We are reading through the Bible chronologically, which is an adventure I have never embarked upon before. I've almost made it to the Promised Land; I'm in Deuteronomy. I can't say enough cool things about a chronological reading of God's story--it brings forth His sovereignty and purpose in a way I have never seen before. I'm a bird, perched in the thin, white pages of the NIV, and the tree-top view makes me want to shout robustly: I will always trust you, God! But, in present time, in the life before it's history, I'm an ant, and limited vision makes it wickedly hard to trust sometimes.
Deuteronomy 6-8 is the backdrop for these thoughts. Moses is instructing the people on belief and action, on who they see God as and how they should live as His people.
I see it so clearly in the story of the Israelites: the absurdity of their unbelief and disobedience laid out next to their magnificent, awe-ful God, the Deliverer and the Giver. Yet the ridiculous transfers, a drawing traced into my own book. The same ugly, heavy strokes of those adulterous people are pressed upon my pages. Couldn't they see? I mourn as I leaf the log of the desert-hemmed people. The call of a Holy God, affectionate and loving to a race He plucked out of obscurity and little. The turned back of a nation, reading His kindness as harm and His way of life as path of death.
But who's to say the observer of my life could not utter the same? Can't she see? The thing which she names bad, no it is Good, and the hard thing she skirts the edge of, it is for her Best, and the grocery budget she frets over because there are always so many people to feed, it is her manna, for is their cupboard ever empty? She grumbles against this land, these frustrating circumstances, and if she would just take off those heirloom Israelite glasses, spectacles of fear and doubt and mulishness, what would she see?
The cry of Moses to the throng is the beckoning for me too--here, now, Tuesday of normal that could be holy.
Do not forget the Lord your God.
By His hand He has brought you.
Do not dare to think any of this: the car, the house, the clothes not even shabby or threadbare, the husband, is the fruit of your own labor.
It is all from Him and the heart that builds its nest next to His throne finds that it is more than enough.
The story is good, Israel.
The story is good, Lara.
Trust and believe.