Soul-glow: plodding through the Psalms

April is here. It’s cooler, and the afternoon sun is milder. I’m making breads and soups and I’ve pulled out the wooly throws for the couch to tuck my feet under.
The suddenly crisp mornings have me reaching for knits and socks that have been tucked away since last year.
The sun takes longer to rise, and my first sip of coffee is had in the grey dark, with my bedside lamp as the only illumination.
That, and the Word of God.
The Psalms have been lighting my path these days.
I’m suddenly carrying a lot of emotion. We all are.
We’ve found ourselves in the middle of a continuing outward crisis. Our lives have changed—our kids are home, we’ve lost jobs and holidays and the ability to visit family and friends. Our communities of faith are online, and our worship is hands outstretched awkwardly in our living rooms, a chorus of voices missing.
And it’s a lot. It’s a lot to carry, and we’re carrying it and moving forward and teaching our kids, and cleaning our homes and working remotely, and amen-ing to sermons from our laptops.
I’m here knuckles-deep in bread dough and unrolling a yoga mat and finding ways to ground my heels into a ground that’s shifting.

And in this rocking, surging uncertainty, the Psalms are steadying and sure.
Their writers show us how to ride the highs and lows of tides of emotions, and reveal a God that is constant in the midst.
You will answer me God, I know you always will. (Psalm 17:6)
You’ll answer me when I’m overwhelmed by a uni assignment.
You’ll answer me when I’m missing my friend.
You’ll answer me when I brace myself to glance at our bank account.
Protect me from harm; keep an eye on me like you would a child reflected in the twinkling of your eye. Yes, hide me within the shelter of your embrace, under your outstretched wings. (Psalm 17:8)
This comfort, to know as we carry weight, and carry on that His eye is on us.
You will answer me God, I know you always will. Maybe not in this moment when I ask, maybe not tomorrow. But we’re held in the twinkle of His eye; He sees and hears and knows and there’s the embrace to wrap us in when it’s all too much, and we can hide right there for as long as we need.
So we plod towards Good Friday, our Lenten journeys near the end and the palms of Sunday trampled and losing their green. The mild April sun casting its glow, and our glowing souls in the knowing that the King still comes in the midst of uncertainty: you will answer me God, I know you always will.

xx

* Committing to sharing my journaled thoughts here each day this week, and writing that here for accountability.