Devotion 315 - rock piles

It was a little past bedtime.

Ava had a whole bag of wonderful books from the library. 

On most nights I pick one book and she one book, then we read and pray and she is off to sleep.

We began like we always do but I had two agendas.  We would read and we would pray but there was also a little show I was hoping to see.  My husband had downloaded it.  I had decided we could watch while Ava read.  It was all so simple.

It was a long Monday.  Somehow I felt deserving of this treat.  Funny how far simple pleasures can drive the tired mama.

Ava read, then rested, then read again.  She was more than curious what I was watching.  She reminded me over and over again that she wasn't fond of this new arrangement.  I reminded her over and over again what a treat it was to go to the library, to have new books and to pick as many as she wanted.

She fidgeted and frowned obviously discontent. 

I raced through the show, then watched as her little almond eyes fought sleep.  She wanted same.  For this one weary evening, I craved different.

I whispered before I laid her down, “Tomorrow we will go back to two books.” 

She sadly closed her eyes and whispered back, “Mama, I don't like change.”

The next evening, I sat with Ava’s blanket and books.  I was ready.  My computer sat posed on my lap.  I was determined to shut it off before the children finished brushing their teeth.  Just that day I had found a site dedicated to families who had adopted from the same little care center in China where our Ava had been.  There were pictures, sweet pictures I wanted to see one more time before bed.  I scanned each one examining each child and looking for the little face I now love so desperately.  This is a chapter in Ava’s life I do not know; opening it seemed to add light into her soul.  Ava snuggled next to me.  I fought the temptation to close my computer wondering how she would react to these photos.  Her home for the first two years of her life,  friends she had known and nannies she had referred to as Mama.  

I glided the screen near to her.  “Do you remember her?”  I asked.  A darling little girl I knew Ava had known, they were adopted within just months of each other.  My typically talkative child drew silent as if memories took her somewhere far away.  I noticed how her hand glided over mine.  “Yes,”  she quietly replied.  Every photo seemed warm to her, strange but familiar and she said, “I see my friends.”   How gracious our Father is.  Ava knew love from Him and in those little rooms before she ever knew us.  The photos brought her peace  -  extraordinary.

I lay with her a little longer than usual.  Seeing the photos of her nannies brought a rush of memories.  Two of them had escorted her that day.  They shed tears seeing her leave. 

They cried for themselves, for her and for us – joy and sorrow in the same moment.   Our Ava shed many tears that day too.  She left everything she knew.  She left safety.  She left love.  Many say the adopted orphan is lucky.  If you would have asked Ava that day,  she would not have agreed.  The pain was too great, the change to big.  It was for our good, it was for her good.  God had called us to her and He would see her little heart through.  He did and He has and He will.

Relentless is the parent in search of his or her child.

Relentless is the God in search of His.

This good and right and pure and perfect God pursues us, extraordinary.

He paints this amazing picture with eternal skies, laden with sun and stars, christened with seas and appointed with mountains all so that we stop looking around for a glimpse of up and a peak at glory.

He relentlessly allows circumstances that cause us to taste joy such that we hunger for Him.  We draw closer and closer often standing next to His very shadow but then we realize to actually arrive, we must change, we must become more like Him.  Fear envelopes us and we run.  What of life if we cannot control it?

We are thinking people with a frolicking free will.  The enemy has schooled us well.  Won't we be sacrificing if we give in to the warmth, the light and the love?

Doesn’t change mean pain?  I know it did for my daughter.  That day, the day of great change when nanny meant mama, baba meant daddy, and forever meant family.  Change was hard.

Antoine De Saint-Exupery said, “A rock pile ceases to be a rock pile the moment a single man contemplates it, bearing within him the image of a cathedral.” 

To Him, the Creator, the Father, the Finisher, we are a rock pile.  Then He clamps His eyes upon us and begins His work.  The one stunning difference however is the rock pile cannot give permission. We can.

We allow the work, we allow the beauty to inch in from within and suddenly the pain that we feared is overwhelmed by the peace that we feel.  We have become the Sculptor’s.

He sees a cathedral, a place to hold His spirit and a vessel to worship Him. 

He gathers us up, He molds, He breaks, He breathes dreams, He bids us to come and as a reward for the journey to His presence, we are asked to rest.  We are bid to leave our cares for Him to carry.  This transaction, so simple and so gentle, requires change. 

Think of it, he changed a throne for a cross, perfection for poverty, life for death. 

We change hopeless for hope. 

 “Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you and learn from me, for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls.”    Matthew 11:28-29