The Shadow of Your Wings

A few weeks ago our pastor told a story about a young American soldier in Iraq. The tank he was driving tracked over an IED. The other men in his unit watched in horror as the vehicle burst into flames. When they were finally able to approach every heart ached with the certain knowledge of what they would find - when suddenly they heard the screeching of the hatch being opened from the inside. All eyes on the blackened husk of the tank each man held his breath, more from fear than the smoky fume. Slowly the hatch rose, flipped, and a hand emerged holding a small, camo covered Bible high. One soldier’s testament to the mighty God he served.

As Pastor shared this story I noticed the shoulders of the man in front of me begin to quiver, then shake uncontrollably as he wept. He, I knew, was a Gulf War vet. A member of an Armored Division - a tank driver. He’d seen too much. Too many mighty machines of war become tombs for his fellow soldiers, his friends.

This early Memorial Day morning I am trying to be quiet. My husband sleeps peacefully. He has the day off. He deserves this day off. He is a veteran of 2 tours in VietNam, 23 years of military service. He, too, has seen too much. Memorial Day, for him, isn’t pleasant. It causes him to remember things he’d rather forget. Not the men, or the camaraderie, but the loss of those friends on the battlefield. It’s difficult for him to separate the two - memorializing the living men he knew, often laughing, often frightened and the terrible memory of their deaths.

To most of us this is a day to celebrate a day off work, our freedom. It is a blessing for the majority of us to think of it that way. We might breathe a word of thanks on behalf of those who have ensured that freedom for us as we pack up the picnic baskets and load the coolers and head for the lake. Many, sadly, won’t give it a thought. Too few of us really consider the cost of our “Monday holiday.”

To those who do - the soldiers fighting even now, the families who wait, pray, hope - I thank and bless you, as I pray and hope with you.

To those who have survived the battles, I salute you. May you know, this Memorial Day, that you are remembered, and honored along with your fallen comrades. Thank you for your courage and your willingness to defend this country and freedom.

In memory of those who fought to their death to procure freedom for this and other nations, I am humbled and grateful. To their families - I weep with you, and pray for you as you bear the sorrow of the “ultimate sacrifice.”

May our lives be worthy of the sacrifice.

"Now thanks be to God who always leads us in triumph in Christ, and through us diffuses the fragrance of His knowledge in every place. For we are to God the fragrance of Christ among those who are being saved and among those who are perishing." 2 Cor 2:14,15 NKJ

“Through us, He brings knowledge of Christ. Everywhere we go, people breathe in the exquisite fragrance. Because of Christ, we give off a sweet scent rising to God, which is recognized by those on the way of salvation - an aroma redolent with life.” The Message

A rose blooms in my garden that is “exquisite” in fragrance. The mutabilis, so named for its habit of mutating color as the blossom matures, is not the most lovely of roses. It is a shrubby plant, its flower a simple, flat, five petaled bloom without the delicate shell-like curve and curl of a florist’s rose. But the colors, which range from a butter cream yellow to a golden marmalade and bright pink to deep magenta, have the rich intensity of any jewel; and the fragrance … ahhh. The scent is that of peppered honey- sharp, exciting, warm, seductive.

I spent the early part of this morning plucking the spent flowerheads from my little plant, praying as I worked; asking the Lord to come into the garden of my life, to prune and pinch back, that I might be the delight to Him that this sweet rose is to me.

The morning progressed, with its attendant chores - weeds to pull, dishes to be washed, laundry to gather, wash, and hang. Working my way ‘round to the barnyard I gave the goats a hug and a scratch, tossed some hay, gathered eggs. Several hours later I took a moment to be still before God. It was then that I noticed the scent of the mutabilis still clung to my fingertips. As I breathed in the unmistakable perfume I was amazed to realize that it had not faded. Throughout the busyness of my day that sweet fragrance had stayed with me, the beauty of that early moment in His presence was upon me, “an aroma redolent with life.”

Do you remember playing on the teeter totter (seesaw) as a child? Your tummy dropping on the up, hair flying on the down. It was exhilarating. Until, that is, someone decided it was more fun to jump off while you were on the upside and let you fall, hard, to the ground; or your teetermate was a bigger than you and laughed (wickedly) as she leaned back and kept you dangling in the air. My squeals were most assuredly not of delight at those moments! The whole point of the teeter totter, I thought, was to share your up and down time, to learn to work together, to find a balance so that both could enjoy the ride. Do you girls remember watching the boys seesaw? How they would try to throw one another off by shooting up too fast, intentionally thudding the other into the ground. Girls can be mean, but boys play rough. Maybe it’s their nature.

I’ve been praying for two “boys” who have been getting a little rough with one another. They’re scaring all the other kids on the playground. I’ve been watching them try to buck each other off the seats, and as long as they aren’t hurting each other or the other kids I guess I should just stay out of it. But in prayer a few days ago I began to “see” their back and forth in light of the teeter totter and I began to pray for the Lord to intervene. I “saw” Jesus stride across the playground and calmly place first one foot, then the other in the center of the teeter totter. Standing there, atop the midpoint, He easily gained control of the plank until He held it in perfect balance, and there, from His position at the center He looked at each boy. There was no anger in His glance, no judgment, just a kind but firm “Now, boys,” sort of look. What struck me most was realizing that when He stood at the center the boys, in order to see each other, had to look through Him.

There will always be times when we don’t play well together. When our ideas of “fun,” or how we think the game should be played differ. But this is not a game. The “boys” are both mature men of God and the plank upon which they “play” is the cross. On the one side, sola gratia holds fast, on the other, sola scriptura; but at the very center beats the heart of Christ, without which there can be no balance. Both “hands” nailed as a part of the one Body. Solus Christus.

May we never forget we are of that One.

Soli Deo Gloria ~ to the glory of God alone!