The Wet Hands of Time
Hidden within the plush forest near Big Sky, Montana, is a striking feature of nature called Ousel Falls. Cascading about 30 feet into a basin of gorgeous rock made smooth by the wet hands of time, it is a place that both captivates and refreshes. It is also a great place for skipping smooth stones across the placid waters below the falls, much to the delight of my girls and any others who are watching.
Such is the image on my mind as I reflect on my own spiritual life. Not the delight of people, mind you, but the skipping of the rocks. I am like a smooth stone skipping along the surface of something deep, mysterious, and inviting. With little splashes the rock moves wildly along, erratic, barely touching the water. Of course, at some point the stone gives up its journey, succumbing to the draw of the deep. But let us not go that far or my illustration will break down.
I am just thinking about the skippy, surface part.
Skipping from One Spot to Another
Often the product of whim and chance, skipping from one spot to another is a telling portrait of my soul. With little discipline I move erratically with the Lord, landing here and there, wobbly and out-of-control. My routine is random, carved by chance instead of true decision, and I con myself into believing by touching the top I am engaging what is deep. Yet engagement is superficial at best, and then, after skipping along, I wonder why I am so disconnected from the Master.
Out of touch with His heart.
Shallow.
Resting at the Botton of the Ancient Pools
It is because whim and chance drive me. I glide past the invitation to sink into the rich waters of the Scriptures, where hearing the whisper of the Spirit is as prevalent as the roar of Ousel Falls, and where my whole being can be refreshed by the coolness of the ever-present Jesus. To rest on the bottom of the ancient pools, still and silent, is a privilege dismissed. Skipping along feels more exciting. Such requires little of me, for when I skip I do not get attached to things taking me deep where the pressure transforms and softens. Skipping is freedom, I think. Except there really is no freedom for the stone. It is held hostage, after all, to the elements as it meanders across the surface.
O to sink and remain still and silent, embodying the vision of Psalm 46:10, where I am made beautiful under the pressure Majesty’s weight.