Friday, April 08, 2011

::For the Generations to Come::

Moses said, “This is what the LORD has commanded: ‘Take an omer of manna and keep it for the generations to come, so they can see the bread I gave you to eat in the desert when I brought you out of Egypt.’
~Exodus 16:32~

In my Exodus studies, I came across God's gift of manna, sent like dew to the desert each morning for the wandering Israelites. It was a completely strange and wondrous thing. No one had ever seen it before. And no one ever would again. Except for those who took a peek inside the jar, that is. God opened His hand of blessing to His people in the form of a unique gift: sweet bread falling from the sky in flakes. A one-of-a-kind blessing suited to the needs of a one-of-a-kind people.

The God of manna is our God also. This is the same God who opens His hand to us this very day. The One who rained down manna rains down unique blessings upon each of of His children as they need it. Do we sift through the dew of the dawn to find our manna? This morning, when you woke up in the sunlit crinkles of your bed, what did He have waiting for you? Look. Pray that He gives you eyes to see the things He sends.

And then. . . Store them up.
In a jar? Maybe not-- if only we could!-- but what then?
How will we pass on God's Goodness to us to our children and their children?

I write.
It began when I was 6. Simple and raw. Precious facts about my uncomplicated existence: my brother was annoying, my cat died, Jenny got mad at me at school, the weather was rainy. Halting snippets scrawled by an untested hand. Linear. Oblivious. Full of Hope.
A memorial to the God who protected and nurtured me.

My writing continued into a womanhood of brand names and makeup. Subtly, at first, the pages became tainted with Self. The events of the day were written through a lens of self-consciousness and flattery. Every compliment was recorded. Every injustice was taken note of, and refuted. Every sinful action was justified and quietly put to bed without repentance. Flowing odes to Self, seamlessly strung together by a hand in denial. Stained. But Aware. Full of Pride.
A memorial to the God who did not grow weary of patiently drawing me out of myself.

Now, I write for glory. Not mine. His.
I am learning to sense his Hand of provision and guidance, and I am following the trail of Him with words. The manna I collect in my basket is renewal, reconciliation, growth, trial, loss, love, pain, victory. These endless gifts from His hand. They alight on the ground, wisps on the periphery, easily unrecognized. Many times I trod upon them, unaware that I have been touched. My lips never open in praise for the unseen and unknown. I pray that I will have the eyes to see Him move. And when I do, I capture the Goodness in words, if I can. I write with a hand of love. Redeemed. Striving. Full of Joy.

A memorial to my God who transforms me even as the sun rises.