Eyes Turned Heavenward

I look heavenward, and there He stands—eyes glowing: blue and red and blue—deep, deep blue. They glisten and gleam with His love. I look into them and I melt. They are so piercing, so inviting, so warm. I step into them, and I’m in His presence.

I look heavenward and there are His Hands, reaching out to me. Those Hands—so big and warm and comforting and all-consuming. My hands slip easily into His and I feel so sure and secure.

I look heavenward and I see that love, poured out on me in overwhelming mercy and grace. I look up and I see Him, smiling down on me, His Bride. Though I have not seen Him or heard Him or touched Him, I have. I know Him. My heart knows Him well.

He is from another land. I must get there. But how? How am I to be with Him when I’m stuck down here in this little sub-world? How am I to be with Him when everyone around tells me “No, you’re here. Live here,”? It seems to make sense, it does: Living for and of and in this world, but there is something deep within me, this innate desire, that says ‘no, there is more.’ There is so much more.

My thoughts are consumed by this distant Land.

So I take a risk. I jump. I disobey culture to obey this heart’s desire put here by Him. I go and as I jump, I rise. I rise to that other land and it is there that I’ll meet Him. How could I sit here while He’s up there, preparing a place for us? I must go.

 

I set out in this boat on a dark river.

I row and I row and I row. And it hurts and it’s hard and I’m alone, but I fix my eyes Heavenward and I say, “All this for All of Him.” And as I go, rowing through this dark land, little candles float in the water toward me, lighting the way: notes from my King saying “come on, dear one. Keep rowing. You’re almost here.”

And as each candle floats toward me, I am filled with its light and its warmth and the love propelling it forward. My strength is renewed, and that same love propels me forward. I draw out of His love and that’s what moves me forward on this dark river, leading me Heavenward to be with Him.

 

I reach out into the water, brushing the surface as I scoop up that first candle. Attached is a note. I savor every word:

The same power that conquered the grave lives in you. I live in you. Draw out of My strength—it will never run dry.

 

The wind starts to blow, and my arms grow tired. And then I whisper those words “I draw from Your strength, Father.” The winds don’t die, and the waves don’t stop, but I am filled with strength from Above that overcomes every blowing wind and every roaring wave.

I continue rowing, and I grow tired. I grow complacent. I stare down into the dark, dark water—a deep abyss reaching far into the earth, threateningly cold. I shiver. But then, something within me whispers, “look up,” and as I do, I catch a glimpse of a small light, floating towards me. I row towards it, and scoop it up, nearly dropping it and extinguishing its flame in all my haste. I open the letter. It contains two words:

Choose joy.

Really? Choose joy? Father, this life is hard. I am tired. I am sore. I want to go home. In self-pity, I row forward, grumbling to myself. I stare down at that same dark river, flinching as water droplets leap from the surface, coating my arms and my face in cold agony. Those words come back to me: choose joy. I look up into the sky and gasp at the sight: stars strung out across the whole expanse, declaring the Majesty and Love of my Father, who is calling me forward. The water is still cold and dark, and I am still tired and sore, but He is good. He is infinitely good. The Heavens declare His praises—what makes me think that I am exempt from this declaration? So I choose it. I choose joy. I open my mouth and praise flows forth, and as it does, my feelings follow suit. I am smiling and laughing, and my heart is light—quite the paradox: darkness dispelled by light, winds and waves muted by laughter.

So I row forward, smiling and delighting in the Presence and Majesty of my Creator. Coming from the opposite direction, a woman floats by me in a boat. She grumbles and sneers at my joy, attempting to mute my laughter and still my smile. I open my mouth to make a snide remark back, but as I do, another candle floats toward my boat. I open the note, heart pounding in frustration at this woman:

She does not yet know the fullness of My grace—won’t you show her?

My heart pounds, but this time, it pounds with urgency. I must show her—I must show her that this joy and laughter can be hers. Her darkness, too, can be dispelled by the Father of Lights. She does not yet know. And again, He whispers, “Now that you know, you are responsible.”

Give my heart away, Father. Don’t let me keep it, shiny and new, all boxed up and comfortable. Release it. Spend it. Bruise it. Scar it. Beat it. Throw it around. Wrap it around. Use it. For when it is used, then does it beat the hardest.

As the winds grow stronger, so does my smile, and as the waves rise, so does my laughter. In Your presence, O Lord, there is fullness of joy. The night grows darker, attempting to mask my delight in darkness—seeking to blind me to this Light of my Father. I begin to feel silly, laughing and smiling in the darkness. So I stop, but I feel a gentle nudging on my heart saying, “Please, don’t stop. I delight in your delight.” And then appears another candle, its note saying:

Your identity is not earned, it is given. I have given you the identity of My Bride—do not let this world blind you to that.

Given, not earned. I am set apart for my King. So I ask not the question, “how does this make me look,” but rather the question, “how does this make Him look?” His mercies pull at the corners of my mouth, and my lips are loosed by the warmth of His gaze, and joy overflows, spilling over into the deep, cold water: a little bit of light in the midst of all that is dark.

The night is long. I am as a watchman, waiting for the morning. I am waiting for the Dawn, where Morning replaces all mourning. I grow restless and anxious. I am tired of this river—this journey. I want something new. My mind drifts to a distant future, wheels spinning and planning and writing the story of my life. I almost miss the next candle floating past me, but just in time I snatch it up, struggling to focus on the note in the midst of my daydreaming:

Patience, dear one. Have I not told you that those who trust in Me will lack no good thing? My grace is sufficient; you have all you need.

But what about my wants and my dreams and my plans? His Spirit whispers, “let’s dream together, but let Me plan.” And then I remember: my God wrote the story of salvation—a baby born of a virgin, a man nailed to a tree. He is the Master Author, weaving and dreaming and perfecting. His endings are always perfect, always good. Why would I want to hinder the will of my Father? This river is where I need to be—this journey. This place. Another candle comes, its note a continuation of the last:

I am working, even now, for your good. I am writing, editing, altering. I am weaving beauty out of ashes—forming beautiful sentences and paragraphs and books out of seemingly empty, void, and worthless letters. Individual moments coming together in beauty and grace. I am writing a poem out of you, dear one.

And so I row forward, not by my own strength, but by His. I row forward with joy escaping my lips in sounds of praise—a city on a hill, a light in the dark, pointing others to the Grace of my Father. I row forward, my heart wearing the Ring of my Beloved—a wedding vow He’s given to me, His Bride. I row forward in the knowledge that I am His, and He is mine, and He is all I need. Each stroke of my oars and each turn of my boat pull me closer to the Fullness of His Presence, and each is written into His Story. May my life tell the Story of His Grace.