Up the mountain

There is a path up this mountain, a trail to follow. You can’t see it from the bottom, you can barely see it when you’re right at the base of it. Certainly not from far away. But there is a path up the mountain.

When you start you have no idea where it will take you—if you’ll go up the right side or the left, if it will be steep or easy, if you’ll circle the mountain a few times or charge straight up. You can see your first few dozen steps. After those you can see the next dozen, and then the next.

When it seems like just a mountain, some giant hurdle before you, there’s this promise from God: 

“I will turn all my mountains 

                                                  into roads" Isaiah 49:11

And the reminder of what to do in the meantime:

"Thus says the LORD, "Stand by the crossroads and look, and ask for the ancient paths, Where the good way is, and walk in it; And you will find rest for your souls."  Jeremiah 6:16

Stand at the crossroads and look…

those moments where it feels like there is nowhere to go, like there is no way forward, wait, look and you’ll see the path emerge; an ancient kind of path, a kind lined with prayer and trust and obedience, and the promise, not of an un-climbable mountain face, but instead, of a road. 

As we find ourselves facing what seems like the steepest obstacle, we’re gifted with a promise; that what seems like a mountain is actually a road. A steep one perhaps, a winding one; there is no promise that it is a simple road. 

But there is a road. 

There may be moments traveling where you can see the path a bit ahead, or you can make out a faint trace of the zig zag up the mountain and you have a sense of you next few turns. It bolsters you with a wave of confidence to keep going. And there are moments where it’s just one foot in front of the other, blindly following this path laid out before you, trusting that it continues, that it leads somewhere. That it must lead somewhere.

There are switch backs where it seems like you are making no progress at all, only able look down and see where you’ve been. In some moments that’s gratifying to see how far you’ve come, how much more surefooted you are now, how you’ve found your stride and made it a long way so far. The ways you’ve started to learn this ancient path of trust, its rhythms and its terrain. At other times there are switchbacks where it seems like you’re making no progress at all, and only serve to illustrate how much wandering back and forth you’ve done on the way. But still, there is a path.

There’s a road up the mountain.

“…ask for the ancient paths, where the good way is, and walk in it; And you will find rest for your souls”

Sort of surprisingly it’s in the walking, the learning how to follow paths much more ancient and wise than our own preconceived plans, that we find not exhaustion, but rest.  

It's in the fretting about the the mountain that we grow weary.  
In taking one step at a time, climbing the mountain not by leaps and bounds, but step by step, day by day, turn by turn, slowly you start to forget about the mountain.

Eventually it becomes just a path, and you find that the trail, the journey is beautiful itself, even in the moments where you don’t know exactly where you are or where you’re headed. It’s full of breathtaking views, and amazing moments.

And when you least expect it, you come around a turn and find that you’re at the top of the mountain. And you realize that while the journey didn’t always make sense at the time, while the path seemed at times winding, it was exactly the way you needed to go to get where you needed to be.

And about that time you start to see the next mountain...  

And so you stand again at the crossroads, waiting…waiting for the path to appear, even if it’s just the first few steps. And you start walking again, trusting again that it is indeed “the good way”…the way for a weary soul…the beginning of the promise that there is always a road up the mountain.

And step by step your heart starts to find the rhythm of the old prayer...

O God, you have called your servants
to ventures of which we cannot see the ending,
by paths as yet untrodden, through perils unknown.
Give us faith to go out with good courage,
not knowing where we go,
but only that your hand is leading us
and your love supporting us;
through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.

And then there were sunflowers.

A while ago (like many months ago) my mother in law gave Cara some tiny pots with seeds to start seedlings.  This was a very fun experiment for our kitchen table as we checked on our “baby plants” during breakfast each morning.  However, I find that plants don’t really do very well in those tiny pots.  They sprouted, they became little seedings, then they wilted, and mostly didn’t make it.

I also forgot what seeds were planted in which pot. 

So, I dumped the tiny pots upside down into a planter outside in which I had planted wildflower seeds.

I might add that those wildflower seeds also mostly didn’t make it.  (I would invite you to disregard any sort of trend you might be noticing about plants under my care.)

Then, literally months later, we saw something significant growing in the planter.  I say significant because it sort of came out of nowhere, was big, and was growing fast.  Scott and I both remarked that it very well could be a weed.  (We are currently waging an all-out war with Virginia Creeper in our backyard.)  We pondered pulling it out several times, but curiosity and a dogged determination for something to grow in those porch planters convinced us to let it grow.  And grow.  And grow. 

It got about 5 feet tall.  We were starting to feel like pretty terrible homeowners with a 5 foot weed growing on our porch.  Then we started to notice a characteristic bloom shape forming.  You can imagine my delight when we discovered my once-dead, thrown away seedling, seemingly monstrous weed, was actually a giant sunflower plant right out our back door.

I had forgotten that in one of those tiny pots, that had been dumped into one of those planters, there were sunflower seeds.  I didn’t have any idea where those seeds might have ended up until months later when I was greeted by a bright yellow sunflower. 

It got me thinking about the seeds we plant in other people’s lives.  Seeds that were planted long ago and forgotten, seeds that were planted in places where we would never see the bloom, seeds that seemingly didn’t take, or wilted, or got tossed around or dumped out.  Seeds that we lost track of, or didn’t even realize we were planting. 

From Isaiah:

As the rain and snow come down from heaven, and do not return to it without watering the earth
and making it bud and flourish, so that it yields seed for the sower
and bread for the eater, so is my work that goes out from my mouth;

It will not return to me empty, but will accomplish what I desire and achieve the purpose for which I sent it.

Often we forget about the seeds we plant in other people’s lives. Sometimes these are intentional seeds, sometimes they are natural byproducts of God’s fruitfulness in our lives, and they drop into the soil of others’ lives without us knowing. 

Maybe more often we worry if the seeds are even worth planting, or if the soil is even ready, or if any of our long toiled seedlings were strong enough to last the heat of day when we aren't there. The heart of this passage is that we don’t have to worry about that. Just like rain falls to the earth and provides water, God’s word accomplishes what it was set out to do. It falls like grace and brings life to dry ground.  Maybe not in our timeframe, maybe not in our garden, but it does not return empty.  God’s word does not return empty. 

Every seed counts.


Every act of kindness, every prayer, every moment of sharing the work of God in your life is filled with the power of God.

But in regards to this passage, I also think about the promises of God in scripture. They too do not return empty. All the ways that God promises to be present, to lead us, to guide us, to never forsake us, those promises are not empty either. They are active. They are doing something, accomplishing something. They are taking root in us. As we lean into these promises, even in times when our own soil feels dry, or empty, when it feels like the weeds are winning, hope sprouts. And before we know it it’s 5 feet tall.

I think that’s what Isaiah refers to as the passage continues. Because after he talks about God’s word accomplishing its purpose, never returning empty, he starts to describe a landscape filled with blooms and music and hope. The weeds die off and the healthy plants take root. Blooming hills pointing to the work of God. Signs of the kingdom.

“You will go out in joy

and be led forth in peace;
the mountains and hills
will burst into song before you,
and all the trees of the field
will clap their hands.
Instead of the thornbush will grow the juniper, and instead of briers the myrtle will grow.
This will be for the Lord’s renown,
for an everlasting sign,
that will endure forever.”

As we focus on planting seeds and letting those promises of God take root in our hearts, the whole landscape begins to change. And then we have even more seeds to plant.

The great thing about sunflowers is – they’re full of seeds. Seeds to share with other and seeds of new promise ready to take root. It’s cumulative.

Some seeds we will never see the fruit of, some we will think have surely failed, some we won’t know we planted.  Some we'll forget about.  On occasion we get the joy of seeing them bloom, of being surprised by the ways they have grown. I think, more often, we don’t. But still we can trust that every seed counts.  Somewhere, somehow, in sometime, taking root to glorify God.

And every once in a while we see a sunflower;

those surprising moments where the promises of God are manifest in bright and beautiful ways as little guideposts, beacons urging us onward in this garden work.

While it may take time, while it may be hard to even remember what might be happening under the surface, while it may seem like something very different than you imagined, the sunflowers will push through the dirt; the promise of God’s unwavering presence.   And as God accomplishes His purpose in us and through us, from small simple seeds, a garden begins to emerge, not through our skill or care, but because his promises never return empty.  

No Handles

I should start by saying that Isaiah is probably my favorite book in the Bible. No, definitely my favorite book in the Bible (sort of unusual, I know).  If I’m going through a phase where I just randomly open my Bible for devotions, I usually open to Isaiah, and I’m rarely disappointed.

Recently, I did just that and read this: 

“Woe to you who strive with your Maker, earthen vessels with the potter! Does the clay say to the one who fashions it, “What are you making”? or “Your work has no handles”?” Isaiah 45:9 NRSV

As I read it, I started to sort of automatically nod my head in assent. That is after all what the writer of Isaiah is going for.  He’s trying to make a terribly obvious point that anyone with any sort of brain would agree with.  Of course: who would strive with their maker? I keep going, and am caught short by the next question: Does the clay ask, “What are you making?” 

Ummm….I feel like I ask that question of God all the time.

Woe to me, I suppose.

But the problem is, sometimes it’s so hard to tell what exactly God is making, what God is doing in us, and we as humans want to know. Some might say it’s just simple curiosity. I think it’s a little less innocent than that, and more of a control thing.

And what about the next part: Does the clay say “your work has no handles”?

The correct answer that Isaiah is going for is: “of course not.” Of course the clay doesn't say that.

And yet, isn’t that problem? God’s work so often has no handles. Nothing concrete to hold onto. No blueprint or sketch to reference.

I’ve always found it interesting how we (myself included) like to hold onto handles even when they don’t matter. Like holding onto the handles on a roller coaster when the handles are attached to your harness. If you’re harness fails and you go flying off a roller coaster, chances are those handles won’t help. Or how nervous parents with teenage drivers hold that handle above the passenger side window. Like that’s going to make a difference.

I once noticed going through pictures from church camp that everyone going on the zipline holds onto the rope that connects them to the line.  Their tight grasp serves no purpose. If the zipline breaks, that rope is going down just as fast as they are.  Still, nearly everyone holds it. It gives a false sense of control, even in situations when we have none. It makes us feel like we’re doing something.

The temptation is always wanting to be more like the potter than the clay. Wanting not just for something to hold onto, something solid, but to be the one making the design. In that light, it’s hard to forget that the original sin was wanting to be like God.

If you’ve ever watched a potter with a wheel the shape is constantly changing.   Just when you think it’s almost done, they make one bend and it looks like everything is nearly back to square one again. Truthfully, each little bend and adjustment is contributing to the final shape. Even those times when it looks like things are nearly starting over. Those moments are adding angles and details that may matter in the end.

But we want to know the direction ahead of time, and truthfully I’d rather avoid those moments when the clay gets smooshed almost back to the beginning, feeling like we’re starting over with no sense of what shape is coming next.

And while I want to nod my head in solemn agreement with Isaiah, I know that wouldn’t be honest. I’m the one saying, “Hey! Whatever you’re doing, there’s nothing to hold onto! You haven’t given me any handles!”

And that’s the trouble for us, at least often for me. When we are being shaped and molded into something new, there are no handles, there isn’t necessarily anything to hold on to, nothing to make us feel like we are in control, and often we haven’t even gotten a glimpse of the vision for the final product.

It is a grand design, no doubt, God’s work in us, but it is not our design. We are neither the architect or the foreman, merely the clay. And the clay has very little say in the outcome or the process. I don’t think we’re very good at being clay. I’m not.

The NLT translation phrases the verse this way

“What sorrow awaits those who argue with their Creator. Does a clay pot argue with its maker? Does the clay dispute with the one who shapes it, saying, “Stop, you’re doing it wrong!” Does the pot exclaim, “How clumsy can you be?” Isaiah 45:9 NLT

I kind of like the sarcastic tone of this one :-)   But God’s work in us often does feel clumsy. Probably because we’re fighting it. Trying to avoid being clay. Even as I attempt to let go and lean into trust, even as my lips form the prayer “make me clay”, I feel my mind resist it. The rational part of me doesn’t really want to give permission to be molded, especially if it means be smooshed back down only to seemingly begin again. Especially if it means a totally different shape than I imagined or planned.

I ask God all the time, “what are you making?”  Sometimes I ask directly, sometimes I raise the question simply by my lack of trust. I’m the one who says to God “your work has no handles!”

Little ones don’t have this problem, I’ve noticed, of needing to hold on.

Take this example. Cara is obsessed with the pool.  One morning I walked into her room at 7:45 am when she woke up.  As soon as she saw me, she stuck her face against the slats of her crib and, with eyes like saucers whispered, “Go pool water???”

Good morning to you too, honey.  No, I haven’t had any coffee yet, thanks for asking.

She’d go to the “pool water” four times a day if I let her. And she’s fearless.

She jumps off the edge constantly.  She’ll come up to the edge where I’m ready to catch her, and then take 3 surprise steps the other way and jump.  She just trusts that I’m there, no matter where she is.  It reminds me of Psalm 139:

If I take the wings of the morning and settle at the farthest limits of the sea, even there your hand shall lead me, and your right hand shall hold me fast.  Psalm 139:9-10

No matter where her unexpected wandering takes her, she trusts that I’m ready to catch her.

After all, she’s used to being held.

Perhaps the point of this verse in Isaiah is that we’re not meant to have handles. We’re not designed to be gripping tightly to plans and predetermined futures. We’re made to be clay in the hands of a loving God who never leaves us.

We’re used to holding on to things, but instead, we’re made to be held. Made to be twisted and turned and wrecked and reworked so that we display the masterpiece of God’s love to world yearning for that kind of beauty

…even though we’re not always that good at being clay.

But it’s really only when we let go of the ways we cling so tightly to our plans and desires and scenarios and dreams of how we think we should turn out, it’s only then that we can step back and start to watch the design unfold. We can let the twists and turns mold and shape and change us in ways that will turn out beautifully.

It’s when we stop looking for handles, those tangible things we can hold onto, be in charge of, only then, that our hands are free and open to receive the gifts of God.

I think that’s this life of faith; learning to jump in; to live with open hands; learning that when there are no handles, we’ll be caught.

Trusting that even when we let go --especially when we let go--

of our plans and designs,  we’ll be held.