Psalm 121

           One time, living in a big city, I stumbled across a little corner park and was immediately bothered by it. A 25 by 25 patch of grass which struck me as out of place. And my vexation wasn't that this plot of conserved ground was only pretending to be a park. Rather, it was that in this confined area there were ten to fifteen homeless men sprawled throughout. Some slept on the grass using their rucksacks as a pillow. Others sat on benches, their eyes blank and gaze fixed on an abyss of nothingness--an abyss I could not see lost in a clamoring metropolis.

As I trotted past, my mind drew a connection between these men and road kill. I imagined these men expired and haphazardly placed within this fake plot of earth, which was itself spitefully nestled amongst this sea of concrete. And they were rotting where they either lay or sat while the flies and birds feasted on their carcasses. It was surreal. Surrounded by boisterous civilization, this oasis of decay existed, frozen like a tarnished spot on a choice piece of china.

Staring the entire time and eliciting no reaction from any one of the men, I felt a tug to approach them and speak with them. But I did not.

I did not stop…because I was afraid—of everything you could possibly fear in a situation like this.

But I went back. Exactly one week later, I returned.

            God was whispering for me to return.

            He gave me courage.

I brought a little food--five granola bars ironically enough--and walked over to the “park.” I sat and talked with three guys for about an hour and a half. And they guys were alive, more than I realized. Their names were Reuben, Gary, and Carl. Reuben was still tripping on something; his speech slow and slurred, his voice high pitched, his eyes darting and boasting the longest fingernails I had ever seen. But when I gave him a granola bar, he ate it slowly. Gary was quiet, always looking at the ground, but always wearing a slightest semblance of a grin on his face; not a mischievous or substance induced grin, but an honest one, as if that was his face’s natural contortion. Carl, who was called “Pops,” was this older man who did most of the talking. He had worked in a factory for twenty years before his company was sold and he lost his job. He had been on the streets the past five. All three had unkempt beards and all three were gracious to me. We talked about where they were from, why they were on the streets, life in the city.

We chatted about the Great Story for a bit. Carl said he was a Christian whose favorite verse was Psalm 121, “I lift my eyes unto the hills. Where does my help come from? My help comes from the Lord, the maker of heaven and earth.” Gary and Reuben only spoke when I asked them questions. Some of the time we just sat in silence, four men, all brothers of the King, in our place of life, whether by our own decisions or our Father’s providential hand--or both.

But we all had in common the shared status of being refugees; victims displaced by this destructive war.

 

One day, we will be complete equals, as was intended.

There will be no more fake parks, no more fake anything!

There will be no pain from lack of job opportunities, or addictive substances, or prideful self-reliance. We will simply sit together at the feast, with trimmed beards, clean fingernails, and whole souls. Our dinner will not comprise of granola bars, but of the choicest of meats, the finest wines, and we will bathe in love, love none of us will have ever deserved.

We sat there and talked, victims of a war, all in various places of life, all equal in our desperate need for grace, and all loved by our Father—part of the Remnant. I left with no resolution, no promise to return, just a firm handshake, a smile from all three, and a parting, “This isn’t the end,” reciprocated in return by a “No it a’int…no it a’int.”

An unspoken agreement by all of us to endure, to stay the course, and to trust in the One who is trustworthy; and that when the war does finally end and the banquet begins, we will save a seat for each other, refugees who finally made it home.

 

“I lift my eyes unto the hills. Where does my help come from? My help comes from the Lord, the maker of heaven and earth.”

Yesterday we stumbled in faithlessness

But today we praise the Lord
The rocks tripped us, our toes bled and were smeared with dust
Our hands were scraped, our faces downcast and eyes sad;
But today! This day! Our Father has cradled us into His living presence
He has poured living water onto our feet and the dust has melted away,
The blood has ceased flowing.
For his blood flows.
Ointments of healing he has spread over our hands
And already they relax and are soothed.
The tears he has wiped from our eyes
And turned our gaze onto His glowing face
‘Come know me,’ he says. ‘Come bathe in my love. Come be healed.’
The rocks are gone, we are in green pasturelands.
A simple brook of laughing water flows past
And skies so blue, no more gray.
Today we will praise the Lord!
This day we will sing of His goodness!
Who is like you my Father?
Who heals as you do?
I will fall onto my smooth knees in the warm grass
And I will toss wide my hands, for this heart cannot express gratitude enough.
It lifts its head toward You!
For it has found its purpose in You!
And we will sit with joy on our lips and astonishment in our hearts.
For what God is like you; so living, so humble, so quick to forgive, quick to love.
No God, Father. There are none like You.
 
Yesterday I thought you could never love me again…
But today, I kiss your feet as you kiss my head
For you love us far more than we can ever love you;
Far more than any distance we could ever run away from you.
Yesterday, I was walking toward myself, toward death,
Today, You have touched me and I am alive.