said, “You know, there are not too many books I've ever read that I can say changed my life—but this one did.” He revealed that what struck him most was that this novel clearly showed that it's all about relationships—with God and with each other—it's not about laws and rules, but about relationships. He is a wise young man.

Paul Young is an engaging speaker and had us laughing much of the time. The story behind the success of this novel is astounding and, by his own admission, definitely a “God thing”. I kept wondering why it appealed to so many older people. I think I found some answers.

    
  
The majority of those in the audience have carried a lot of baggage—lifetimes of hurts and pains, many of which have been kept secret. Paul Young articulated what pain (the “great sadness”) and forgiveness look and feel like. There is identification with other hurts and wounds...and validation that these wounds are deep and real. The good news of forgiveness and healing comes as refreshment to weary souls.

One of many stories he told involved an elderly Australian man who called him and began to sob. It took six phone calls during a twelve hour period for this man to finally express his gratitude for the message in The Shack. He found solace through reading this "think outside the box" story and shares it with others. Paul joked that his PR guy in Australia is this eighty-five year old unemployed man—and it's working!

I had a flashback to a bereavement visit with an elderly woman after her husband died. She began to reminisce about her early married life.  Eva cried when she told of miscarried twins. She shook her finger at me and sobbed, “What did they do with my babies? I don't know what they did with my babies!” She had never shared this segment of her secret sorrow with anyone. Unbelievable. I had no magical words of comfort so I let her vent until she exposed all that had been stuffed away in her heart for fifty years.

Six people asked questions at the end of the lecture.  One woman commented that her friends told her, "That book is damn heretical!"  She wanted to know how he dealt with all the controversy.  He responded, "I welcome it! 

 

A beautiful young woman stood at the microphone and spoke to Paul, thanking him for the book. What she divulged next caused a communal gasp.  “In 2008, my brother was kidnapped and held for ransom...then he was murdered...” We can't recall her question but noted that her outward persona gave no indication of her personal torment.

 

“Every man has his secret sorrow which the world knows not. And oft times he is thought to be cold when he's really only sad.” ~Henry Wadsworth Longfellow~

 

I remember a sweet note we received from a grateful family: Thank you all for the wounderful work you do!  Wonderful was misspelled, but it fully explains what ministry is all about--caring for wounded souls.

Paul describes our hurts as unique to us--as unique as our DNA.  The amazing  discovery portrayed in this novel is that there is access to "Papa" and a healing balm found in forgiveness available to everyone. “Wounderful” news!

 

If you are among those who have not read this fictional novel, I challenge you to do so.  According to the author, most of those who protest its contents have never even read the book.  I plan to read my autographed copy a second time.

That's All That Matters, Right?

 

Another invitation to a baby shower. Why do I dread them so?  Endless chatter about having the perfect baby. A normal baby. Over and over the phrase is voiced, "That's all that matters, right?"

Well, what if the baby is not perfect or normal? Then what? Now I can answer that question with some definitive answers.

I overheard the pediatrician down the hall giving some details about another child...so relieved he wasn't speaking about my newborn son. But then he came to my room. “We're not certain, but we believe that...” I couldn't catch my breath. It was several years before we had a definite diagnosis: mild retardation with developmental disabilities. That information forever changed our family...and for the better!

In recent years we learned through an MRI that his Corpus Callosum never developed in his brain. This is the bridge that links the left and right hemispheres which facilitates networking and affects judgment. This gave us insight into his behaviors which we sometimes don't understand.

Our family developed emotional stretch marks as we faced the challenges of a special needs child—sometimes with grace—sometimes we were just plain angry. I tried denial--it didn't work.  I balked at the occupational therapist's prediction of his future; I refused to accept that he would "just be".  He is high-functioning, but the loss is ongoing and frustrating for Ben and all those connected to him.  Some boastfully say they have never been angry with this kind of challenge. I wonder if they tell the truth.

Public school was not working for him so I began to teach him at home a few months into his first grade of school.  Home schooling was a new option in the '80s, but very unpopular. We helped blaze the trail in our county as we endured the stares and whispers of neighbors, teachers, family and friends. Ben gained confidence in achieving small goals now that he had the freedom he needed to develop at his own pace.  That was the incentive he needed to dream big.

Ben was fascinated with airplanes and wanted to learn to fly. Why not? We could think of dozens of “why nots” but decided to let him try. He ached to do something his brothers had never done.  In his twenties he got a job that provided some money so he could take flying lessons. His excellent flight instructor, Butch Fisher, provided much needed wisdom for Ben's ambitious dream. The confinement of the 172 Cessna Skyhawk cockpit became a focused haven as Ben gained courage to believe he could really fly this aircraft. 

His brothers excelled in athletics and academics; neither realized the extent of their brother's frustrations and limitations but they cheered Ben on as he pursued his dream of taking flight in the open skies.

On a beautiful autumn day in 2003, Ben flew solo. A camera mounted in the cockpit recorded this amazing feat as he practiced take-offs and landings several times. It was a miracle! He found such freedom as he flew alone, grinning from ear to ear. The math required for flight school is presently out of his reach, but flying solo became a reality. Who would have thought this was possible?

Ben, in turn, cheered his brothers on with their dreams.  His older brother, Tadd, has a business degree and pursues his dream of  having his own business.  His younger brother, Jonathan, earned a Master's in Mechanical Engineering and tests jet engines.  Now we all encourage the grandchildren to dream God-given dreams.

 

Our compassion in ministry increased as we learned to love those  precious souls who daily live with physical and mental challenges...to cheer on others struggling with the tough issues of life.

 

We were given a devastating diagnosis for our son, but the prognosis became brighter when we faced our doubts and embraced possibilities.  We have lived "normal and healthy" lives.  That's all that matters, right?

 

So where does one begin when confronted with such challenges? Find others who know what to do and where to find resources. It's not the end of the world; it's the beginning of a new world filled with challenge and possibilities.  Make adjustments but do not stop dreaming.

 

What is holding you back from your dreams? Face those fears and embark on a new adventure.

 

Dedicated to all the families whose lives have been dramatically changed by children with special needs.

The Legacy of Louise

 

True mentors leave legacies.  So who needs a mentor? I do! I read that Zig Ziglar, the well-known motivational speaker, has mentors. Zig is in his eighties and still finds mentors beneficial. Maybe we can learn from his example.

Tim Elmore wrote The Greatest Mentors in the Bible --32 Relationships God Used to Change the World. It is a valuable resource explaining many types of mentoring relationships in scripture; some are lengthy, some are brief. He explains that the Jewish culture was very relational. In the Hebrew culture one would ask: Who are you studying under? The focus was on the mentor not the material.

Currently I have a marvelous mentor named Louise Francisco who turns ninety years old today, February 16, 2010. My husband used to attend her weekly community prayer meetings and they adored one another. She has known my family for many years but I didn't really get acquainted with her until last summer after Joe died.

She and I have several things in common: we are homemakers and caregivers, pastor's kids, disciples of Jesus, mothers of one with special needs, and we are widows. She is way beyond me in her spiritual journey so I seek her counsel and tap into her wisdom. I am one of many deeply impacted by her godly wisdom and life.

I believe everyone needs a safe place—a safe person—with whom to share the deepest longings, dreams and hurts and know that these are kept in confidence. I was visiting her recently and I started to cry. Nothing in particular triggered the tears, they just came readily. She commented that I seem to cry when I visit her. It's true. “I feel safe when I'm here with you and I am able to be real...and the tears come,” I said. She responded, “Well, I feel safe with you too!'” That's one of the dearest things I have ever been told.

Louise was valedictorian of her high school class and her mind is still keen. She is unpretentious, has a quick wit and a “look” when she is about to give you some counsel. I admire her tenacity in the face of much adversity. Her son, Larry, is profoundly handicapped—he has never walked or talked and lives in a nursing home. We have talked about the challenges of special needs children; we admit to periods of resentment and bitterness and the hurts of watching our sons' frustrations and limitations.

We brag on our children and grandchildren and savor the precious times we have had to invest in each one. “Normal and bright” children are not immune from heartaches and struggle and we discuss these from a mother's heart. Together we celebrate the joys of motherhood.

She understands what I face as a widow and speaks to those deep places in my heart that no one else knows. This is a sacred treasure to me. She speaks hope to me and even kids me about someday marrying again. In protest I pretend I don't hear. At the close of our weekly visits, she prays for me and speaks blessing on my life and ministry.

Louise dedicated her life to being a wife, mother and homemaker—a high and noble calling. We wonder aloud sometimes how our lives might have been different had we chosen another path. She stays engaged in learning and keeps current with local and world events. Her influence is untold and only the ledger kept in heaven will reveal the extent of her prayers.

Her steady investment in people is paying great dividends in her latter years. She marvels that her friends continue to visit and dispel her loneliness; they bring Bible Study groups to her house so she won't miss out. Her home is a holy place.

She has hosted a weekly community prayer meeting in her kitchen for almost four decades. Our local community is stable and thriving, our schools and churches are healthy and families stronger because of the steadfast prayers spoken in her home. This is the legacy of a true mentor.

Happy Ninetieth Birthday, Louise!

Five Unforgettable Words

She was a stunning beauty in her youth—tall, voluptuous, with high cheek bones and beautiful hair. Mildred loved Louis L'Amour novels and the wild west and dreamed of becoming a cowgirl. Some choices changed that dream...

She had a dry wit and could make one laugh hysterically but she never cracked a smile. I'm not sure she even intended to be funny, but she was.  My parents stopped to see her one evening unannounced.  She had already changed into her pajamas and wryly said, "I'm afraid you've caught me at loose ends."  Mom laughed hysterically.

She attended the church my father pastored while I was in high school. I remember her creative talent as she made charcoal drawings to illustrate a biblical truth.

I left to attend college in Missouri and didn't have much contact with her for almost thirty years. After I moved back  we became reacquainted and bonded as we tended to her daughter Barb, the last few weeks before Barb's death.

My two younger sons and I visited her regularly and she became like another grandmother. She told them funny stories from her youth and taught them much about plants and animals. She served terrible oatmeal cookies which they politely ate. She often commented about their good manners. She didn't know they complained as soon as we left and told me I should share my cookie recipe with her.

For several years she lived in Florida to be near family and escape the harsh winters here. Sadly, her son and daughter-in-law died within months of each other so Mildred moved back to Ohio to be near her remaining son. Her health declined and she moved to a nursing facility.

I visited her weekly as she became bedfast; now our roles reversed. Her skin was very dry and she had a lesion on her arm. I asked if she would like some lotion and she agreed it would be helpful. I started to apply some when she stopped me and said, “There are gloves in the bathroom.” I replied, “Oh, I won't be using gloves. I'm not afraid to touch you.” (She had nothing contagious.)  Her family was afraid to touch her without gloves and she told them, " Rachel is not afraid to touch me." 

I massaged her arms and hands with lotion and this became our ritual. One day she asked, “Would you comb my hair?” It was a simple request.

As I began to comb her snow-white hair, she begged, “Dig...dig into my scalp. It itches so much.” So I started to apply more pressure, dug into her scalp and scratched it where it itched. She began moaning, “Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhh...that feels so good!” I giggled. She stopped me cold when she said, “Rachel, when I see Jesus, I'm going to tell him that you did this for me.”

I was stunned. “Oh, Mildred, it's such a simple thing to do for you.” “Yes, I know. But it's very helpful to me.”

I thought of the scripture: If you've done it unto the least of these my brethren, you've done it unto Me. No small act of kindness is insignificant.

This ritual of massage and combing her hair continued for several months. She declined further and could do nothing for herself. Her family rarely visited—they said it was “too hard”.  Too hard...for whom?  That is a selfish excuse.

 

Sometimes the nurse came in while I was there and started her tube feeding. “What's for dinner tonight?” I asked. She replied, “Southern Fried Chicken, mashed potatoes and gravy, green beans, biscuits, iced tea and blackberry cobbler.” She missed tasting and chewing food but she made the best of her situation. Mildred always made the best of every situation.

I looked forward to Mondays with Mildred. She shared so much of her heart with me...lost hopes and dreams...great disappointments...small and great victories. Her faith in God's faithfulness to her was very strong. Sometimes she told me silly things and sang funny childhood songs. I was honored to share these intimate moments with her.

She feared choking to death because of excessive phlegm and congestion. At the end of each visit I told her that if she was ever afraid, especially in the night, to ask the nurse to call me and I would come if possible. Mildred didn't want to inconvenience me so I never thought she would follow through with the offer.

On the evening of my husband's fiftieth birthday, a nurse called and said she was asking for me. Joe looked at me and said, “You better get going right away.” I drove the forty-five minutes there and prayed for God to give me grace for whatever I would face.

As I walked the hall to her room, I heard her labored breathing. Oh, no... I knew that terrible sound too well and I wasn't ready. Mildred would see Jesus face to face before the night was over. Her son's family greeted me and announced, “Mom, Rachel is here.”

I took her hand. “Mildred, I'm here.” She opened her eyes. Her lungs were filled with fluid and her breathing labored.  And then one last time she said those five unforgettable words: “Would you comb my hair?” I looked for the comb and began our ritual of combing and scratching her hair and scalp.

I felt the awkward stares of her family seated in the room and thought one of them should be doing this. Why hadn't she asked one of them? Her need was simple—she wanted someone unafraid to touch her...to walk the last mile of her journey with her...to be truly “present” with her...a faithful friend. They watched a few minutes and then excused themselves.

It's difficult to explain that moment. It was physical. It was emotional. It was spiritual.

We talked about her children who had died and how they were waiting for her. She raised up for a moment and smiled. My kids will be waiting and clapping—saying Hallelujah! Mom made it!

Her son told her she had fought the good fight of faith. I added, “Yes, Mildred, you have been a warrior!” She thought a moment then said, “I'm a warrette. Warriors are men.” Two hours before her death she made me laugh.  I will always be grateful Mildred invited me on this sacred journey.

   ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Even the saddest things can become, once we have made peace with them, a source of wisdom and strength for the journey that still lies ahead.  

 ~ Frederick Buechner ~

GWC's Favorite

I'm in need of some encouragement and inspiration, how about you?   

George Washington Carver, one of my favorite people in American History, declared this poem to be his favorite.  It cuts to the chase and "smarts" just a little too.  I believe Mr. Carver needed a boost every now and then, just as we do. 

 

EQUIPMENT

Figure it out for yourself, my lad,
You've all that the greatest of men have had,
Two arms, two hands, two legs, two eyes
And a brain to use if you would be wise.
With this equipment they all began,
So start for the top and say, "I can."

Look them over, the wise and great
They take their food from a common plate,
And similar knives and forks they use,
With similar laces they tie their shoes.
The world considers them brave and smart,
But you've all they had when they made their start.

You can triumph and come to skill,
You can be great if you only will.
You're well equipped for what fight you choose,
You have legs and arms and a brain to use,
And the man who has risen great deeds to do
Began his life with no more than you.

You are the handicap you must face,
You are the one who must choose your place,
You must say where you want to go,
How much you will study the truth to know.
God has equipped you for life, but He
Lets you decide what you want to be.

Courage must come from the soul within,
The man must furnish the will to win.
So figure it out for yourself, my lad.
You were born with all that the great have had,
With your equipment they all began,
Get hold of yourself and say: "I can."

--Edgar A. Guest

Cross Country

I live across the street from the 3.1 mile cross country course our local high school uses. I thought this might be the most boring spectator sport that exists, but I was wrong.

The discipline of these young men and women is remarkable.  Many are top scholars as well as athletes; a high percentage of them also participate in marching bands.  They run in all temperatures and weather conditions, competing on differing levels of courses.  Ours is hilly and demanding, but one can observe the runners through much of the course.  It's a beauty!

My youngest son, Jonathan, (following his father's path) began running cross country during his sophomore year of high school.  I had been a baseball and basketball fan prior to this and I couldn't imagine any comparison to the excitement of those sports.  This sport evokes excitement of a different sort.

The first meet was away and I was not prepared for my emotional response.  Families, friends and coaches (stopwatches in hand) lined the course to cheer each runner to the finish line.  I started to cry.  I told myself to get a grip...it's just a race...but, it's so much more.  

Not only do the bystanders cheer for their favorite individuals and teams, they root for everyone...down to the last runner.  "Way to go...you're almost there.  Don't quit now!"  This struggle of minds and bodies pacing between defeat and triumph mirrors daily life.  

It's not a pretty sight when runners enter the chute coming in.  Some collapse...some vomit...some groan...some cry.  But, they finish the race. 

Coaches encourage each one to beat his or her personal best time; each team benefits from that goal.  They use positive language to spur the runners, avoiding derogatory remarks that diminish one's worth. 

At an invitational meet in Pataskala, Ohio, I witnessed an amazing expression of support.  One young man, racing with crutches, was about two-thirds through the race when his teammates (who had finished twenty minutes earlier) came to his side.  They walked beside him for the last mile, cheering him on... "Awesome, John.  You're doing great.  Just a little more to go.  We're proud of you...You're amazing!" 

In the above photo, Isaac Potes is in first place coming down the stretch at our local invitational meet held recently.  His grandmother, with arms in the air, applauds his efforts, along with the crowd.  Who doesn't need fans?

We're all in a "cross" country race--pursuing the Father and the prize awaiting us if we endure to the end.  Each of us face obstacles that discourage us from stretching ourselves to the limit to cross the finish line.

Have you cheered for anyone recently who is "lagging behind"?  I encourage you today--"You're going to make it.  Many are cheering for you...believing with you and for you.  Never mind the stretch marks.  Don't quit!"

The Message Bible--Hebrews 12:1-3 states it well: "Do you see what this means--all these pioneers who blazed the way, all these veterans cheering us on?  It means we'd better get on with it.  Strip down, start running--and never quit!  No extra spiritual fat, no parasitic sins. 

Keep your eyes on Jesus, who both began and finished this race we're in.  Study how he did it.  Because he never lost sight of where he was headed--that exhilarating finish in and with God--he could put up with anything along the way: Cross, shame, whatever.  And now he's there, in the place of honor, right alongside God. 

When you find yourselves flagging in your faith, go over that story again, item by item, that long litany of hostility he plowed through.  That will shoot adrenaline into your souls!"

Fall Fare

 

Haiku tribute to fall

 

Ah!  Foliage fireworks

Orange, yellow, crimson red

Explode in glory. 
   

    

 

   
Evergreens pine as

Flamboyant maples parade

In festive clothes.

     

 

 

 

Thankful for farmers...

   
 
popcorn balls, crispy apples

sumptuous fall fare.
 

Two Parts Hydrogen, One Part Oxygen

 

I was called forth by the Spirit of God; I continue to obey His voice.  Genetically, I am two parts hydrogen, one part oxygen; my nickname is H20.  I am essential to all living things—animals, plants, people etc. I am above the earth and below the earth. I am older than dirt. I will not be denied!

 

Men of old like Moses and Noah had a reverence for me. Explorers courted me and embarked on my surface to discover reality in their fanciful dreams. Merchants have depended on me to trade their goods with the world. Sailors and fishermen study me and know my moods; I captivate them as they earn their living.

 

Mankind delights in exploring my depths; they struggle to determine my infinite boundaries. Some of mankind fears me; some are calmed and feel at peace when near me. I may rage in a storm as a flood, typhoon or hurricane, tossing men and their property. My tsunami strength astounds multitudes. I provide smooth sailing as well.  I am used to generate sources of power on the earth.

I have helped to give life; I have taken life. Mankind has tried to control me; I have been dammed. My voice thunders at the command of the Creator's call. I will respond to the prayers of the righteous and change my course or withdraw my fury.

My pattern is that of ebb and flow, my tides controlled by the Maker of the Universe. In the earth my “body” is found in many forms such as dew, droplets, mists, steam, fog, stream, pond, creek, oasis, lake, waterfall, river and ocean. 

Above the earth my form is also varied; I am found in clouds and precipitate as rain, sleet and snow. Below the earth I cover the creatures of the deep and all that sustains them; I am also forced from the earth in hot and cold springs and Artesian wells. I have been spewed out of a rock. 

I can become a frozen form as a glacier and float in liquid called ocean. I hug beaches and splash against rocky shoreline, riverbanks and mountain cliffs, resulting in waterfalls. I can be forceful and powerful, causing rapids in rivers and strong currents in oceans. Islands are most familiar with me and I am partial to them as well.

My taste is sometimes sweet, sometimes salty or sulfurous. I'm easily polluted and must be purified for usefulness.  I need an outlet in order to remain pure and alive; I need to stay connected with my source. 

 

I vary in color...vibrant turquoise...sparkling emerald green...but mostly I'm many shades of blue and gray. Many look to see their faces reflected in me when I'm calm and smooth as glass...they see the Spirit of God.

 

I refresh and hydrate the bodies of living things. Curiously, most of the human body is comprised of me. I quench the thirsty. I cleanse and purify the unclean.

In Egypt, my form was changed to blood as one of ten plagues. In Cana of Galilee, Jesus changed me into wine for a marriage celebration. He controlled me with three words, “Peace, be still!” I've been compared to Jesus Christ who said that He was Living Water.

I am...Living Water.