Even the stupid demons...

Anytime Jesus is in the same place as the devil, or God is in the same place as satan (as in Job), I'm a bit confused, and yet excited, about what-the-what is going on. Confused because it's hard to understand how good and evil can collide in one space, the presence of the former encroached upon by the latter; I struggle at times with the weight of the existential thinking it evokes in me... the "problem of evil" conundrums, etc. But reading it as literature, and adding in faith and hope, I begin to see our God in the presence of evil as a thrilling scene; it's the drama behind every exciting plot, and it's the setting for the war we know we have already won. I can feel the adrenaline rush through me, my heart pounding for Jesus.

In one of these moments in scripture, I noticed something that I haven't noticed as clearly before: something helpful.

Luke 4:10 - "The devil said... 'For it is written'," and then he quoted scripture.
Luke 4:33 - "A man possessed by a demon... cried out... I know who you are: the Holy One of God!"
Luke 4:41 - "...demons came out of many people, shouting, 'You are the Son of God!'"

I have always remembered that "even the demons believe," but to me, this always meant that believing is not the same as worshipping. I took the statement so personally; I only allowed it to convict me and encourage me to move beyond belief. I suppose I never took the time to stop and imagine what it could mean for me as someone who needs to discern, as Jesus did in the wilderness... between voices that appear to be preaching the scriptures, speaking the truth, and even proclaiming His true name, as opposed to voices that are actually powerfully good. Because sometimes, these voices can seem to be saying the same things, and it takes wisdom to know the difference: wisdom that only comes from knowing Jesus. His heart. His motives. His vision. His voice.

Jesus in the wilderness proves that even quoting scripture can be a form of evil. For when the devil encourages Jesus to throw Himself down and call upon the angels, as the scriptures say He is able, He refuses; inches down the page, he provides His own "it is written," clarifying that His purpose is not to show off, or reveal the full power He yields as God, but to "proclaim good news to the poor... freedom for the prisoners... sight for the blind... to set the oppressed free." He knows which words apply, and in what moment, and in what way, when it comes to establishing truth and fulfilling the perfect plans of God. We should learn, therefore, that merely saying "it is written" or "the Bible says," doesn't guarantee that we stand on the side of Him. Even the demons believe; they whisper scriptures in our ears and speak true sentiments in false ways, as they oppose the work of the Spirit. I know this because I've heard their whispers, and right now, I'm ready to say no. What I heard then was wrong. I refuse every single bit of it, and I rest completely in the peace of God that was given as a gift long before I ever heard these weak and pathetic lies about the smallness of God in matters of saving His children. 

God, free me from deception, and I pray the same for any of my friends who need the same freedom tonight. Once again, you are so much stronger, and so much lovelier... and when I fail to see, you never fail to take my eyes and open them wider... to take my ears and open them farther. I hear you, and I am grateful to be yours. 

"Come out of the ark"

In a world fallen with violence, which doesn't seem too much different than today, God commanded His righteous child Noah to build an ark and preserve creation during a violent flood that would steal the breath of all living things on earth. The scriptures say that once the ark was assembled and the rains started to pour, "God shut him in" (Genesis 7:16). I'm not sure if this meant that Noah was trapped, or not, but I'd never seen God's hand there before, closing the door and protecting His chosen child from what was about to take place.

As I pondered Noah's story, I thought... perhaps it's not too much different than our own, for a storm is coming someday: not of water, but of fire. A storm that was written about in Luke 3, and one that John called "the good news," though I've always had a hard time seeing fire as good. Then again, God's fire doesn't always burn, like in the case of the burning bush. By His fire, He will refine all of creation and restore all things; who knows what will remain untouched. Certainly, we cannot know. We, like Noah, merely step into the ark that is Jesus; we reside in Him through the storm. Unlike Noah, we are are not the only ones with the invite, or perhaps it's best to say, we are all invited: we are all seen by God as worthy of stepping aboard, though none of us is truly worthy: our hearts corrupt with violence since childhood, He says. Nonetheless, God shuts us in as the storm carries on outside, and evil perishes from the ground of the earth.

But the fire recedes, just as the water did, and what will it be like to hear God say, or what was it like for Noah when he heard, "Come out of the ark"?

With his family, and with the pairs of every creature, he filed out and felt the familiar sensation of dust on his toes, and breathed the familiar air. No more violence. No more corruption. Nothing left to fear in this new covenant with God, marked by a vibrant rainbow in the sky. Post-flood earth must have felt like the new Eden to Noah and his family; it must have felt like heaven, for he had been kept alive and given back the earth as the gift it was always made to be from the God who loves us.

Whatever it looked like for Noah, I think that's as close as I can get to imagining heaven. Perhaps even more so than the Garden of Eden, because Adam and Eve never knew what they were living in, but there's something about having been through a fall... something that makes the gift seem so much sweeter. Perhaps because creation drips with mercy now; it spills over with the promise of being restored; it screams of a future without violence... a future that is on the way. I love imagining the sound of God's voice saying, "Come out of the ark." I can see myself standing there, standing here... I'm standing next to Dad, and all of the animals of the earth and every other covenant being is standing with us. I love that I cannot know any of this for sure, but that it feels sweet and mysterious to imagine, and I love that my imaginings are probably barely a sliver of the good things He has in store.

Thank you, Jesus, for opening yourself up in the midst of the storm and shutting us in. You are my refuge and my hiding place; you are the beauty in my life. 

Amateurish Moves

"...Her firstborn, a son. She wrapped him in cloths and placed him in a manger." (Luke 2:7)

I have to start with Christmas Eve, of course. We were gathering that morning when I received a text from a friend with pictures of her newborn, wrapped in cloths and showing off his mommy-daddy features. I've never been much of a queasy baby-freak, but the closer I feel to a friend, the more my heart seems to leap these days at the thought of their hearts multiplying to form new life. All throughout the morning gathering, as Eric and I led the church in singing Christmas worship songs, my eyes could not help but wander to visions of this newborn: imagining that our baby Jesus was as real, and as born, as the little guy on my iPhone. Trying to grasp that our baby Jesus was as real, and as born. 

When I was driving by my mommy-friend's home a handful of days later, I had the sudden thought that I should stop by! It felt so cozy to slip into her front door, to hide out there with our soft voices and the glow of Christmas tree lights and decorations lingering. I lifted her five-day-old child from his rest with a fumbl-y, but confident, wiggle of both my hands and forearms until he was rested against me, warm and secure, and then we laughed about my amateurish moves :)

I wonder about Mary. How did her amateurish hands move when she lifted her newborn son for the first time to not only place him in a manger, but wrap him in cloths? Did she fumble? Did she laugh? Did she tremble as she wondered if what she had to offer was enough? Two more times in Luke 3, the scriptures say that she "pondered them in her heart" or "these things in her heart," and I want to know what was in there: in her heart, that is. I want to know of this treasure she stored up and just more about the woman who moved so quickly from fear to faith in the presence of angels and had the courage to mother Christ.

The previous chapter referred to the "tender mercy of our God," and these reflections give imagery to that mercy, don't they? For the God we rejected in the garden, the God with power to create, and bless, and curse, and redeem us, used His own mighty hands to write a story where the amateurish hands of a woman would hold him in his most vulnerable state: would wrap him, or confine and comfort him. What kind of madness is that? What kind of privilege and love and trust is that? Before we were worthy, He entrusted even Himself to our care.

Thinking back to yesterday, I have to close with this final thought: the creator of humankind allowed humankind to "create" Him. Again, what madness and love...?

God, I thank you that while Genesis 1 and 2 seemed to end so abruptly in the fall of 3, you always planned for Jesus. You always intended to be so near to us, connected to us so closely as in a mother's womb and arms. Even now, your presence resides, quite literally, in our hearts, and how I long to feel the warmth of you there, more and more, like a mother longs to feel her child move... to wonder and to marvel at the miracle of it all. Be near to me, God. Open my eyes to see more of your mercy, and to know more of your story. 

And it was so.

I've always said that it's amazing to think God created something from nothing, when we as creators only have the ability to create something from what already is. This afternoon, however, when I was reflecting on the first two chapters of Genesis... I could see that God, instead, created from within Himself. He was there to create from, which is everything more than nothing. And His paint palette was an array of atoms, perhaps, which He could mix in any way he pleased. And beyond His material means, there was the essence of His artistry, which He used to breathe life and animation into all creatures of the earth, setting His work apart from all other material work. Taking our breath away, by giving us breath in the first place.

Let there be, and it was so. Just like that. We are His dream, and His vision; we are His masterpiece come true. What kind of majestic being could have dreamed up such complexity, such enormity, such beauty, such mystery? Every tiny detail we are, every tiny detail we know and will ever, or never, come to know rested within Him before His very words brought them to be. 

If only I could read chapters 1 and 2 over and over again, forever. They remind me of the wonder of every single thing, and they fill me with an undeterminable amount of admiration and hope that maybe I could take after Him, as His child. I want to look into this world and say, let there be light; I want to feel and know how good it is when I take a step back; I want my heart to be full of His good dreams that come to be; and, I want to rest from it all in a sweet and pleasant sleep that only comes from the deepest security of knowing all is well and lovely in the presence of God. 

God, I praise you for your complexity, your enormity, your beauty, and your mystery. I wonder at who you must be, the artist of all things! I long to be a part of what you dream and what you bring into being by the mere movement of your lips. I thank you for these origins and gifts that you give; I thank you that this story is what we long for, and that you have created a way to bring all creation back together for good. 

For the lazy.

I don't know exactly what I want to write about this evening, but I know I want to write. I penciled in the date in my Little Prince planner: "start blogging again." I picked the date out, March 14th, so that it would line up with the last significant post I made in 2014 when I was reading through the Bible in a year and trying to write nearly every day. That was two years ago. Oops. Try, try again. This time, I think I'll try a little less and see what happens, here and there. 

On Sunday night, I was about seven days behind in my Bible reading plan and trying to catch up, but also trying to slow down in case God might show me something that I was really struggling to see in Numbers (I think I'm in Numbers, at least). I was agitated. The truth is that I've been reading the Old Testament at the beginning of almost every year for I don't even want to admit to how many years. The desperation for the New Testament should have been enough to get me to August or September, but no. My life is a blur: the kind of blur produced by a thrilling, yet frightening and sometimes sickening, roller coaster ride that you feel pressured to stand in line for but that you are kind of glad you did stand in line for when the adrenaline is running through you at the end. Is that dramatic? :)

Again, I was agitated. It's difficult to like God when all you read are the first few books of the Bible over and over each year. Genesis is like magic for me, but then so much of it feels really questionable from there besides a bit of poetry that I can cherry-pick along the way, excellent scenery, and the thought of Moses's face sparkling. I was thinking about this Old Testament stuff the other day, wondering if I'll read through the entire Bible again after I finally get through it once. The thought of it reminded me of deep cleaning and how I despise the idea that I will have to do the same task over and over for the rest of my life because it keeps getting undone. Stupid memory. 

I think I'm supposed to believe that the Bible is not like my kitchen floor, though. Unlike my kitchen floor, the Bible can be new each time I open it. Of course, someone somewhere might argue that their kitchen floor is new each time, too, and if that makes a person feel better, then so be it. 

The point is that the Bible has been new to me this year (even though I had completely forgotten until just now when I wrote that)... like when I was reading in Exodus about Pharaoh enslaving God's people and working them harder, expecting them to do more with less and then calling them lazy whenever they cried out that the work was too much to bear. I was reading this story and obsessing over the familiarity of it all: "do more with less!" In education, and I'm sure all throughout the workplaces of this nation, this phrase plays on like the broken record. I used to think it was something to be proud of, and I'd challenge myself to see if I could pull it off: this more with less trick. These days, I'm feeling more and more that I am one with the Israelites: exhausted and unable to meet my quota.

I didn't realize this is what I would be writing about, but sure!... because I do have something really important to share about this Exodus story. When I was able to see the pages differently, I realized that the word "lazy" had been tumbling around in my heart and mind for some time. I have a list at work that seems to grow longer each day no matter how much I give, and I bet you do too. I keep telling myself that I am going to come in one day and blow that list up, knock it out of the park, demolish it, completely obliterate it and take back my work day for the dreams I've always dreamed my job would be. The reality, however, is that the list always wins. At some point, I became overwhelmed by the list and started listening to the quiet whisper inside saying, lazy. I'm clearly too slow. Too distracted. Too average. A foolish waster of energy and time. Lazy. 

Pharaoh was wrong about the Israelites, though, and God had a different plan for them: a plan for them to work hard, building and refining his temple, but also for them to worship. God did not design His people to be slaves; He designed them to be free to work and worship, as if work and worship were one in the same. So, he delivered them from Egypt! Do you know what this means for us as children of this God of the Old Testament? Well, I'm not entirely sure, but I'll admit that when I was putting all of this together in my mind, there was this sweet sense of intimacy that I experienced when I thought I could hear Him saying, I will deliver you from slavery. He actually wants to. 

I fully believe I am doing the work God has designed me to do, but I also believe that I am blindly working for Pharaoh at times: when I call myself lazy, when I allow perfectionism to destroy my self-confidence, when I am so focused on production and quotas that I refuse to worship with my work, and when I am too afraid or overwhelmed to take time off and rest. I think you know exactly what I mean. We don't need to get out of Egypt, necessarily; we need to start working for the One who makes our souls come alive, instead. 

I told Eric that reading the Old Testament made it difficult for me to like God. He told me that I should take a break from it for a bit, so I did. I wrote this, and then I saw this small thread of continuity between Father and Son, and my heart felt light again. 

Every blog needs a picture, so here's a picture of a lizard slave who lives at the college where I teach. He actually escaped shortly after this picture was taken :) only to be captured again. 

Where am I?

In April of this year, I fell behind on my New Year's resolution to read the Bible in a single year. I haven't caught up since, though I've hit the "catch me up" button on my iPhone a couple of times. You can't say I didn't warn you, though. Remember the "I will fail" post? And remember how I can be so prideful? It was inevitable, wasn't it? :)

So, I've been somewhat afraid to write. But then I got to thinking: where are you? I'm starting to sense that I'm probably not the only one who wanders down a trail, and then another one, and then another, and sits down to rest for a while, and forgets the way back, and feels overwhelmed by the effort it would take to get there anyway.

Work on the left, this blog on the right... I think I'll stay right where I am. 

But that's not the story, exactly.

Because I've been getting my work done. And, I've been trying my best to make time for the ones I love. It's just that I haven't been flipping through silky pages of wisdom, lately. In fact, I've been reading only fragments of scripture, quickly, out of context, and lightly understood. It's been nauseating. And, I feel as if I've lost all memory of what I was learning in January, February, and March.

Let me admit: there's something heart-wrenching that takes place when I move my eyes away from the Word of God and allow myself to function undisciplined in the rhythms of each day. Something numbing. So even though I'm often bothered by the idea of writing you at times (seriously, you dramatic blog, you), I'm grateful for the space that you provide. Your blank pages, encouraging me to engage with the Spirit of God once again, to pick up the book, to whisper a prayer, to listen, and to fumble through to some kind of sense.

So, where am I?

I'm with Eric and Harvard, at the beach, cuddling, sipping tea, watching children fall down in the wind, dogs prance on the sand, and waves crash in the distance. It's freezing here. It's peaceful, and it's renewing. And I can't help but smile and feel unworthy. Honestly. Because Jesus doesn't skip a beat with me. March is like yesterday, and I can feel His presence as quickly as I desire it. His mercy, as real and as powerful as the ocean before me.

I'm with Him, even when I'm lost. 

Where is Jesus?

I wonder what God expects me to feel as I read through the Old Testament. I'm postured with open palms and waiting for Him to take these things inside of me, these images that flash against my eyelids as they are closed in prayer, and to make sense of them. To help me out when I'm bothered by Moses, and I don't know if I can trust everything that he says, and I don't know if I believe that every time he says "The Lord says" it really captures what the Lord said, in that moment, in that place. Because isn't he just as flawed as any of us? And I wouldn't want anyone reading the words that I attribute to God in my own life as if they were truly His, without seeking Him for themselves. But I wouldn't want to overlook what "The Lord says" if He really said it either, and I mean no disrespect, and I desire to fear the Lord.

Moses would stone me to death for most of that, I'm sure. Moses, the man who seemed so grand at first, and then so violent, so degrading, so whiny, so mighty, so wicked, so wise, and so dominating. I really like Moses; I'm filled with respect for him, and I'm so thankful for the words he penned! It's just up. And, then it's down. With me.

Again, I wonder what God expects me to feel: wants me to feel when these words begin running through the mazes of my mind, meeting dead ends, colliding with gray matter, becoming exhausted as they find themselves carving out the same paths and never reaching the end.

Today, I'll say that I don't trust what the scriptures say all the time; I do, however, trust the Spirit to guide me through them, but that takes time. And in time, I trust that God will rest on my heart and my mind, and that I'll find something more true, a treasure more precious, than I could have ever found without being honest about what is between us. Without recognizing the tension in my heart and just telling Him it's there!

With palms open, I'm thinking... God, where is Jesus? 

Where is Jesus when the Israelites start cutting animal throats, draining out their blood, and presenting them as burnt sacrifices, with their pleasing aromas, to the Lord? Where is Jesus when the Israelites learn that there are many sins that require them to stone their people, men and women, to death: to purge the evil from among them? Where is Jesus when the Israelites head into battle, and their enemies are conquered, and they must return to ensure that all of the people--man, woman, and child--are completely annihilated?

God, I miss Jesus. Here in these ancient words. Where is He?

I miss the part of you who became the lamb and walked, willingly, brutally, to the cross where you suffered to die for us all. I miss Jesus who, when faced with a woman who was about to be stoned, challenged the crowd to examine their own hearts until every single one of them walked away, aware of their own sins. Jesus, you stood there alone. You could have cast the first stone. You could have purged the evil from among you. But you took no pleasure in the option of death, and you healed her instead, and you commanded her to live! 

Where is that part of you in the era of Moses? 

I know that I'm supposed to see Him there, and that others do. It's just up. And, then it's down. With me. And all I can say, today, is that I'm learning to be desperate for Jesus. To crave Him with all of my being. Because my mind desires His company when faced with these moral riddles, and my heart is easily disgusted with the bloodshed. I don't want to put God on trial; I want to know Him. I long for a deeper relationship with Him. I hope it's possible that these feelings in my gut are a sign of His mark upon my being, His humanity and forgiveness, and His grace within me.

I'm reading the Old Testament, crying out, where is Jesus? I am grateful, through it all, that He is within me.

Things that add up.

The sun came out today, and I needed it, and I soaked it up, and I smiled, and I made the most of it for as long as it lasted. Early in the day, as I was walking across campus, I ran into my dad. After I went back to my office, I realized how often I fail to cherish the little things, so I called him up and we were able to carve out 30 minutes for an on-campus lunch. I told him about my friends whose dads had died this week, somewhat unexpectedly; I told him that I was glad I could sit and eat with him, even if we had to cut it short.

My mom texted a bit later, and my family planned to meet for dinner, and I have a lot of work to do, but if I were to have declined the invite, I would have missed the chance to go on a walk with my precious niece, picking dandelions, hanging upside down, kicking a ball around the yard, pretending to be a horse, and climbing on fire hydrants. 

I would have missed out on Jade's pretty eyes: her heart-melting teeny smile.

And air-drumming with Jude.

The sun went down, and I'm home now. I'm sitting with Eric, ready for bed. We've finished talking about my most recent adventures through the Old Testament, and the truth is that I'm feeling a bit deflated, or confused (more on that later). But as I pasted these pictures into my blog, I was reminded that God is good. 

Not everything adds up, but enough things do. 

Let God be amazing.

I've been silent on the Internet for weeks, but that doesn't mean my mind has been quiet, or that I haven't been writing. In fact, I started drafting this blog post over a week ago, though it failed to come together until this past weekend.

(rewind)

I turned off my alarm and leaned forward, with a wordless mind. And there was a void there to be filled, just as there is every morning. How would I start this day? What would be the opener? Then, I heard this:

Let God be amazing.

It was clear, and it made sense. Instead of me. Because I had spent the weekend forcing myself to rest and to accept who I was and what my limits were, and this meant that I was “unprepared” for Monday: at least in my own perfectionist kind of way. To think that the pressure was off this morning was the motivation I needed to be filled with joy, to put one foot in front of the other, to move myself toward what He had in store for me—with hope. If I show up, and if I step aside, He will be amazing; I will be amazed.

A few steps later, I was standing in front of the mirror, multi-tasking eyeliner and the Bible on my iPhone, and I cringed in fear, and dread, and skepticism, as I read “Leviticus” on the screen. But I heard it again:  

Let God be amazing. Instead of me. In Leviticus.

In the burning bush. (Which is Exodus, I know, but stay with me). 

And these words meant so much to me, so immediately, because this story of God's had been bothering me. I had been wondering about how I might feel if the God of the universe were to reveal Himself to me as a gathering of flames illuminating a bush in the night. I had been imagining myself, unimpressed, underwhelmed, and unable to discern Him as the God of goodness. And yet, frightened. I know that most of that is the point, but I still think it’s an odd depiction of God that doesn’t quite line up with the Him I am coming to know. These are the kinds of little details that derail my mind—that choke and suffocate me, though I press on.

I confessed these things to Eric, and he remained as calm and composed as usual. He said that if I had been there, if I had seen the flames recede and the bush unharmed, that I would have been in awe of God and that it would make sense. I'm thinking about that now, realizing that God is so unknown to me. God is like a flame that does not turn a thing to ashes, yet fiercely burns and flickers and illuminates all the same.

Eric reminds me that there is a difference between revelation that brings me closer to God, and revelation that is arrogant. Because when I don't get it, I insist that I should. And I play the fool so often, limiting His wonder by believing that my capacity to perceive and proclaim it through a broken, skeptical lens (that has yet, if ever, to see the fullness of His wonder) will be what defines Him in this world. I am not responsible for making God seem amazing in the midst of these messy Old Testament texts. 

Let God be amazing.

I say it over and over, sighing sighs of relief and imagining myself shrinking in His ever increasing presence. 

But yesterday it felt as if He broke through me, and into me, and made His place in my heart and my soul anew, and I bet my skin could have sparkled as Moses’ did when the Lord passed before Him: "the Lord, the Lord, the compassionate and gracious God, slow to anger and abounding in love and faithfulness" (Exodus 34:6). It was that moment when I determined to let God be amazing in me, as well. Because God never asked me to shrink, but rather to become translucent so that His light and His presence would be known. 

"Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure. It is our light, not our darkness that most frightens us. We ask ourselves, Who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous, talented, fabulous? Actually, who are you not to be? You are a child of God. Your playing small does not serve the world. There is nothing enlightened about shrinking so that other people won't feel insecure around you. We are all meant to shine, as children do. We were born to make manifest the glory of God that is within us. It's not just in some of us; it's in everyone. And as we let our own light shine, we unconsciously give other people permission to do the same. As we are liberated from our own fear, our presence automatically liberates others." 

-Marianne Williamson

Disappearing

I've had a lot of students drop my classes over the last few weeks. Just disappear. I understand that life happens, and I never take this personally, but I often wonder and worry about what might be going on in their lives that would take them away, and I sincerely hope they are okay. To be completely honest, I feel for them and any shame they might feel about not being able to finish; I've been there, and I know the pressure of college and life, and I know what it feels like to walk away before the quarter ends.

Tonight, Eric and I were stocking up on fruits and vegetables when I saw one of the missing students sitting at a table. Before I could fully determine how to respond, my excitement took over and nudged me across the room to ask how she had been, and what had happened, to make sure she was okay, and to encourage her to start again when, or if, she feels it's the right time. "I've disappeared before, too," I told her. "I'm just glad to see that you are well." I wished her the best as we left, and I carried her burdens on my heart, thanking God for the people He brings into my life. People to pray for. People to care for. Each and every student and person that my job introduces me to, and all of the challenges I know they are facing. Right now. Even as I write this. 

As I left the grocery store, I decided that the blog I had been drafting all week--the one I planned to post tonight--would have to wait. Because I realized that so many students in my classes have been disappearing, and I have been disappearing, too. 

I've been buried underneath grading. 

I've been desperate for every moment with Eric. 

I've been making excuses, and puzzling over cosmic riddles, and organizing, and resting. 

And why is that I, that we, come to feel so guilty about all of this? As if God has a grade-book. As if he has been taking attendance, and counting up points, and evaluating me, and as if my financial aid is going to run out until I'm stuck funding this entire relationship on my own. 

When we disappear, when we fail to set aside the time to remain engaged, to attend, to do our work, to reach out to Him, I imagine that God misses us, above all things. Sincerely. I imagine He thinks of us, and He remains close, and He desires for us to not necessarily "return," but to turn and face Him where He has been all along. And when we do this, there is no time for apologizing. I say this because it seemed that when I started to apologize to God, today, for setting Him aside and getting wrapped up in the frenzy of my world, that He was quick to interrupt and proclaim: Come here. I love you! Turn off that music. 

I turned the dial down until it beeped, and I drove home from work listening to the hum of the Beetle. 

It only took about thirty minutes until I could feel His nearness again. In the clouds ahead, I could see His face--the face of a King--emerging and descending from heaven like sun beams and rain falling from a peach and pale blue sky. His eyes were fixed on mine, and the drumming of His rain drops awakened me from complacency. 

Leviticus, Numbers, Deuteronomy. Absolutely meaningless without You.