Right here every Monday and Thursday dear ones, we’re listening, we’re praying, and we’re being transformed by the word. Perhaps this is a gift you want to share, to set the feast for another weary pilgrim.
“If my people who are called by my name will humble themselves and pray and seek my face and turn from their wicked ways, then will I hear from heaven and will heal their land.” 2 Chronicles 7:14
What if the land that you need healed is right under your own two feet?
We pour out our heart for the healing of our nation, for the daughters stolen as possessions, for the country whose children wear scars from their first breath.
But what if a fissure has appeared right through your home from the front door to the back and ever widening?
This, dear friends, is when we sit down, light our candle and determine to stay:
“If my people who are called by my name will humble themselves and pray and seek my face and turn from their wicked ways, then will I hear from heaven and will heal their land.”
We humble ourselves, pour out our uncensured prayers and seek the face of the only One who knows how to knit together land.
We turn and turn again from our sin when we look down and find that we are the ones holding the pick-axe that broke open the scar.
Tonight I’m staying right here: Seek my Face. These are the words that dropped weighty in my hand and I’m turning them over like rocks at the beach. I’m listening to them chink against each other, feeling their shape, their coolness.
My boy used to lay his head in the crook of my arm on Sunday nights as we watched Extreme Makeover. His sister was asleep upstairs in her crib. He was the big boy. He would sometimes fall asleep right there before the reveal and I’d listen to him as he’d catch his breath and then breathe even again.
He’s growing too fast, so fast I can’t catch up. It’s this land between us which needs to be healed.
So I’m here to seek. I’m asking his Maker, the One who had a dream of him before I did, the One who placed him in my arms, to teach me how to mother a runner. I’m seeking to know how to celebrate the tender mystery that is a young boy stretching out.
What are you hearing in this SLOW Word, my friend?