In His Hands

One of our pastors, Kevin, preached a beautiful sermon this past Sunday and he left me with a lot to chew on. He preached from Isaiah 35:1-10, a prophecy about Jesus. It was a beautiful sermon, filled with hope and promise, but something he said sent my mind back to our day in the Grand Canyon.

Here are the verses I’d like to focus on from that passage, 1and 3-4a

“The desert and the parched land will be glad, the wilderness will rejoice and blossom… Strengthen the feeble hands, steady the knees that give way; say to those with fearful hearts, ‘Be strong, do not fear; your God will come.”

He explained to us that the metaphor of the desert is referring to isolation, anguish and suffering. And immediately my thoughts jumped to the climb out of the Grand Canyon. I wrote about it in the post, Into the Canyon, part 2.

It occurred to me that’s how I felt, physically, climbing out of the canyon, my hands were feeble, my knees gave way and once in a while, my heart was fearful and it is often how I feel when something happens that knocks me into a spiritual or emotional canyon.

I don’t understand the mind or heart, but the things that can knock me off of those canyon walls can be something tragic and significant, or it can be something small that seems to come from nowhere. But the outcome is the same, I have a choice when that happens… I can wallow in the canyon and fight the climb with all of my being, or after I catch my breath, I can reach for my Abba Father’s hand and let Him lead me out of the canyon again, one step at a time.

Can I just say though, sometimes I want to wallow… I want to be angry, I want to complain, I don’t want to let it go. For some ridiculous reason misery seems more appealing than a return to joy and gladness. But what I love about this passage so much, that our pastor pointed out, is the statement, “your God will come.” Our God will meet us right where we are, in the desert, in the canyon, in whatever state we find ourselves in, no matter what the reason is. 

I remember when our children were young, every once in a while, they would have a tantrum. Whatever was going on, in their little hearts and minds, was just too much to cope with at the moment and it came out in a burst of emotion. I remember the pediatrician told me once, “Hold them gently and just keep whispering, ‘I love you.’” That’s what I imagine my Abba Father is doing when I’m having a spiritual tantrum, on the floor of the canyon. He is so patient and gentle with me. And after a time, I find myself ready to take His hand and climb out of the canyon.

But don’t miss the idea of climbing… it’s a word that brings to mind intention, work, effort, sometimes pain and sometimes fear and it also demands a choice, to either climb or not to climb. I know often, on a hike, I look at the climb in front of me and everything in me screams, “I don’t want to.” But I’m always so glad when I finish the climb.

And a looming spiritual or emotional climb can be the same way. Under my watch band is a tattoo that says, “In His Hands,” and it reminds me that all I have to do is reach for His hand and He will lead me out. He won’t rush me, He will just walk with me, and my job is to simply hold His hand tightly and take the next step. And along the way, He doesn’t even mind if I need to complain, fight the climb or even rest for a minute. He'd rather me bring all of that to Him rather than stuff it or numb it. He is with me all of the way. And the most beautiful thing of all, when I finally emerge from the canyon, no matter how long it took, somewhere along the way, He has healed my heart, pushed out the yuck and filled it again with joy and gladness.

If you’d like to hear the entire sermon, here is a link, if you listen to it, you will find that this post is inspired by his sermon. https://www.youtube.com/live/WAUd7xqengk?si=VdFuKV68aY_eCoID

In this picture, you can see the trail weaving through the canyon. The closest building, sitting on the edge was only 1.5 miles up, we had 3 more mile to go after this. 3 more miles of relentless, uneven steps, some as high as my knees.