Sidenote: I Will Be Still

A tear slid down my face as I sat at the back of a huge white tent in the heat of a summer evening listening to words that I did not understand. No, I knew the words—but not like this. I knew the song; I’d sung it hundreds of times. But I had never listened to it. And so, it took a young refugee standing timidly in front of the largest congregation he’d ever encountered strumming on his old guitar and singing in his native tongue for me to actually listen to the song.

When the oceans rise and thunders roll,
I will soar with you above the storm.

And I got it. I understood it. See, this man was in America because his homeland had been ravaged first by war and then by a horrible tsunami. He had escaped with his life—leaving behind family, friends and everything he knew. The ocean had literally stood up and destroyed everything he owned. And yet.

There he stood. Singing—cautious at first, but growing stronger as his words climbed higher and higher into the heavens.

Father you are King over the flood,
I will be still and know you are God.

I will be still. I will be still and know you are God. The words flowed out of his mouth, out of his soul. I could see that he sang with a voice of experience. He sang with knowledge. He sang with perfect peace. His God—the God of the storm, was also the God of the calm within the storm. He knew that no matter how much he had to go through, no matter how many storms he had to weather in his life, that God was still God. A God of love. A God of mercy. A God of provision. And God of the storm.

I have problems being a Christian sometimes. I mean, I have no problem crediting God for the blessings in my life. I have no problem accepting the new job He provided for me. Or thanking him for protecting me from a car accident. Or honoring him after a miraculous healing.

But. I kick and scream and throw a temper tantrum when I’m handed a pink slip from the boss. I yell to the heavens “WHERE ARE YOU, GOD?!” when I break my hip and total my car. I boldly proclaim that “I do not accept it,” and that “it is not of God,” when I am given a bad report from the doctor. I forget that He is the God of the storm.

I forget that He is God of the storm.

See, as deeply as he is God of the calm, so is the depth of his reign over the storm. It is impossible to fully understand one without the other. We can never truly appreciate the calm if we cannot accept the storm. And we cannot weather the storm if we can’t remember the calm. And neither fulfills its potential when we do not recognize that they are both gifts from God.

I challenge you to trust God in ways that you never have before. To trust that what calm is in your life is a cherished blessing from God—and that the storm is too. To see both the valley and the mountain’s peak as opportunities of growth and communion with God. To trust that God is sovereign and full of love.

I challenge you.

I challenge you to be still and know He is God.

Sidenote: Oh, Just To See His Face

I’m sitting here, blinking the tears away, watching this video. I’ve never had a Loved One go off to war. I’ve never experienced the stress, the anticipation, the constant discomfort that comes along with that uncertainty. I don’t know what it is to suddenly see someone that you feared you may never see again. And yet, in some way, I feel what they are feeling. I hurt as they are hurting. I am filled with joy just like them. The tears are welcome—because they are tears of assurance; they are tears of release. And the little boy. He runs to his Daddy, who wraps him in his arms and says, “I’ve missed you so much.” The little boy replies, “I missed you too, Daddy. Daddy, I love you.” “I love you too, Son.” I don’t know what that’s like. But I cry. I cry because on some level, I do know.

I’ve been away from my Father’s arms for so long. I’ve never seen his face. I’ve never been wrapped in his embrace. Sure, I know him on some level—and it’s a personal one for sure, but there are so many layers and dimensions that I cannot understand. So I live anxiously. I live with longing. I live with discomfort. I just want to see his face. I just want to run to him and be wrapped in his arms and to hear him say, “Son, I love you.” I want to weep tears of joy at our reunion.

I cannot wait for that day—when my Father, the Creator of time and space, welcomes me to spend eternity with him. It’s those little moments that bring me face-to-face with that longing. Little moments, like a mother hugging her soldier son; like a daughter seeing her father after years away. It’s those little moments that fill me with hope. Hope that someday, someday I will see his face.