Sometimes the Little Things Hold Us Together

Our second child was born a little over a year ago. There was something wondrous about welcoming this little life into the work – over a month earlier than we expected. Holding this tiny little life in your hands is an exhilarating experience that awakens something deep inside of you. In that moment, we were overwhelmed and soaked in the love and grace of God who walked with us through the journey. That day was a whirlwind, but forever burned into my memory as a time of great joy.

The year since has been one of perpetual struggle. Our first gave us a run for our money, but this experience just hit differently.

Our little bundle of joy soon began having major issues pushing food through his body. We spent countless nights up with him, helping him to pass things through and holding him as he cried ceaselessly. Every child cries, and that first cry brings elation because it signals his lungs had inflated and worked as God intended had broken to cries of pain. Tears that pierce to the bone.

In the dark of the night, he wasn’t the only one shedding tears.

Those tears birthed a deep empathy with the persistent widow. Constantly knocking at the door of the judge demanding, imploring, cajoling for respite. I would have done anything to have healing for this little life; I would have settled for some definitive answers. Yet the door remained closed, and answers were as sparse as water in the desert.

My throat parched, my back aching, and my soul longing for something more. I was craving a fresh taste of new creation.

We All Need It

The Gospels are filled with moments when Jesus intentionally pulled away from the busyness and importance of ministry to be alone and to rest.

Let that sink in for a moment… the embodiment of God took time away from proclaiming, and doing, to simply rest and be with God. There were so many individuals he should be healing, saving, and meeting – yet rest and solitude were important for him.

Through the past year, God has gently been reminding me how I cannot bring water from the desert. I cannot heal my son. I cannot do enough for myself, let alone others. He has been gently inviting me to rest in that truth.

This all seems so counterintuitive.

Going Against the Grain

For many who grew up in the church, we’re used to doing to prove our faith. We show up to the service. We serve throughout the week. We go to youth groups, potlucks, bottle drives, community service, children’s programs, men’s and women’s programs, and so much more. We fill our lives with church stuff, and it doesn’t leave room for anything else.

Yet God is calling us out into the desert to learn who He is. Moses spent 40 years in the desert before his calling back to Egypt, and another 40 wandering. Jesus spent 40 days at the beginning of his ministry. Great things happen in the wilderness.

Fostering a missional community is all about creating the space for God to speak and work. I have to constantly resist the temptation to cram the calendar full of more stuff. It is so hard for me, because when the community is busy, when I am busy, it is validating for my place and position. I feel as though I’m earning the fruit that I’m trying to produce. The real growth happens when we can offer a cold glass of water to a parched traveler along the road, and a place to lay their head. It comes because we surrender what we think is our place, to the God who grows the fruit.

Accepting the Love

As I was writing this, my son was not sleeping. I spent 30 minutes bouncing him to try to help him to sleep with no effect. We had a small moment in that dark room, where his face burst forth with a giant smile despite the discomfort he was in. Rain clouds in the desert.

At that moment, the Spirit had a word for me: “How much more do I love you?”

Living missionally is an act of long obedience. Years of scattering seed in parched land, praying for rain and a glimpse of a blossom. It is a wandering through the dunes of spirituality that leads us ultimately inward, to examine the motives of why we pursue the Kingdom in the first place. That sand blasts off our sense of self-importance, the hot desert breeze separates it from us, and refines our identity back to our Creator.

When we come to a place of understanding we are travellers ourselves, we can truly rest in the work of God. We welcome the scattered few who are wandering the hills, parched for truth and love. Opening our doors and our lives as fellow travellers in an oasis, and allowing God to build the community.

God loves you, and watches over you. He doesn’t need you, but chooses to be in relationship with you. We cannot be the saviour of anyone, because there is already a saviour who has paid for it all.

Like a desert oasis, we can rest in that love, knowing that it is constant, present, and good. There is nothing you can do to earn it, and it is a reality for you right now, just as you are.