Sunday, August 14, 2016
Weave Me Holy
His thoughts, He laces them under, pulls them over, and laces them back under the thoughts which thread across my heart.
Light laces across leaves overhead, breeze pulls over them and leafy shadows two-step a rhythm, gentle across the lawn.
Me? I'm waiting for the breakfast egg casserole I slid into the oven this morning. I'll pull it out in thirty-five minutes. In the meantime, somehow over the years I've learned to balance a cupful of coffee, a dog biscuit and brush in my right hand; my Bible, journal, and iPhone in my left, and to open the patio door with my pinky finger and knee.
I write down my thoughts. They shift to prayer sifted by the Light till I glimpse His thoughts.
His thoughts are as fine strands of pure gold and purple.
Mine are woolly rough.
He is King with royal heart, and Servant weaving the thoughts of His heart through the thoughts of mine.
I am sheep; and this is how I picture the weave.
Sometimes I forget that God's primary goal isn't to change my circumstances to make me happy, but is to change me to make me holy.
So He weaves; and I feel the tension pull at the rough and thready warp. It's as if my heart's been pre-strung on some loom in preparation for weaving.
I don't wonder what He's weaving, not really. What I wonder is what it'll look like.
How will my heart wear His holy?
What will the fabric of my life look like as my thoughts are taken up by His?
When they're strengthened?
Interlaced with His heart?
"Renew my mind," I pray as He weaves.
"Do not be conformed to this world" He keeps weaving, "but be transformed by the renewing of your mind."
"Then transform me, Lord!" I know I need the Weaver's grace to do it-because I can't.
I tend to let the thoughts of others pull mine too hard.Yeah, I'm a people-pleaser in rehab. I've come a long way and am learning to think things like, "I'm not responsible for others' choices," and "As for me, I will serve the Lord-" and mean it because there's this thing I'm hearing in my heart which sounds like rejoicing.
"Are You humming joy as You interlace my heart with Yours?" I know this is what I'm hearing.
"Mm-hmm," He replies happily.
I begin to hum, too. I can't help it. When He weaves, He strums the strings of my heart as He'd strum a harp, and I suspect that the loom-whatever my heart is tied to-will vibrate till He lifts me from it, transformed.
Strands of pure gold runs through sheep wool, and He keeps weaving and humming things like,
"I direct the ways which your heart plans," from Proverbs 16:9.
Purple strands take up wooly thoughts like that.
I turn there in my Bible, and read the words.
"Ah, Lord! This is Your journal!" Isn't reading His holy word, reading holy journalings? Holy script, from Holy Spirit, from holy heart?
It must be. I'm certain, it is.
I weave my pen; loop my letters over the pages of my own journal.
I read in the next verse about what is on the lips of my King- about the purity of what comes from His mouth. About His honesty.
"Righteous lips are My delight, and I love him who speaks what is right." It's written in Proverbs 9:13, and the weft of His own thoughts weave across the warp of mine
I lift my pen to my own journal page, "May I speak what is right."
I'm thinking that Proverbs 16:9 isn't only about the redirection of the plans of my heart, but it's also about the sovereign establishment of my steps toward the fulfillment of the plans of my heart.
If I'm being transformed by the renewing of my mind-and I am-then my heart will rejoice in the heart of my God. The plans of my heart will reflect that.
He's weaving me as He wove me to be. Only God can interlace time like that.
He's humming joy and I'm learning to hum it, too.
He's changing me.
He's changing the way I step through life's circumstances, and changing the sound I make as I do it.
"Your heart's just dancing across mine!" I feel it.
His fine gold and purple twirl through my wool as we trip the light together in some wonderful two-step.
In sync with Him and His hum, this is how He weaves holy.
Breakfast is ready.
written by: Carolyn-Elizabeth Roehrig