In safe hands

When you were growing up, did you ever tell others what you thought you might become later in life? Some of us seem to know from early on, don’t we? I suspect my older sister knew soon after starting school herself that she wanted to be a teacher. I still have a memory of being her ‘pretend class’ as I sat obediently on our back steps while she stood in front of me and ‘taught’!

Recently, our ten-year-old granddaughter looked up at me with her big, brown eyes and announced, ‘Nanna, I want to be like you when I get older!’

‘What do you mean?’ I asked her, thinking she might be referring to something I do or say as we spend time together.

‘I’m going to be an author like you,’ she said firmly, ‘because I write really loooooong stories!’’

I swallowed hard, thinking how much more it takes to produce a book than the ability to write long stories, but decided not to discourage her in any way. ‘That’s wonderful!’ I told her.

‘’Yes, I’m going to be an author and an illustrator!’ she added then, obviously very satisfied with her decision.

Who was I to dampen her heart’s desire at that point? I know Maxine has a wonderful imagination and an amazing ability to think up interesting scenarios. And she is definitely a much more talented artist than I will ever be. Maybe she will become a famous author and illustrator – but my heart went out to her as I envisaged the many discouragements she would most likely face along the way in tackling such literary endeavours. So, in that moment, I prayed she would know God’s presence beside her and in her, whatever twists and turns her life journey might take.

None of us knows exactly what lies ahead of us in life, do we? If we did, we might want to skip some of the more difficult parts altogether or at least reach the better parts sooner. I do not remember it but, apparently, I stated in our school magazine in my late teens that I wanted to become a writer. That is indeed what happened – but not until my middle fifties. Instead, I believe God guided me through various other occupations and many wonderful but also challenging experiences in my life that have hopefully served to add much more depth to my writing. But in the process, I also discovered that, however hard things are, God can always be trusted to watch over us and hold us close.

King David certainly went through many extreme ups and downs in his life. In Psalm 31, he does not leave us in any doubt as to how distressed he is at that point. He is in anguish, grief-stricken and weak, to the extent that he feels ‘like broken pottery’(12). As well, his friends and neighbours flee from him in contempt and his very life is in danger. Yet, in the midst of it all, he writes:

But I trust in you, Lord;
    I say, ‘You are my God.’
My times are in your hands. Psalm 31:14–15a

Today, those hands are there for us too, whatever stage of life we are at – and they are indeed the safest hands imaginable because they belong to our loving, powerful Lord.

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A picture is worth a thousand words

Now how could I as an author ever agree with that? Words are so important and …well, so necessary. Besides, a thousand words aren’t very many when all is said and done. Even ten thousand, which I’ve also heard used in this saying, would be only around a tenth of the number in one of my novels. No big deal.

Yet even I can’t deny a picture has the power to hold one spellbound in a moment. In fact, I experienced it myself only this past Sunday at our church. As I went to sit down and turn my mind to the service about to begin, I noticed a beautiful scene at the front of the chapel. It was very simple—but oh so powerful.

What I saw was a large, wooden cross, with one end of some heavy, deep red material draped around it and the rest left to flow down from the arms of the cross towards a wooden bench below. On the bench was a large, earthenware pot, glowing warmly in the sunlight that filtered down from a skylight above. But this pot was broken, with only half of it remaining upright on its base. The shattered pieces were still there, some half in place, others lying at crazy angles nearby. And behind one of these pieces, at the centre of that broken pot, I could see a lighted candle.

My gaze travelled down from the broken piece of pottery then to the communion table below. In the centre of the table was a shiny, silver goblet filled with red juice and beside it, a round loaf of bread.

No words were needed. Already, with Easter approaching, I had been feeling that familiar, gentle melancholy that seems to creep over me each time Good Friday approaches. Yes, the celebration of the resurrection would come, I knew—but until then, I wanted to remain in that place of remembering Jesus, the Son of God, who loved me and gave himself for me.

So I sat and reflected and became aware of great thankfulness rising up in me. Humbly, I identified with that broken pot at the base of the cross. Painfully, I remembered how Jesus’ blood flowed down from that cross straight into my heart, cleansing me and setting me free. And I rejoiced too that, like the candle flame flickering behind that shard of pottery, God’s Spirit is now alive in me, comforting, encouraging, illuminating my way.

We were invited to celebrate communion—to walk up to that table, tear off a piece of that perfect loaf and dip it in the goblet. I watched as, one by one, people came forward reverently, reached out and remembered yet again with gratitude that most amazing sacrifice of all. I soon joined them, Jesus’ own words ringing in my ears:

This is my body given for you; do this in remembrance of me. …

This cup is the new covenant in my blood, which is poured out for you. (Luke 22:19–20)

This Easter, may you too see the cross with fresh eyes and be amazed, humbled and renewed all over again. Yes, the picture I saw was worth a thousand words–more than a thousand words.

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