Thanks Giving

Washing machine scraped out final words. Men came to wheel it away and I miss it. Moody as it was. I miss the swish dance while it hummed loud. Happy. And the bam, slam tantrums while it flung clothes around. Unbalanced. And the weekly shimmy-shake thud walk across the linoleum floor. I kept the door open not to invite a walk down the hall, but to block it in. Too many times it stomped cantankerous behind the door and locked me out!

It didn’t want to go. I know by the rusty grip it had at spigot. Two men, a wrench, and WD-40 before it relinquished. Oh. And prayer. Because it threatened to dare involving a plumber. It had cleaned out enough pockets. No plumber.

I watched the burly men pry its rusty fingers wringed around spigot. And I related. Hose is artery. Hose is pump to heart. No hose, no life. Even when the power cord is plugged in. And as my soul has fingers, and it does, I relate to the frozen grip on spigot. Source of life water. The Living Water.

 

I will not release grip. No more than David’s mighty men could release their swords. I hear it said that their hands were frozen to their swords.

Fiercely held. So long. In battle.

And when the ground was soaked with the drunken blood of enemy armies and with the wine of the wrath of God poured out full strength; and when all were slain at their feet and strewn across battlefield; still they stood. Grip on sword.

I have taken the Sword in hand. Wrapped soul fingers at hilt because there is no other way. Years clamped, morning knees hours cramped, and Sword at ready. Hand frozen to Sword.

I don’t imagine David’s men ever let go. Just learned a new hold once the field was cleared.  A victory hold. A “Be-hold! Glory to God!” hold. A hold on thanks giving and beholden to God worship.

Did they look long and even down length of sword? Red. From tip down blade to hilt?

 

 

 

Glory Sword

 

 

 

 

I know I have. Even study down lengthy Sword. Sharp Word. Pointed scriptures. Meant to pierce and divide soul and spirit, joints and marrow, thoughts and intents of the heart.

 

The soul can bleed red. And I find myself braver in battle than in trusting the battle is over. And it’s hard to learn a new hold. Hard to give thanks when I’m still half expecting to thrust the Sword again on this field. It takes time and God is in no hurry.

He is proving His Word true.

“Is it true?” My knees are cramping in warrior stance and the Sword is before me. Ready.

“I promise rest. Enter My rest.” He loosens my grip.

“I can’t!” Pause…. “But how?” Soul fingers release a wee bit.

“Come to the throne of grace and find grace.”

“Grace?” Fingers are tingling blood flow. Soul is feeling…what? Trust?

“Grace. I will do what you can’t. I know how.”

(A Hebrews 4:1,11,16 conversation)

 

Salt water seeps out ‘neath lashes. Warrior shout and victory call cries from trembling lips. Salt water washes over lashes. Soul wounds. And heals. Salt water weeps over Sword. His hand is over my hand. Our hands are wet together and His hand turns mine.

I’m holding Sword at new angle. Broad face blade to God face bright. I look at our hands together.

"Thank You. Thank You!” And trust starts breathing.

The Sword in hand is long. Very long. It reaches beyond all the over six-foot tall years. And to look at it is like looking straight into the sun. Eyes tear and everywhere is sun spot. Son light. Glory.

And what is glory, really? It’s more than I can wholly grasp. But let the holy grasp me.

“Adoring praise or worshipful thanksgiving,” is one definition.

(World English Dictionary)

 

God must have a can of WD-40. He’s turned my soul at wrist just so broad side of Sword blade blazes thanksgiving. I hold it, True-Word-of-God Sword raised over my head. And for me this Sword in hand blazing praise; blazing worship; blazing thanksgiving to God is also my “Amen.” Because I know that “Amen” finds its root in “aman,” Hebrew verb for truth. And truth, I read, is a compound word in Greek, “a-lethei,” meaning not-forgotten.

Thanksgiving is my “not forgotten.” My “remember truth.”  My active “Amen.”

I know no other way toward “believe and trust and at the same time hope” pisteuo.

I’m a bit like that old washing machine. Happy, unbalanced, and gripping hard at spigot with trust issues.

 

But this morning I am filled with thanksgiving.

 

I hear my morning girl in the kitchen. No doubt pouring a cup of the coffee I brewed. And sitting at my place at table. And, yes, there she is. I hug good mornings. She sips and I pour out “Happy Thanksgiving!”

 

She looks at me odd. My German looks at me knowingly. He knows me. I’m not good at dates. No good with the calendar.

Oh, I know today is Thanksgiving Day...

but that was yesterday!

 

written by: Carolyn Roehrig