Prayer | All is Well

My Father, Quiet Me ~ AC

February 4, 2016 By Shelly Durkee

My Father, quiet me,
Til in thy holy presence, hushed,
I think thy thoughts with Thee.

~A.C., Dohnavur Songs, item 99 (from Amy Carmichael: Beauty for Ashes, by Iain H. Murray)

These words were the prayer of Amy Carmichael, circa mid-1930s.

Amy, an energetic, passionate missionary, gave every inch of her life to the rescue of low caste girls (and boys), in India–from some of the very similar horrors of sex slavery around the world that we read about in our current day.

Hers seems to have been a world of dichotomies:

The mundane daily tasks of care-giving for the ever-increasing numbers of children rescued and brought to the home at Dohnavur
The intense moments of crises and fear and exhilaration and grief that was a part of the work that comprised Amy’s days

But, really, isn’t that how each of our lives are?

We each have the day-in/day-out tasks.

The change the toilet paper roll take the dog to the vet wipe the fingerprints off the window put gas in the car pay the utility bill wipe the snot attend the board meeting sit in traffic sit in the carpool lane chauffeur the kids to tee-ball gymnastics soccer little league piano lessons ballet class file taxes submit the spreadsheet mow the grass get a physical stir the macaroni and cheese attend the business dinner get the car inspected tasks.

But we also each have the heart-stopping moments days weeks months years.

When the diagnosis comes.

When the marriage proposal comes.

When the layoff comes.

When the pregnancy test is positive.

When the police call. Or come by our house.

When we receive that college acceptance letter.

When we learn our children are doing drugs.

When we land that dream job.

When the fire/tornado/flood strikes.

When we sense God’s unmistakable presence and His glory and holiness.

When evil crosses the firewalls we think insulate us and our loved ones.

And our world stops. For a moment. Or, for many moments.

Amy Carmichael lived these same two dichotomies. Her world was noisy. And, our worlds are noisy.

I think that is why I find myself gravitating to Amy’s prayer, nearly everyday since I first came across it while reading her biography by Iain Murray. I know, for me, the noise of both the mundane and the overwhelmingly joyful and that which is intensely grieving–all of these–unsettle my soul. And my mind. And cause me to become ramped up with either restlessness (in the mundane) or weary-of-this-world-ness (in the hard moments), or even fear that, that which is joyful, will all-too-soon slip away.

Seldom am I still.

And, even more seldom yet, do I fix my thoughts upon the thoughts of my God.

And, I would think that you, too, dear reader, may experience the same.

But–here is the beauty of Amy’s prayer: Our Father knows this about us. He even created us, to be like this.

Because, it is Him, who we need. And, it is He, who can quiet our souls.

That’s not to say there are not things we are to do, in order to be at rest. We must practice spiritual disciplines. We must devote time to spiritual disciplines. Prayer. Scripture Work. Worship. Care for our bodies and for our minds. Rest. Quiet.

But it is our Father, who does the stilling. It is our Father, who says “Shhh…”, to our unquiet minds and souls.

It is our Father God, who settles us.

“Be still, and know that I am God.
I will be exalted among the nations,
I will be exalted in the earth!” Psalm 46:10

“My Father, quiet me, ’til in Thy holy presence, hushed….”

But–don’t miss this, my soul–the settled-ness, the peace, the stillness, the quieting of our souls and minds, is not the end. It is good, and right, and beautiful, yes. And, our Father God gifts us with that peace and stillness of mind and soul, sometimes even in the midst of breaking hell in our lives.

But that is not where Amy ended her prayer, and neither should we. Because what we most desire, or, rather, what we should desire, is to echo with Amy the plea to God, to “think thy thoughts with thee.” To see the world as He sees it. To see the needs around us, as He sees them. To see our sin as He sees it, and to see the forgiveness He extends to us, as He sees it.

And, to see His sovereignty. In the mundane, in the exhilarating, and in the tough stuff that cripples us.

And when He hushes our quaking, and when we breathe deeply in of His grace, and when we are still and know that He is God, and when He causes us to think His thoughts through what we read in scripture and through what we know to be truth about who He is–

–it is then that we can assuredly find ourselves, settled.

…whatever is true, whatever is honorable, whatever is just, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is commendable, if there is any excellence, if there is anything worthy of praise, think about these things….practice these things, and the God of peace will be with you. Philippians 4:9

That Which Can Be Known, Made Plain

January 30, 2016 By Shelly Durkee

One of the reasons I have come to love walking early in the mornings, after study and prayer and before the work day formally begins, is the stillness of the early dawn.

It’s pretty much the same route, every single day….down my street, around the Methodist Church parking lot, down Back Creek Road, to the end of the Cul de Sac of Landing Drive. I pass the same houses, the same fire department, the same refinery, the same docks on the water, the same dogs, the same kids getting on the school buses, the same boarded up old post office–every single day.

But, somehow, some way–it always looks differently.

Sometimes I can figure out why or what makes it look different. Maybe it is stormy on my walk. Or maybe the angle of the rising sun is different. Sometimes the sunset is a striking pink; other times it is made of muted yellows and blues. Sometimes there is snow. Sometimes there are puddles. Sometimes there are red and yellow leaves. Sometimes there are flowers blooming. Sometimes, there has been tidal flooding, and debris is strewn across the roads.

But, always and forever, it always looks differently.

This week has been particularly amazing, in the realm of this “different-ness.” The day after the snowstorm that raced through our area, I found this perfectly spiraled ice flow, as I walked down my street:

Then, just a couple of days later–I saw something I have never seen below. Through the sporadic rain drops that were falling, I saw a Sunrise Rainbow. I did some research, apparently it is fairly rare to get to see such a thing:

And, today, I’m holed up in Roanoke, working from a hotel, and will be staying in the area for a Writer’s Conference tomorrow. This morning’s early morning adventure brought views of mountains in the distance, and a goldenpink fire that settled that set the city ablaze, as the sun rose:

These are not nothing sights. They are, in a word, incredible.

You know, until I really started contemplating whether God was real, or whether scripture was truth, I never saw such things as “proof” of his existence. They were amazing, wonderful–particularly the sky–but my mind did not naturally make the connection between such things, and God.

Or, maybe it did.

There is something that some theologians refer to as “general revelation of God”. I don’t completely understand it all, but it is the knowledge that God places of Himself, in all of mankind, regardless of whether they believe that revelation to be that of truth, or of untruth. Or, whether they believe that revelation to be about God, by God Himself, or if instead they believe it to be something else, though they may struggle to define what that “something” is.

John Calvin, in his Institutes of Christian Religion, had this to say:

The final goal of the blessed life, moreover, rests in the knowledge of God. Lest anyone, then, be excluded from access to happiness, he not only sowed in men’s minds that seed of religion of which we have spoken, but revealed himself and daily discloses himself in the whole workmanship of the universe. As a consequence, men cannot open their eyes without being compelled to see him (Institutes, I.5.1).

And, we see evidence of the truth of this statement–that God both sowed in our minds the seeds of religion, while also revealing Himself through nature–when we stand in awe gazing into the sky at the stars and planets, and we read this scripture in Psalms 19:

The heavens declare the glory of God,
and the sky above proclaims his handiwork.
²Day to day pours out speech,
and night to night reveals knowledge.

The heavens–truly, they do declare the glory of God, as asteroids tumble and comets streak and black holes collapse and planets spin and as suns burn. And as the sky’s expanse draws our eyes to a brilliant deep blue.

For the longest time, though, I struggled with Romans 1:19-21:

¹⁹For what can be known about God is plain to them, because God has shown it to them. ²⁰For his invisible attributes, namely, his eternal power and divine nature, have been clearly perceived, ever since the creation of the world, in the things that have been made. So they are without excuse. ²¹For although they knew God, they did not honor him as God or give thanks to him, but futile in their thinking, and their foolish hearts were darkened.

It bothered me–deeply–that scripture would declare that God’s invisible attributes and nature, could be found in the things He had created, and therefore man had no excuse. I had no excuse. What about those who have never heard of God, I wondered? Or, what about those who were dead-set certain that such wonders were strictly scientific in scope–nothing more?

And, what about me, before I came to a settled belief, in my Lord and God’s existence as truth? Did I, too, have no excuse, in those pre-salvific days?

Not only did it bother me; it foolishly angered me.

But this week, as day, after day, after day, I bumped right up next to significant phenomenons in nature, that my soul knew for certain revealed God as God, I remembered another time–several years ago now–that I was confronted with such realization–prior to coming to believe in the truth of who He is:

On a secluded, hidden beach.

Before an immense, rolling ocean.

Under a blindingly blue sky.

Sitting upon jagged, sharp black lava rocks.

And on that beach before that ocean under that sky and sitting on those rocks–I sensed something unmistakably real. No, maybe “true” is a better word.

He made it plain to me.

In those moments, I sensed that all that fell within my view–the very vastness of what my eyes could see–pointed to something or someone who not only created what lay before me, but who also created, was who was present with, me.

And, that great big someone, knew my name.

The one who created the tiny grains of sand and the creatures swarming in the sea and the urchins clinging to the lava rocks and that sky–always that sky—

was real, and was truth, and knew me.

So.

Truly the heavens do declare His glory.

And the ice crystals. And the refracted light that creates the rainbows. And the goldpinkfire that shines on the mountains.

And, the mountains themselves.

And, the one who created such awe-striking things, is also the God who created me. And You. And gave His son, as a sacrifice, so that we could be with Him now, and with Him eternally…

..where our eyes will behold wonders even more glorious than these that my eyes have seen this week.

Oh, God. Please make what can be known about you, plain to us.

We are, without excuse.

But now thus says the Lord, he who created you, O Jacob, he who formed you, O Israel: “Fear not, for I have redeemed you; I have called you by name, you are mine.

Isaiah 43:1

Love Your Enemies (Thoughts on the Attack on France and Luke 6)

November 15, 2015 By Shelly Durkee

You know what?

We all like to take scripture and mold it and fit to into something that will make us feel good; something that we can turn into a decal and put on our wall to encourage us. Comfort us. Validate us.

And, there is nothing wrong with that, I suppose. There is much encouraging, in scripture. And comforting. Good grief, there is much comforting in the words we find between the beginning of Genesis and the very last verse of Revelation.

But it is oh, so easy, to cherry pick what makes us feel good, or what makes us look good, or what justifies our position, and ignore the hard stuff. The stuff that calls us to a radical obedience that truly is impossible on our own. The type of obedience and Christ-following that we are completely incapable of doing, apart from God’s grace and mercy and love working through us and in us, to enable us to choose to follow Him.

Like the words in Luke 6.

Yesterday, hell broke loose in the form of terroristic attacks on France. At least 129 dead. At least 352 injured. Parents will be burying children–no parent should outlive their child. Children have had parents ripped from their lives at the hands of the murderers. Brothers, sisters, aunts, uncles, co-workers, friends, roommates, colleagues, husbands, wives–senselessly killed; potentially in the name of religion. Again.

And all the world mourns. They rightfully display a show of solidarity with the grieving people of France: assemblies, moments of silence, the changing of Facebook profile pictures to the flag of France, Hashtags proclaiming “Pray for France.” The anger is deep. It is real. It is even justified.

And God grieves has His creation wrecks havoc upon the earth. And upon each other.

And we look to God and cry “Come, quickly, God. Maranatha.”

And we rightfully shake our fists at our enemies and declare that they will not win. And we vow to fight and pursue them to the ends of the earth, to bring them to justice or to eradicate them.

But what do we do with Luke 6?

Honestly, I don’t even know.

These are hard words, right here, following a list of “Blesses are’s” and “Woe’s”……these are words that are hard to stomach, and at times–like today–seem downright impossible:

²⁷“But I say to you who hear, Love your enemies, do good to those who hate you, ²⁸bless those who curse you, pray for those who abuse you.

Personally, and deeply, I have a very hard time stomaching these words.

I want to say to God this: “You ask too much, here, God. You don’t understand! They hate us. They hate me. Love them? You want me to love those who are my enemy? The very ones who wish me deep harm? That have ill-will toward me? That despise me? You want me to do good to those how hate me? You want us to bless those who curse us? And, o, my soul–to pray for those who abuse us?

Love. Do good to. Bless. Pray for.

“Oh, God, You ask too much. You can’t possibly understand the hell they have unleashed with their hatred. With their cursing.

With their abuse.”

How could He possibly understand?

Except, the cross.

Except, these words, from Jesus, as He hung on the cross, bearing our sins. Bearing my sins. Crucified, killed, murdered to pay the debt I–we–could never pay:

³⁴And Jesus said,“Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do.”

And, we as Christ-followers, are called to do the same.

But, honestly, I don’t know how.

Certainly such words from Jesus does not mean that we do not defend our country. Certainly such words do not mean that justice is wrong. No, we see consequences and punishment and discipline for sin and evil through scripture.

But–far more–we see this: Love. Do good. Bless. Pray for.

Oh, but it is so hard, when the pain is so deep. When attacks are ruthless. When children are murdered. When explosions rip through restaurants. When abuse goes on. And on. And on. In dark corners.

When evil is rampant; and in our own backyards, whether we are a country under attack, or an individual being preyed upon or hated or cursed or abused.

I can’t, and we can’t, on our own. Such mercy is beyond me. It is beyond me.

But I also know that these words are in the book that I not only cherish, but that I know is truth. Saving truth. And I cannot overlook them in order to get to the verses that fit cheerfully on a calendar or a coffee mug or a t-shirt.

I need all of scripture. Even the hard verses. Even these verses.

Because–here is the thing–I, too, needed Jesus to say on my behalf these words: “Father, forgive them–forgive her–for she knows not what she does.”

I don’t know how to love these people so consumed with hatred and evil that they would shed innocent blood in orchestrated attacks in the city of Paris. I don’t know how to love them. I don’t, and if you are reading this, then my guess is that you don’t either.

But I do know this: alongside my prayers for the people of France, I must also pray thus:

I must implore God to teach me how to love my enemies, because I can not do so, apart from Him.

Why I Write

November 14, 2015 By Shelly Durkee

I’ve always written. I can’t think of a time, since I first picked up a crayon or pencil, that I’ve not written.

It’s 13-Nov-2015, and I’m in the midst of something called NaBloPoMo. I don’t even remember what that stands for, but it is something similar to NaNoWriMo, the yearly trek for writers of fiction to complete 50,000 words in the month of November, except it is for Blogs.

I suppose it is something like No-Shave November. Or maybe the opposite of it. Or maybe the comparison doesn’t hold up, apart from it being 30 days of doing, or not doing, something consistently. Words. Beards. Go figure.

I signed up for NaBloPoMo two–maybe three–years ago, and stuck it on my 101 Things in 1001 days list. And I didn’t succeed either year. My 1001 days are starting to run out, and I am stubborn enough that I can’t stand to complete goals that I set, so here I am, trying to knock this out in 2015.

But as I’ve formed posts over the past 12 days, I’ve given some thought as to why I write. And the answer is probably not interesting to anyone besides myself, but hey, I need a post for today, so here it is:

Writing is sanity to me.

It always has been. I used to fill up notebooks and diaries with easily-broken-into locks and pictures of horses on the front, and then I’d stash them in the crawl space between our basement and first floor (my bedroom was in the basement). And, through the years, I’ve continued that trend. Once computers came into vogue (gosh, it kills me that there are people who may be reading this who have never known life without computers–that makes me feel so old), my writing slowly graduated to word processing (gasp) and then other forms of documents–Word, Google Docs, Pages on my old Macbook (I miss that thing), this space, and so forth and so on.

In fact, I have two hard drives filled with passworded documents. I don’t know how big those hard drives are, and they are probably not completely full, but there are a lot of words on those portable HDs–words that will never see the light of day.

And I think that is why writing is sanity to me. My brain is a full place. It tends to be chaotic, even. Muddled. And, just as soon as I think I have everything straightened into proper columns in my brain, something comes along–a random doubt about God, a worry about my crew, a philosophical and pointless question, a hard day, a nightmare-interrupted night–and boom, my brain explodes into chaos once again.

But writing—writing settles me. It settles me; I can’t think of any other way to put it.

Particularly, my writing to God.

Yes, I write God. Long letters. I suppose they are prayers; no, really, they are prayers. They are my prayers, to Him, and I can’t hardly pray without writing it down any longer.

It wasn’t until about 6-7 years ago that I started this practice of praying via writing. Well, that’s not completely accurate. As a child, I would write letters to God. But there is this very long period of life, in which I was not certain–at all–if He existed. And, in my soul, I had determined that even if He did exist, I was not going to communicate to Him the things in either my brain or my soul. At all.

But once I started to consider again that He was real, and that scripture was truth, and once I learned the importance of scripture work, and the very real-ness and settledness that comes from scripture work addressed to God, I took up my pen again, and started writing to God. And I started with Psalm 38.

And, part of the reasons why that work–so long ago now–on Psalm 38 brought writing to God again into my life, is these verses right here:

But I am like a deaf man; I do not hear,
like a mute man who does not open his mouth.
¹⁴I have become like a man who does not hear,
and in whose mouth are no rebukes.

I had become like this man, described here. For a dozen reasons that are unimportant really. The key is that I was like a deaf man–it was so very hard to hear the truth, spoken out loud–the truth about who God was, and the truth about who I am. And I struggled to find words to verbally speak out loud. I was like the mute man. These words were truth for me:

My heart throbs; my strength fails me,
and the light of my eyes—it also has gone from me.

The light of my eyes was gone. Hearing was difficult; speaking even more so.

But I could write.

And I did write. I wrote and I wrote and I wrote. Pages and pages and pages and pages. Many were prayers, some were not. But the key was–writing, once again, became sanity to me.

Earnest Hemingway once said this: “There is nothing to writing. You just sit down at a typewriter, and bleed.”

There is great truth to that.

And Frank Kafka wrote this: “A non-writing writer is a monster courting insanity.”

Maybe there is truth in that, as well.

So, I write.

Each morning, I write to God, via both prayer and scripture work–which, for me, often morphs into one and the same.

Sometimes, in the middle of the night, I write to Him as well.

Some days, I block out time to work on my book plans. Some days, I write letters to those I know are hurting. Some days I write neither prayer nor words addressed to anyone in particular, but I write to get the noise out of my brain.

And, sometimes I put words here, in this space.

Words–and writing–are so incredibly important to me.

It settles my soul.

And gives me an avenue to also express praise and worship, to my God.

So grateful, I am, for the avenue of writing, and the gift that words are.

So grateful, I am, that God chose words and scripture to reveal Himself to His children for years and years.

So grateful, I am, that you have stopped by this space, and have read these words, today.

Writing is not life; but I think sometimes it can be a way back to life. ~ Stephen King