‘tis music in the sinner’s ears; ‘tis life and health and
peace.
He speaks, and listening to His voice, new life the dead
receive;
the mournful broken hearts rejoice, the humble poor
believe.
---Charles Wesley, 1739
I don’t like admitting it. It doesn’t make me proud, isn’t
the sort of admission that I’d want engraved on a plaque or cross-stitched on a
pillow. But because I don’t like it doesn’t make it any less true: I’ve been
battling the way of the world lately, and the world is winning. I mean, I am
beat. If you are not seeing the scars, it
must be because I’m dressing right. I am just weary and worn with the meanness
that seems to be around every corner, waiting to pounce on the weak or
unsuspecting. And the weariness feels cumulative and exponential, building on
itself like a runaway snowball (children, remind me to tell you about
‘snowballs’ from the good old days).
In my weariness, it is so easy to forget. To forget to
listen for the voice that is always whispering life into the stillness. To
forget to listen for the presence that is always calling into the absence. To
forget to listen for the joy that is always singing into the despair. To forget
to listen for the voice of my brother Savior speaking wholeness into my
brokenness.
But, oh. When I
remember. The mournful, broken hearts rejoice…
