Friday Freelance: FLICKER

This week's unseasonably cool weather was a blessing as we traveled 1300 miles from Colorado to Michigan without air conditioning on Monday. The continued chill now gives me cause to eye the wood stove. But I can't bring myself to start an indoor fire in June.

Days like these in spring or autumn bring me to stir the coals in search of a glowing flicker of the previous night's fire. I don't want to clean out the whole stove and start a big fire. I just need a few embers to ignite enough flame to take the chill off—not unlike other situations in life which sometimes need just a flicker of light.

I asked all of you for prayer last week before I attempted to contact my brother John. Previous phone calls to him have gone unanswered and voice mails unreturned, so I planned to catch him unannounced at his local haunt while I visited Colorado. My only expectation was to convey my love. I was disappointed when he failed to show up.

Encouraged by a friend's persuasion, I mustered the courage to phone John. He answered. I told him of my attempt to contact him because I love and miss him. He told me why I shouldn't bother and hung up.

I contented myself with the knowledge that he'd indeed heard my expression of love, grateful to the Lord for that opportunity. But God wasn't done for the day. A few moments later, John called me back.

He talked. I listened. He told me he has another family now, I shouldn't try to reconcile him to our family, and he didn't plan to talk to me again. I said my call wasn't to attempt reconciliation, but only so he'd know of my love for him. He heard that no matter what he says or does, he'll always be my brother, and I'll always love him. The second call ended with quiet good-byes.

My deep gratitude goes to all the people who prayed. The Lord is gracious to answer those prayers and provide a flicker of hope that my brother and I might speak again.

There are other times when it would be easier not to search for any flicker. It seems less painful to allow hope to die rather than face disappointment. But this incorrigible optimist really can't help herself. I'll embrace whatever pain comes mingled with a flicker of hope that holds promise of joy.

Last week provided yet another bittersweet flicker of light. Saturday morning I attended worship with the Messianic congregation I consider my home away from home. Worship is already plenty emotional for me, and I usually can’t make it through singing without something between moist eyes and tears streaming down my cheeks. Watching Messianic dancers worship is sure to get me.

I'll rabbit trail here to share something of myself not well known. (Numerous other bloggers have been doing so this week, so I suppose I'm in good company.) I first observed worship dance some fifteen or so years ago. One of the deepest longings of my heart ever since has been to worship the Lord in corporate dance. A few times a door cracked open, providing a flicker of hope that I might. So far, the Lord has not fully opened that door. I content myself with the prayer, "Lord, please put me on heaven's dance team. I'll wait."

Back to last Saturday. The shofar had hardly sounded, the music barely started, when the worship leader’s words went straight to my heart from God. And then the dance began. So did my inevitable tears.

And something different happened this time. When the string of dancers passed me, I held out a hand. It was immediately grasped and I was pulled into their midst (though I’d not practiced with them and was unfamiliar with their choreography). So I lifted my worship and praise in dance, heart's love for God compensating for less than perfect execution.

In the dance, a flicker of heaven's light and joy blazed brightly for a few moments. That small blaze was enough to keep alive a flicker of hope—a flicker which must be enough for now.

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