The evening service at my church recently focused on the Junior Camp that my church had put on the previous week. The service provided a place for campers and counselors to share songs and memories. I can't tell you how gross I felt inside as I witnessed the service, the memories. You see, this was the first year in a long time that I couldn't go. I've gone since I was going into the 5th grade, and last year, I officially "graduated." I can't even express to you how awful part of this week was. I felt like I was SUPPOSE to be there, but I couldn't be. Camp was the week set apart. It was a time where I could get away from the stereotypical danae kids see at school. I could relax and love and laugh and breathe deeply and live deeply. It was a time where I could meet Jesus again. Where I could see His fingerprints on thick bark of strong, towering trees and in the lives of speakers. It was where I could be "athletic," where I could try my best, and it would be good enough. It was a place I was admired and loved. It was, well . . . set apart. It was a place for revival.
I think another reason it's so hard is partly the fact that I've really seen some beautiful revival in the lives of some of my friends, and I figure that if I could have only went to camp . . . maybe that same revival would stir within me. It seems as if my friends' souls have been whirled and stirred so intensely by the Spirit of God. And me? Well, the Spirit's wind has felt oh so silent lately. Quiet. Vacant. I've tried to lay down on the dirt and blow the dust, hoping to stir within me some "revival," something to prove that God's still active within me, that I'm real. Not a fake. But the dust is thick. Stubborn. Still. Jesus, where are you? You promised You'd never leave, and I believe You. but I'm struggling with this barren dirt. This dry, desolate wasteland within my soul. Where's the windstorm? Where's the hurricane? Where's the proof that I'm still important? That I'm still on Your team? And then? Then, I lay my face down on the dust. My tears seep through the earth. My ear is suctioned against the specks of ground. And then I remember. The Whisper. It wasn't in fire or storm or fury that God spoke to Elijah. It was in . . . a whisper. Oh Jesus, I'm waiting for Your whisper. I'm waiting for the rain to soak this thirsty ground. Please, please reach down Your hand. I .. . . trust . . . You.
I am a traveler. Sometimes the paths get dusty and the soul gets weary. Do you know what I'm talking about? But I KNOW what's gotta be on the other side of this. So I trek on. I wait for that whisper. It's gotta be coming. It will. One of my friends gave me a reference to Deuteronomy 8 lately, and one of the verses there talks about how God made the Israelites hungry so He could feed them manna. Interesting thought, huh? . . . that sometimes God makes us hungry so He can feed us and feed us what we need too.
Well, I hope your day is beautiful. :) Keep your ear to the ground, and You'll hear God's steps and His whisper.
just Simply Danae