Genesis 36-39, Matthew 8
What I hold on to has been let go as the 40 days of my “getting to know you session” with Christ is on it’s last stronghold day (thought revised in “Slate 2”). I am a world away in distance as my church home begins a new existence.
The faith foundation I stand on is rock that can not be quarried, unless it is by spirit, in which the action of quarried stone is to build upon the foundation of others. By speaking about the rock I stand upon, my foundation sets even firmer in the faith that I seek. Seeking the peace that places myself in the path of The Quiet Voice, i continually put to rest the rush that waits at my next chore, my next to do. Because today I realized, but even still failed to fully put into action, the concept of P.U.S.H. (pray until something happens) is not to pray until you feel the presence or faith of God, but to realize that that feeling or faith that you come into by being silent, is not the place where you stop to go on with the day, but it is just the beginning of your direct God time for that moment.
I can imagine the father of a family run fine dining restaurant preparing with his staff for the evening rush. A large party of people, underdressed for even a lunch time occasion, comes in the mid afternoon during the slow part of the day and fills it to capacity. there isn’t a place to sit or a bread basket not used. Threat of closing is always the top name on the reservation list of this restaurant as the word “rent” is not even spoken about until the last day of the month. The family is working as hard as they can to meet the demand of each table. Half way through the meal, before anything is served a man comes up dressed in clothing and says he is the host of the large party. He pours the rest of the restaurant’s salt onto a plate and draws a half line, arched slightly, drawn left to right. The father stops, understanding that the host is a fellow Christian while his guests appear to be a mixture of every walk. The father turns to continue cooking and becomes angry thinking over his skillet, “they probably don’t have any money to pay for the meal, we can not even pay our own rent. I have spent my entire life making the place into what it is only to have this group of people bankrupt me bringing me to the streets to live like them. God! I even pray everyday with my family before the first customer that your will be done. God! And now, look what is happening! Don’t I deserve?”
The downward conclusion of his thought process brings the father to rage, he even overcooks the pasta! “What does ‘al dente’ mean anyways?” he thinks to himself.
Meanwhile, the plate of salt sits still by his side with the line in it, arched, waiting to be completed.
At that moment a hand comes from behind and rests on the father’s shoulder as he cooks and all worry, wonder, confusion and worthless ponder is set aside as God’s peace besieges the father after a quiet whisper is stated to him by Him, then echoed, “provision, I am”.
I feel our preparation for the scheduled events in our lives in which we have invested both financially and/or spiritually often outweighs the possibility for God to work in us spontaneously. Our daily calender has a guest list with reservations for what we understand. When the walk-in customers of God step into our lives before we know it we send them to a recommended restaurant down the street.
I sit here now, in an empty restaurant, as the humidity meets its breaking point outside and spills on the gold lined green awning harboring Houston’s lunch time empty dreams in Little Napoli. Of course I have a cappuccino beside me, but this one is of a brand I am not familiar with, which is not common. Danesi Caffe. There is a large green street lamp sized post, modeled after a London type mid 1800’s street post. This one has a large clock, saying 3:21 pm, with the words Main at Texas cresting the top.
To recall the growth of my 40 days I need not call upon my two journals (misplaced on flight 343 from PHL to HOU), I need not call upon the documents back logged on my computer, I need not even to stare into the recollections that come from losing yourself in the sight of oblivion. I need just to live the blank white slate (which, in english, is called a testimony). I could write my testimony, speak my testimony, or keep it to myself. All three possibilities to me are weighed equally when the sum of the parts are measured in the amount of noticeable and unnoticeable God-change.
It is raining, yet the fountains and the sprinklers continue.
To continue is to be in Him, otherwise you are just collecting archives of self-diagnosed experience.