Poured Out

The steps of a man are established by the Lord, when he delights in his way; though he fall, he shall not be cast headlong, for the Lord upholds his hand.  — Psalm 37:23-24

I am just fried, and it is my own fault.  For decades, I have worked out at night.  One night in January of 1991, I was upset, and my wife said, "Why don't you go run around the block or something?"  I went out and ran a mile then collapsed in a wheezing, quivering gelatinous heap in my driveway where I remained, under the big and bright stars deep in the heart of Texas, until I could crawl back into the garage.  It became a habit.  The last couple of days I have been working out in the morning.  I spent the weekend cooped up in the house inhaling paint fumes as I repainted the laundry room and one of the small bedrooms we never use.  Last week was busy.  I have stuff that needs to be done, like, right now, and I don't feel like doing it.  I wonder if the CDC keeps track of the mortality rate from Spring Fever?

So, as I am stumbling along through the day, I might want to ask myself what it means to "delight" in God's way.  Does it mean I have to be happy about all the stuff that is going on in the world?  Does it mean I need to pull everything in and live in a contemplative bubble?  Does it mean that I have to be on "a mission from God"? 

My daughter-in-law sent a picture of our grandson who is soon to be nine.  There was about two feet of snow at their place — much worse than we had here.  It was cold.  She wanted to make something and needed mushroom soup but had forgotten to buy any, so she called her parents who live about a quarter mile down the road.  Her dad got in the car and drove up with the can of Campbell's.  She told her son to run out and get the soup so Grandpa wouldn't risk falling down.  Apparently the boy was in the middle of changing clothes, so, dressed only in drawers and snow boots, he ran out to retrieve the soup.  She took a picture of the kid grinning crazily, nearly naked in hip-deep snow and sub-freezing temperatures.  

I think that is delight.  I was delighted.  It was something as goofy as his father would have done — or might still do.  It didn't make a whole lot of sense, but it worked out.  If there is no joy, no excessive exuberance in my following Christ, I am probably doing something wrong.  I think of the woman who broke open her alabaster jar of perfume and anointed Jesus at Bethany.  It was wasteful, and beautiful.  There is a poignant and rapturous pleasure in pouring out all that we have, in reaching the point where we have nothing left and seeing what will happen.  We may not be able to do it all the time, but what great happiness pours in as we pour out.  What liberty there is in emptiness and brokenness when it is for Christ's sake.  We never lose what we give to Him and for Him. 

In fact, if we feel that we have lost something, if something has slipped away from us, we can turn it from grief and loss to joy by offering it willingly to the Lord.  Our pain and suffering can be our freewill sacrifice to honor and exalt Him.  It really is up to us, how we choose to react.  You know, we may not be able to do it right at the time it happens or even soon after.  The wound may be too deep for us.  We may have to struggle for a while to find our perspective.  But it doesn't matter if it happened years ago, we can turn around now, today, and offer the hurt and loss to Him and let God give us beauty for ashes, the oil of joy for mourning, and a garment of praise in place of the heaviness that has burdened us.  Isaiah says that if we will do that, not only will we be lifted up, but we will become like oak trees in strength and straightness — trees of righteousness. 

Seems like a reasonable trade.