Painting Revelation Blog

Wedding Platter

“A bruised reed he will not break, and a dimly burning wick he will not quench; he will faithfully bring forth justice.”

Almost a year ago our daughter was married. As a gift to me for hosting the wedding and reception at our house, she had this family tree platter made for me. She asked my husband to find out my favorite Bible verse and I told him Isaiah 42:3, which she had inscribed at the bottom of the tree. I found this verse many years ago, not long after I experienced God’s rescuing love. I saw myself in the weak images of a bruised reed and a dimly burning wick. But I must confess I have not spent much time contemplating the end of the verse: He will faithfully bring forth justice.

This past Sunday a Catholic priest gave the teaching at our Protestant church. We are going verse by verse through the Sermon on the Mount and his text was Blessed are those who mourn for they shall be comforted. Father Sirico offered an insight I am still pondering. He said that our passion for justice is a form of grief. We mourn not just evil, but the tragedy that what becomes evil or unjust, cruel and neglectful could have been great. We mourn the lost potential, the love and joy, peace and health that God intends for all people.

I had coffee with a new friend last week and was taken off guard—and delighted—by her comments on the health care debate: Health care is a human right and not a benefit for those who can afford it, she said. So often those with money and access to health care say they shouldn’t be forced to have lesser care, but why should anyone have lesser care? Where does our sense of entitlement come from? Why don’t we want to pool our resources so everyone is helped? I was born into a family with financial abundance. I grew up with many privileges, but I still became a bruised reed, a very dimly burning wick. I became poor in spirit. I mourned. And because of my desperate situation, I was invited into the kingdom of heaven. I received comfort not because of my wealth and education or my standing in society, but because God loves the broken.

Let’s not harden our hearts; let’s not insulate ourselves from the reality of pain. Let’s be brave enough to mourn, believing God will faithfully bring forth justice.

Lake Michigan

Since we live on the east side of Lake Michigan we experience the full force of winds blowing across the water from Illinois. The last few days we watched whitecaps erupt in the bluegreen and then march onto the beach, eroding sand, dislodging beach grass, gouging the shoreline and depositing sand in bars off shore. Yesterday I noticed how the deep basin of water formed between the sandbar and the shore was much calmer than the shallows. There was room for the waves to go down instead of breaking into a froth on the surface.

This morning as I sat in the hot tub the wind was still swirling in the tree tops. But the squirrel’s nest I wrote about in the previous entry was hardly swaying. The squirrel had built its home in the very top of a sassafras surrounded by taller, broader trees. The white oak, the maple, the shagbark hickories were being whipped by the wind but the little sassafras nest held steady.

We need to go deep to survive the storms. We need to surround ourselves with people, ideas, books, prayers, music, vistas—whatever we can find that is taller and broader, stronger and more deeply rooted than our present perspective. These are turbulent times but there are choices we can make to minimize the chaos and enhance our sense of security. Nothing can separate us from the love of God. No one can snatch us out of his hand.

(BTW—the cardinal babies hatched yesterday)

cardinal nest

I woke up earlier than usual this morning and made my way to our backyard hot tub with fruit smoothie in one hand, Bible in the other. Sunday before 7 is very quiet in the woods where we live. As I settled into the warm water, delighting in the crisp blue sky, I heard something unusual. Just a small sound, a snapping and a rustle of leaves. Right in front of me at the top of a skinny sassafras tree I saw a black squirrel busy at work. It scampered to nearby branches, bit off a leafy length, then darted back to the growing nest. I could hear it working hard, weaving the new twigs into the mass of leaves.

Then from behind me I heard a cardinal’s call. I turned to see a male and female perched on top of our fence, the female with a spindle of grass in her beak. The male called out again and they both flew away. When I got out of the hot tub I spied the beginnings of their nest under the wisteria vine on the trellis outside my bedroom door. The other end of the trellis held the remains of this spring’s nest. Was this the same couple? Or their offspring? I hope I didn’t scare them away.

They comfort me, these squirrels and birds. They know their place in the world. They know how to make their homes. I feel so blessed to live in the peaceful woods where I am, yet my awareness of the millions of people living in poverty, homeless, in refugee camps, sick and hungry and in squalor is always just below the surface of my mind. I am tempted to despair, to sink in guilt. Yet I remember God’s command to rejoice always, pray continually, and give thanks in every circumstance, for that is his will for us in Christ Jesus.

This weekend I was blessed to open my home—our rustic cabin in the woods—to a friend and her five children. Seeing them delight in the creek and the woods, giving them the opportunity to discover the serenity of this place, makes me feel better. But it is really the birds, the flowers, the fireflies, the steady moon and stars, that encourage me to accept my place, my sphere of influence—always with thanksgiving, always with an attitude of grace.