The Sylvr Pen

What was it like, that Daddy-lifted flying, heaved straight upward in the air, laughing breathless, secure in knowing on the comedown, lean strong arms would catch and hold me safe, so I could still erupt with wild laughter even then?

What was it like, riding aloft on shoulders seeming mountain high, way up, above it all—precarious perch, yet held fast by hands that would not let me go?

So long past it is now, how can I remember, the earth-daddy, earth-flight riding-high? And yet I know the feeling…

From the echoes in the Father’s lifting up to soaring heights… and the sometimes plunging down thereafter—but always into strong and loving waiting arms…

And the echoes in the riding up above it all on His omnipotent shoulders, to see my world from higher view, meanwhile moving right straight smooth through earthly circumstance, held secure by hand of love.

Or, is that backwards? The daddy-lifted short-flights a foreshadow of the soaring the Great Father gives? The rides on daddy shoulders but a foretaste of how the Heavenly One would carry me high and above those things I could not plow my way through on my own?

Yes, I think the latter. And I think of Husband, who never rode earth-daddy shoulders, or did the short flight up and up, and down and back, into arms of love. Because his daddy was so sick, and died while he was but an infant.

And I think how many others never had that daddy happening. And I have to ask him, have you ever felt the heavenly other, without the earthly preview?

And Husband answers: “A definite yes! And that’s why those verses are so precious to me, about the fatherless and widows–like Psalm 68:5.”

And now I read Psalm 27:10 KJV and Psalm 27:6 KJV, and I see them in new light, from a new perspective.

…..

Riding on Daddy’s shoulders today. Soaring as on wings of eagles.

*****

I never liked the saying: “Whenever God closes a door, He opens a window.”

What good is an open window, compared to a door?

I thought.

What are you supposed to do? Climb out the window?

Shows my faulty driven thinking—all about going, doing, accomplishing things. Finally I think I’m seeing that sitting by an open window gains more, most often, than rushing through an open door.

Through open door, the view gravity-pulls earthward. I notice paving stones and porch steps, open lawn and driveway, sidewalk and roadway. The possibilities beyond, the “next steps,” beckon. The door’s ajar, cajoling.

But by an open window, I more likely come to rest. Then, gazing out, my vision runways to soar beyond this earth. The view angles me, up, up, to meet heaven’s light rays angling down. I breathe in instead of rushing out. My heart refuels.

Yet, foolish sheep wanting a run, I still mourn closed doors sometimes, grieve through open windows. Till a dove of peace flies in, lights gently on my shoulder, says be still, look up, behold what great things God has done.

That’s it. Too much I want to look and see what great things I have done. Want to go rush out and do some more.

I do nothing, it turns out, when I read the tally. God does all. If I don’t see that, all I am is animal bounding, aimed earthly. And a prideful animal is such a foolish thing!

And Heaven disappears.

“Stand still, and see [what] the LORD… will accomplish,” He says (Exd 14:13). “Be still and know that I am God” (Ps 46:10). “Draw near to God and He will draw near to you” (Jas 4:8).

Daniel inhaled power by the window (Dan 6:10), and so, later on, could exhale faith.

So now I make my way to the window, and sing in softened solitude,

“Lord, I Have Shut the Door.”

*****

For some reason he opened the book, turned its yellowed pages—he supposed because his brother lived out west, and this looked like a western travel book, near a century old. He thought Brother might find it interesting, amusing. He thought he might himself.

But as he turned the dry leaves, something fell out, fluttered to the floor. Something almost tissue-paper thin, and browner than the darkened pages. He stooped and gently plucked it up: an ancient-looking photograph. He had done a lot of varied photo shooting in his lifetime, but never saw a print so thin.

He left it on the table—on the pile of books on the table—and continued his book skimming.

Another picture!

…and another!

And so he came out to the dining room, where we were, siblings gathered over tidbits of the past, deciding who might want what, and what would go to auction.

“Look!” he said, leafing through, drawing more out—one, another, then another…a pile of antique photographs, all hid away in that old book.

They lay before us, scattered over dining table clutter. We picked them up, handed them around, puzzled over what they were, whose they’d been, where they’d come from…

Somehow, I thought, something seems familiar. Yet none were places I had ever been… Then I started getting breathless.

“That looks like the field of Armageddon!” I said.

And, “That looks like Golgotha!”

I was remembering illustrations from appendices of Bibles.

We grew more earnest in our searching, in our looking, seeing men in fezzes, people—mostly men—garbed Victorian.  Desert. Ancient ruins. And a face resembling portraits found up in the attic, in the box of cast-off curtains: our great-granddad—who, family lore said, took “a trip around the world at the century’s turn”—19^th to 20^th, that is!

And then we found the crackling sheet of school practice tablet paper, numbered one up to a hundred, with geographical locations—and yes, the sepia-toned, tissue-thin finds all bore numbers!

Treasure indeed! Someone told me recently biblical history scholars are seeking just such pictures. Who or where these scholars are, I don’t know, but I think I can safely copy and post the pictures here. And that I shall try out, experimenting with a couple… as soon as I find those pictures again!

To think that, but for Oldest Brother’s leafing, those photos would have gone into an auction, sold cheap with battered books boxed together, or tossed into a dumpster! Why didn’t anyone safeguard them, way back when?

And why, oh why, haven’t I—elected family archivist—safeguarded them better since?

Lots of treasure gets shuffled off into oblivion this way. Lots of kinds of treasure. Next week I hope to blog about some such prizes I’ve unearthed, and others that I long to.

And maybe I’ll even find and post those precious antique photos!

I am collecting treasure. I am collecting names of God. And today’s name treasure, whose beauty shines out from Psalm 31:4— “O LORD, God of Truth”!

“God of Truth!” What manna, in this wilderness of deceit and pretense, word-and-people manipulation, cover-up and blatant, bold-faced lies!

I am recalling someone’s talk (can’t remember whose) on 2 Timothy 3’s Last Days people who despise good, love pleasure rather than God, have but a form of godliness, and “resist the truth”—and their gullible followers “always learning but never able to come to the knowledge of the truth”—how this speaker uttered, astonished, “And these people are in the church!”

Yes. It’s there in the context—as it has been through the ages, as it is now, and shall be, till Truth steps out from behind the curtain to expose all dishonesty, and spotlight the nobility of truth-lovers who took the hits from dealers in deceit.

Truth. The LORD is a God—the God—of truth. So how can these people be His, who continually resist that essence of Himself?

Methinks, quite possibly, they aren’t—that they’re tares in the planting, cinders in the Bride’s eye, clouds without rain, blurring reality with warm-fuzzy dream drifts of pretense. They’re a shame and dishonor to the name of Truth—one of the names of God, intrinsic part of His essential nature.

But… “in a great house there are not only vessels of gold and silver, but also of wood and clay, some for honor and some dishonor…” In other words, the God of truth is in control, using even liars and pretenders, as He used Joseph’s lying brothers, even their treacherous scheming—“What you intended for evil…” God uses for good.

In this I rest serene, knowing from His Spirit and from my past that I can trust Him, as can anyone in love with truth. From this I draw the courage to live truth, despite its strong opponents. I think of Hannah’s words that warn, “Do not keep speaking so proudly…for the LORD is a God who knows, and by Him deeds are weighed”!

“Give me truth!” my soul cries. And Jesus answers, “I am the very Truth of truths, and I have given you truth. I have given you Myself.

God says He is light and in Him is no darkness, that He has given us His Word, and His Word is Truth. How precious and sweet the name that proclaims it, “O LORD God of truth.”

I can’t trust him who doesn’t love truth. I can trust completely Him Who is its very source.

O dear LORD God of truth, Hater of lies, Opener of eyes, Giver of light, thank You for opening my eyes, for revealing both capital T and little t truth, O God I can trust, because… You. Are. Truth.    

*****

Pear branches hang heavy. Plum tree beams purple with fruit. Husband propped apple limbs weeks ago. Raspberries reach to the sky. A second peach tree promises another canning session soon and good eating out of hand.

A fruitful year.

But you never know.

Last year, on the trees? Nothing. Year before, nothing. Year before that, next to nothing.

Off years alternate with bearing years, and sharp frost in late spring brings death to blossoms, and fruit crops to nil.

I look and hope.

Little or much, He brings what I need, holds back what is meet.

But to see fruit…

I look and hope.