The Fragrant Kingdom

I have a close friend and we love to hang out together. We are also co-workers and our desks are only a few feet apart so we see each other for many hours a day. But tomorrow we are meeting for coffee before work and we are so excited. Even though we see each other every day and talk during the work day it isn’t the same as carving out that specific time to just sit and talk as friends – no work – no agenda; just sharing that rich time only friends can know. I especially love when I learn some new treasure about her that’s been tucked away. Those moments add depth and richness to our friendship.

I believe our relationship with Christ is similar. In fact, Jesus calls us His friends. We can pray, go to church on Sunday and Bible studies during the week but “religious” activity is not the same as knowing Him. There is something so wonderful about carving out that time where you turn off the noise of the world and the busyness of life and meet with Him by yourself – no agenda – no lesson plan; just your devoted “friend” heart with your Lord. Talk to Him, pour out your heart and then listen. In those precious quiet moments when He reveals something about Himself you did not know and the very whispers of God caress your soul and then He takes you by surprise as He reveals to you a dream that He tucked into a corner of your heart and He ignites it and it comes to life.

Look up 2 Corinthians 2:14 The end of verse 14 says, …”And through us spreads everywhere the fragrance of the knowledge of Him.”

The story that follows is very special to me. It is about a woman who loves the Lord. When she was a young girl the Lord tucked a dream in the corner of her heart and oh what a dream it was. Read on my friend. May you come away with a renewed hunger for the Lord and a dream in your heart.

Mary was the third of eight children and from the time she could remember she was in the kitchen with her mother learning how to cook. Her mother would tell her Bible stories as they worked; the kitchen became a special place in Mary’s life. She had a true servant’s heart and was known for taking homemade soup to give comfort to a sick neighbor or add joy to someone’s day with a plate of freshly baked cookies.

Mary’s mother also instilled in her the love of sitting quietly at the Lord’s feet every day. One of her dearest memories was of one early morning before daylight had crept into the sky when she had tiptoed downstairs intending to make her mother a cup of her favorite tea and take it to her in bed but when she got downstairs she saw the soft glow of a light coming from under the door of the study and when she peered in she saw her mother with her Bible opened writing in a notebook.

As she watched she saw her mother close her eyes and it seemed to Mary she sat there an awfully long time and so her impatient child’s heart decided it had been long enough and she walked up to her mother and inserted herself onto her lap and took her face into her hands and asked, “mama, what are you doing?” She would never forget that conversation. Her mother wrapped her arms around Mary and whispered into her ear, “dear heart, I am having a conversation with God.” Mary was astonished as she replied, “But mama, your lips weren’t even moving!” Her mother laughed and then explained that her lips didn’t need to move because God saw her heart and knew her thoughts. Mary thought a moment and then asked, “Does God talk to you?” Her mother turned Mary’s face toward her and she looked straight into her eyes as she whispered, “Oh, yes Mary. Yes, God talks to me.”

Mary looked very serious as she declared, “Mama, I want to talk to God too.” So there in the soft lamp light her mother told her about the greatest gift ever given and how Mary could accept that gift into her own heart. When she had finished she asked Mary if she would like to accept the gift of Jesus and without hesitation she said, “Yes, mama, yes I want Jesus in my heart.” As the sky began to wake from her slumber and with the bright morning star peering in through the window mother and daughter knelt in the stillness and a child asked for forgiveness of her sins and invited Jesus to come into her heart.

They then sat on the floor together faces turned toward the window as they watched the sky changing colors moment by moment as though uncertain what shade to wear that day, and in the stillness Mary’s little girl voice whispered, “Good morning, God. I’m listening.” Those words sank into Mary’s being and she spoke them to her Lord every morning after that.

That very afternoon, Mary returned from school to find a beautifully wrapped box on her bed with a note from her mother. She quickly tore open the wrapping and squealed with delight as she discovered a new Bible, a journal, a sketch pad and a large box of crayons of her very own. As she sat surveying her new treasures the fragrant aroma of fresh baked bread drifted under the door of Mary’s room and tearing out an 11x17 sheet of paper she set about drawing a picture that portrayed a dream that was tucked into a corner of her heart. A dream placed there by the Master-weaver Himself. You see Mary had embarked on a new journey; by far the most rewarding, the most treasured – the life-long journey of knowing God with every fiber of her being. As she drew she had no idea the threads that were being woven together that would bind her heart and touch the lives of so many.

As she grew so did her love for the Lord. Her gift for cooking grew as well and she never tired of trying new recipes and filling the house with fragrant spices. Her dream was to open a bakery after graduation. She even knew what she would call it; The Daily Bread. So many nights she sat up writing out the plans in her journal to make her dream a reality; and then she would pray over them; pray for the bakery that didn’t yet exist and give it all to the Lord. All the while the Master Weaver continued unseen weaving the threads in Mary’s heart.

When she was in her last semester of school her older brother Stan who was in his last year of medical school brought his best friend Benjamin home for the Christmas holiday. Benjamin was older and already in his last year of residency. The smell of rising cinnamon rolls drew the young men straight to the kitchen when they arrived. After the introductions Benjamin sat on a kitchen stool near Mary and never left. They were married the following autumn.

They bought a home in a wonderfully picturesque town. It was a lovely old two story colonial nestled on the edge of a wooded area. Mary loved their home but her favorite room was the huge kitchen. But of course she would not be able to spend as much time there once her bakery opened.

A few months later The Daily Bread opened for business. The sign read, “The Daily Bread – food for body and soul.” Mary’s bakery was unique; in addition to offering a wide array of baked goods, gourmet coffees and teas, she also offered homemade soups and comfortable chairs surrounded by book-lined shelves displaying books by many of her favorite authors: Tozer, Lewis, Carmichael and classics such as the Treasury of David, The Confessions of St Augustine and Oswald Chambers’ ‘My Utmost for His Highest’ along with modern day favorites such as Max Lucado and Randy Alcorn.
It did not take long for word to get out and soon the bakery was packed every day with hungry patrons.

Three years after the bakery opened on a particularly cold November afternoon Mary stood watching the customers. Some were reading; others were in deep conversation but it seemed to her that something wasn’t quite right. It was nothing she could put her finger on; just a nagging sense that something important was missing. It was just then that there was a bit of commotion over by the side entrance and she looked to see what was happening.

A dirty and ragged man whose age it was impossible to tell had apparently sought refuge from the cold wind in a booth located at the back corner of the bakery and four male customers were attempting to make him leave. Mary was stunned as she heard one of them telling this poor man in no uncertain terms that he was not welcome here and there was no room for his kind in this establishment; it was for decent people and they finished by telling him he should get a bath and a job.

“Please, God, help me know what to do”, Mary prayed quietly. Suddenly she heard His voice as clear as day, “Mary, what you do for the least of these brothers of mine, you do for me.” As Jesus’ words poured through her heart clarity washed over her mind and she sprang into action. Mary stepped up to where the man was cowering in the corner and with a smile she said, “Sir, I have a table right over here for you.” He looked bewildered and scared as the men stood not believing what she was doing. “Well if he’s staying, we are leaving,” the three men all nodded in agreement with their friend. Mary did not give their remark the honor of a reply. Instead she extended her hand to this cold and hungry soul and he reached out and took it and she lead him not to the corner booth but to one of the best tables next to the fireplace.
She got him settled in, headed to the kitchen and a few moments later returned to find Benjamin having a chat with him. She smiled at her husband and he winked at her as she set a steaming bowl of vegetable soup, fresh baked sour dough bread, a glass of milk, and a cup of her best coffee on the table and headed back to the kitchen to bring food to her husband as well.

When she returned with the food she sat down next to her husband surprised to find them talking and on a first name basis. Benjamin was amazing. He was the most humble and unassuming man she had ever met and she watched amazed as he drew this man, Andy into conversation and it wasn’t long before they knew Andy’s entire story and then Benjamin turned that conversation toward God. As she listened it became apparent that Andy’s hunger was more than a physical hunger; it was deep…soul deep. Mary listened as Benjamin told him about Jesus and before the end of the meal the two men were on their knees and Andy prayed and surrendered his life to God.

It was 1:45AM as the three of them stood at the door of the bakery, Mary’s curiosity got the better of her and as Andy was leaving she asked how he had come to be at the bakery that day. He smiled unaware of the bomb he was about to drop in the middle of Mary’s well-ordered life as he said, “Oh, we can smell the food from this bakery 3 blocks away at the abandoned warehouse where we stay. There’s not a single person there the smell of your food has not touched so today I just had to come and see for myself.”

Benjamin and Mary’s eyes locked; both thinking the same thing at once and they made a beeline for home. Mary went to the kitchen to make coffee while Benjamin went to the bedroom to find Mary’s picture. They had intended to hang the picture but busyness had interfered and so they had put it on the shelf in the bedroom closet. He turned on the closet light and carefully took the picture off the shelf that his beloved Mary had drawn at the age of 7 and headed to the kitchen.

Benjamin walked into the kitchen where Mary sat at the table eyes closed and head bowed as was her habit and he heard her as she quietly whispered, “Good morning, God; I’m listening.” He waited until she opened her eyes and then set the wrapped picture on the table in front of her. He poured two coffees and set them down and took a seat next to her. She picked up the cup of hot coffee in one hand, the aroma of cinnamon and vanilla adding warmth to the chill of the morning air and with the other she gently unfolded the gold tissue paper faded with years revealing a framed 11x17 picture drawn with crayon on brown sketch paper the edges beginning to yellow with time. Benjamin reached over and took hold of her hand as they studied the scene together.

Across the top of the page a strip of crystal blue sky and below it stood a castle on a field of green with flowers scattered about in every color. Standing in front of the castle was a king and by his side a lovely queen; above them written in royal blue crayon on the side of the castle were the words “Daily Bread”. In the queen’s arms was a basket filled with bread and rolls which were still hot from the oven as ribbons of steam rose from the basket. And across the bottom in red crayon was written… “The aroma of the food caught a ride on the steam ribbons and swirled, twirled, and danced across the grassy countryside until every person in the kingdom was touched by the fragrant aroma.”

Thoughtful silence filled the room and finally Benjamin took Mary’s hand and they knelt in the middle of the kitchen and together they talked with God about all that had happened and asked Him for guidance and to make clear if He wanted them to do something more and to especially keep their hearts tender toward Him; fully devoted to be poured out for His purpose whatever it might be and wherever it might lead them. They went to bed then feeling as though they were standing in the middle between a world of dreams and a world of radical faith and the two were about to collide.
(Play: Somewhere in the Middle)

Mary pulled into her parking spot at the Bakery, got out and walked around to the front but what she saw stopped her in her tracks. There was Andy standing at the door and with him about 70 homeless friends. “Okay, God I see.” She said taking out her cell phone to call Benjamin but just as she began to dial his number he pulled up to the curb and leapt from his truck. “Mary!” He cried but then seeing the crowd huddled around the entrance to the bakery he stopped and began laughing. “Looks like God has spoken pretty clearly, don’t you think?” Mary asked her still laughing husband.

“Wait till you see what He just showed me, Mary.” Benjamin went over and explained to Andy where he was taking Mary and they would be back in a few minutes. Benjamin put a blindfold over Mary’s eyes and then drove just 3 blocks over and stopped the truck and helped Mary out and then removed the blindfold. Mary stood there, unable to speak as tears filled her eyes. She stood on a field and before her was the abandoned warehouse or as she knew it best the castle.

Several months later on a clear spring day the little bakery on the quiet street is full of hungry customers and as they stand at the counter ordering they are welcomed by the manager; a smiling, middle-aged man named Andy. And just 3 blocks away where once stood an abandoned warehouse filled with abandoned people there stands a castle and on its side is written in large blue letters, “The Daily Bread, Food for Body and Soul”. It is a place for those who are cast aside by the world as unwanted and unloved to find a future and a hope. They learn that they are valued, and are taught how to care for themselves. They learn how to work in the garden and in the bakery, and when they are ready, get on the job training at the Daily Bread downtown. But most importantly they learn about God and His love and about His Son Jesus and how He makes the old new and the broken whole.

Inside the walls are beds and showers, a dining hall, a medical clinic and a chapel. There is also a library with comfortable places to sit and shelves of books by Mary’s favorite authors and a big fireplace and over the mantle in an 11x17 frame hangs a crayon drawing of a dream once tucked quietly in the corner of a young girl’s heart; a heart devoted to God who with unseen hands wove her life into a beautiful tapestry binding it with His love and all through it run the threads of His glory.

And in the Castle’s kitchen you will find Mary telling Bible stories and teaching men, women and children how to cook. And oh the fragrance of that place; the aroma of Jesus Christ at work in human hearts rises up and swirls, twirls and dances across the grassy countryside until every person in the kingdom is touched by the fragrant aroma.

An Original Conversation at the Well
By: Diana Morgan
October 1, 2007

The Healer and The Vine

When Jesus saw him lying there and learned that he had been in this condition for a long time, he asked him, “Do you want to get well?”
-John 5:6
~~~~~~~

The cold January dawn brushed our cheeks with color as we walked. We were on our second turn around the park and light was gently nudging creation into wakefulness. We walked over the bridge and were greeted by several ducks waddling across the sidewalk quacking as they hurried toward the lake. Another duck seemed to laugh as though someone had just shared a delightful joke with him. The sun was not yet up but the eastern sky was a soft pink and it reflected beautifully on the water and then as if on cue two swans emerged from beneath the second bridge and they glided gracefully through the water as we watched. We continued walking as my heart rose in praise to the One who created the beauty my eyes witnessed.

We had passed the second bridge, leaving the swans to their morning waltz on the water and then Elizabeth suddenly stopped and exclaimed, “Mom. Look. It’s a Western Grieb!” I had never heard of a Western Grieb, let alone seen one but I recognized by the tone of my daughter’s voice and the way her eyes shone that what we were seeing was special. I followed her gaze and there on the water with the reflection of the promise of a new day turning the water different shades of pink mixed with blue was a beautiful bird. His covering was black as velvet and his breast was a dazzling white. His long graceful neck was spectacular. Without warning he suddenly dove under the water and completely disappeared from view and resurfaced a couple of minutes later several yards from the point where he had disappeared. We laughed at that. “He dives and catches fish under the water.” Elizabeth explained. “Western Griebs”, she continued “are normally seen further north. They may stop at the Salton Sea during migration but I’ve never seen one in Palm Desert. I wonder if he has a mate or if there will be more”, she mused. We watched for a moment more and then headed for home.

I went to my quiet time with the Lord full of praises for the beauty and uniqueness of His creation that He had prepared for my daughter and me to witness that morning. The One who loves me took me gently by the heart and led me to Psalm 65 and David continued my hearts song of worship as I read, “Those living far away fear your wonders; where morning dawns and evening fades you will call forth songs of joy.” I closed my eyes as my heart sang a song of worship to my King and words of joy and thankfulness spilled from my lips thanking Him for who He is and all He has done. I thanked Him for the special gift He gave to Elizabeth and me to see such a beautiful bird in the unlikely place of the Palm Desert Park. As I rose and walked into the routine of my day I didn’t know that the One who holds my days was weaving together a heart lesson of which the Western Grieb was to play an important part.

Winter turned to spring and brought soft breezes, gentle showers and carpets of wildflowers to the desert but in my heart seeds of resentment that had lain dormant for a long time began to poke through and no matter how much I tried to cover them back up or ignore their presence they wouldn’t die. I went to my heart’s Gardener about them. “Lord”, I cried, “if you would just speak to my husband and he would change in this area then I could keep my heart clear of these unsightly weeds.” Under His steady gaze I knew I shouldn’t allow this ugly weed in my life and so I got down on my knees and with the trowel of His Word I began to pull the weeds of resentment from my heart. They offered little resistance and I really didn’t even need to use the tool He had given me and so I set it aside and used my own strength to pluck the tiny plants. I felt a tinge of pride that I had made such quick work of clearing the weeds. I turned to see what the Master Gardener thought of my work but didn’t see Him. “Well done”, I said giving myself a pat on the back and looked with self-satisfaction at what I had accomplished in such a short time as I headed out to get a much deserved cup of coffee.

Life continued and the soft days of spring made way for the long hot days of summer. The Western Grieb continued his stay in the desert. Though we hoped other Western Griebs would join him, they didn’t come and he remained alone. We wondered why he hadn’t headed north to join his Grieb friends. We speculated that he was perhaps lost and like some human men wouldn’t ask for directions and so he settled in and acted like he belonged. Or perhaps he was just content to stay where there was food and water and had decided not to bother with the long flight. Whatever the reason I looked for him every morning and found myself looking forward to seeing him each day, like an old friend.

I plopped down in my quiet time chair in a huff. I stared at the ceiling and tapped my foot wondering what could be keeping Him. I knew I needed to quiet my noisy complaining heart but there was a part of me that wanted to hang on to the irritability. I could not understand how the Lord allowed this to continue. He always pointed out every little thing in me and yet He allowed my husband to do anything he liked and oh how that annoyed me. It isn’t fair, I whined to myself. And so I sat having a good old pout. Oh what a ruckus my heart was making and yet somehow in the midst of my whining I heard familiar steps and that still small voice thundered through my soul and I looked up from my self-interest and saw my heart’s Gardener and noticed He was holding a very large pair of pruning sheers in one hand.

He walked over but instead of sitting with me He remained standing. A thought suddenly came to mind and a smile lifted the corners of my mouth as I was certain the Lord must be headed to my husband’s garden. Being a woman I am a nurturer and I had many times gone into my husband’s garden to “nurture” it but was met with resistance. But if I went under cover with the Lord what could he say then? I was certain that once I finished his garden makeover he would be thrilled with it. A few well placed shrubs of romance, some trees of adventure that would yield fruit of thoughtfulness and of course streams of Living Water flowing in all the right places.. He’ll thank me when it’s finished, I thought. I began pulling on my gloves as I looked at the heavenly pruning sheers and wondered if one pair would be enough and if heaven delivered dumpsters. Happy that the Lord had heard my many prayers for my husband I looked up as I spoke, “I am so glad that you are on your way to do some pruning in my husband’s garden. Do you think those sheers are big enough? Maybe I should come and help you; it’s a really big job. Have you seen it? Better pack a lunch.” I saw something in His eyes I could not quite identify as He turned and walked away. But instead of heading into my husband’s garden I saw Him enter mine.

I hurried to catch up and found Him already hard at work. He was pruning back vines of busyness and religious activity. Those had taken me a long time to cultivate and their blooms were colorful, pleasing to the eye and their fragrance was soothing; everyone said so. What would they think or say when they noticed this? He was not bothered by what anyone else might think and He kept pruning until there was hardly anything left. He spoke and as His Word touched the various piles they were carried away. I shook my head; all that busyness had come to nothing. I turned my attention back to the Master Gardener as He took the tender shoots in His hands and fastened them to the stakes of His will and stood to survey His work. “Better”, He said. It looked rather bare to eyes that were accustomed to back-to-back activity but before I could respond my husband’s voice reached my ears. We were going out of town and he was ready to go.

My heart felt a bit raw after all the pruning and I turned to express the hurt I felt that the weeds in my husband’s garden were once again overlooked but the Master Gardener was gone and had left a note on my heart’s door. Dear daughter, I Am the Vine. I Am the Healer. I wasn’t sure what it meant so I folded His note and tucked it into a pocket in the corner of my heart to ponder later and turned to leave. As I was leaving I noticed weeds of resentment sprouting up again along with worry but I didn’t have time to deal with them now so I bent down and quickly took handfuls of busyness and rocks of guilt and covered up the ugly weeds then firmly closed my heart’s door and left.

“What happened to your leg?” my friend asked as we stood in the hallway at church. I looked down at my leg and saw the angry wound that I had hoped no one would notice. I smiled and told the silly story again, “We were at my in-laws and my sister-in-law’s new puppy jumped on me and scratched my leg.” “It looks infected,” she said. I walked away assuring her I was taking care of it. Later on at home I sat to look at it. Neosporin always worked quickly but I had been putting Neosporin on it for several days and it wasn’t any better. In fact, it looked angrier each day. A thought occurred to me that perhaps it was expired and I went to the medicine cabinet to check the date on the tube. I opened the medicine cabinet and taking the tube off the shelf I began to laugh. For the first time I noticed the small print on the label. NEOSPORIN – lip ointment. I had been putting lip ointment on my leg wound. My husband and I had a good laugh over it and then I put some Polysporin on it and by the next morning it was visibly better.

Summer wore on and I spent long hours in my heart’s garden. One particular Saturday morning found me on my knees pulling weeds that were deeply rooted. With all the weeding I do how is it possible for them to keep getting a foothold, I wondered to myself. “A couple of friends to help you watch for weeds might be helpful,” He said. I hadn’t heard Him walking in my garden and turned to see Him sitting on a bench in a shady corner. I felt His eyes watching me as I struggled to pull a weed of worry but it was stubborn and I knew it was one I tended to hold on to at times and my heart was reluctant to let it go. “Daughter, what tool are you using?” He asked. I was about to say, “The Trowel of your Word” but when I looked at the trowel it had clearly written on the handle ‘My Strength’. I let out a sigh of self disappointment as I realized once again I was working in my own strength instead of His. I was sure He was going to scold me but instead He gently said, “Come and sit with me a while.” There was no scolding in His tone, only welcome and I gladly took a seat and found rest in the shade at His feet.

Elizabeth and I walked in silence in the heat of the early August morning. It was humid and we both wondered if summer would ever end. We made our way through the park and as we crossed the first bridge we saw him, his beautiful head hidden beneath the surface of the water. At first we thought he was looking for food and we slowed our pace waiting for him to raise his regal head, but he didn’t. The Western Grieb was dead. “Oh”, I cried. “What happened to him?” Elizabeth said, “He didn’t belong here this time of year and he didn’t fly north so the heat probably killed him,” she explained. “How sad”, I thought and he probably didn’t even realize he was dying a little each day. We finished our walk in silence both thinking of the beautiful bird gone from our lives as suddenly as he had entered.

It was still dark and I was sitting in my heart’s garden scratching my head at the sight of weeds that had seemingly grown overnight. I recognized a few weeds from my husband’s garden that had once again invaded my heart and annoyance mixed with a new determination to deal with them once and for all entered my heart. I recalled the conversation my husband and I had a few days earlier. I had asked him gently if there was something I could do to help him keep up with his own weeding. At first he had said there was nothing but after a while he quietly said, “Yes. There is something you can do to help me.” He looked deep into my eyes and I felt joy as I waited for his words that would give me permission to take matters in hand and make his heart’s garden as beautiful as mine. I hung on every word as he said, “Diana, I want you to stop worrying.” He finished gently. I bit my tongue as emotions rose up inside of me. What he was asking of me was so unreasonable; so ridiculous. What did my worry have to do with anything!?

I turned my attention back to the weeds and in the darkness I crept toward the gate that connected my heart’s garden to that of my husband. I looked around carefully to make sure no one was watching and I quietly opened the gate and snuck in. I was surprised by what I observed. I saw fruit bearing trees and lush vines. But what surprised me most was the River of Living Water flowing through it. I knew it would be there to some extent but not that wide or deep. I found myself actually enjoying the beauty I saw there but then I saw them – the weeds. Just as I expected, I thought. I headed over and grabbed hold of a particularly ugly weed and I pulled and as I pulled it was as though a long rope was being unearthed and it began coming up in one long weed and then something so unexpected happened it disappeared under the wall that was between my husband’s heart and mine.

I stood there in the darkness holding one end of the detestable weed wondering where the root was. “What are you doing?” A familiar voice asked. “N-N-Nothing”, I stammered – not knowing quite what to do. I tried to hide the weed I was holding but it was too late, the Master Gardener saw it. He is Light and His very presence illuminated every corner and it was there in the light of His presence that I recognized the weed I held in my hand. Still clutching the weed and unable to stand in His light I fell to my knees and saw that intertwined with my husband’s heart weeds were my worry weeds. I began to cry as I saw that my weeds of worry were hanging onto some of the lush vines and were weighing them down until some of them hung low to the ground. I cried out as I saw that my own heart weeds had actually choked some of the tender plants the Master Gardener was cultivating in the garden of my husband’s heart. Wiping the tears from my eyes I began frantically grabbing at the worry weeds but they seemed made of iron and I was unable to grab hold of them. He drew my attention to Him as He said, “Diana, your husband’s heart garden is not the place to start your weed removal.” His Words lit the way and we headed back to my own heart’s garden.

I sat at the Well of His presence and He opened His Word to John chapter 5 and there He told me about a man who had been unable to walk for 38 years. “38 years”, I whispered. “That is a long time. I continued reading. “Jesus knew that He had been in this condition for a long time, He asked him, “Do you want to get well?” I pondered the question, “Do you want to get well?” I’m not sure why but that question brought to mind the note my heart’s Gardener had left for me and I hurried to the pocket in my heart where I had tucked it safely away and pulled it out and read. “Dear daughter, I Am the Vine. I Am the Healer.” I sat in the corner of my heart’s garden and read the note again and picked up His Word and turned to John 15 and read about the Vine and the branches. Then I returned to John 5 and read Jesus’ question again, “Do you want to get well?” “The Vine and the Healer”, I whispered trying to tie all the ends together.

“How’s your leg?” He asked. I was surprised by His apparent change in topic and I looked at the scar on my leg as I said, “Better. Once I put the right medicine on it, it healed quickly.” I didn’t even have time to take a breath as His voice rumbled through my heart, “I Am the Vine. I Am the Healer.” The shadow-piercing light of His presence illuminated my heart and I saw how I had been applying the wrong remedy to the weeds in my heart. Worry was spreading its poisonous roots and causing wounds not only in my heart but in that of my husband. I had landed in waters in which I did not belong, just like the Western Grieb. I had landed in the wrong place and had settled into the dark waters of worry and was unaware of how slowly it was stealing the abundant life the Master Gardener had given me.

Just as the time had come for me to stop applying the wrong medicine to my leg, the time had come to stop applying worry to deal with the weeds that had come into my life and my husband’s life. I knew then that I needed to stop doing the gardening myself and so I looked into the eyes of the Master Gardener and I placed all the tools I had been using at His feet. I asked Him to take over the gardening. I thanked Him for the pruning He had already done in my heart, even though it hurt and was a bit uncomfortable and would He please continue the work He had started. I asked Him to please pull out all my weeds of worry and any other weeds that might try to find a growing spot in me. I asked Him to keep and maintain my husband’s garden too and to make it a place pleasing to Him and to do it in whatever way He saw best.

I looked at His nail pierced hands and feet and in that moment He poured His Living Water onto the dry ground of my heart, “Daughter, I was pierced for your transgressions, I was crushed for your iniquities; the punishment that brought you peace is upon Me and by My wounds you are healed.” I could no longer sit before Him and so I knelt and bowed before He who knows me inside out and still He loves. Still He heals. Still He holds me firmly rooted to Him, the true Vine. My heart’s Gardener. The Healer and the Vine.


An Original Conversations at the Well
By: Diana Morgan
October 13, 2008

You are Invited

The noonday sun beat down on her as she made her way to the well. The only thing dryer than the day was her heart. As she approached the well she saw a man sitting on the rocky edge. She walked to the opposite side avoiding him; not wanting to draw attention to herself. All she wanted was to draw water to meet her physical needs for that day; nothing more. His voice took her by surprise as He asked, "Will you give me a drink?" She recovered from her surprise and reminded Him of the stark reality that their people were enemies so how could He ask her for a drink. Jesus replied, "If you knew the gift of God and who it is that asks you for a drink, you would have asked Him and He would have given you living water." And so began a conversation that would forever change not only this dear woman but an entire town. Jesus' words set this woman free and she ran back to the town that had turned its back on her and she cried out through the hot and dusty streets to all who would listen, "Come. Come meet a man who told me everything I ever did." The entire town went out to meet this man Jesus and they asked Him to stay and stay He did, for two days. John 4:41 tells us that because of His words to them many more believed. Dear one, Jesus' invitation to come is for you; right now, today. In John 5:21 Jesus said, "I tell you the truth, whoever hears my word and believes Him who sent me has eternal life and will not be condemned; he has crossed over from death to life." Jesus desires to impart life-giving Words to your heart. You don't have to settle for drinking shallow world-water. Through Jesus Christ life is available to you. Perhaps you know Jesus but have never engaged in a deep, daily relationship with Him. Dear one, He does not intend for your life to be dry. Knowing God is the grandest of adventures and it's just a conversation away.

Diana
jacobswell@dc.rr.com

Father to the Fatherless

Father to the Fatherless

14 Indeed these are the mere edges of His ways, and how small a whisper we hear of Him! But the thunder of His power who can understand?Job 26:14 NKJV

For you did not receive a spirit that makes you a slave again to fear, but you received the Spirit of son-ship. And by Him we cry, “Abba, Father.” The Spirit himself testifies with our spirit that we are God’s children. Now if we are children, then we are heirs, heirs of God and co-heirs with Christ.
Romans 8:15-16 NIV
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The wind moved through the cypress trees, their branches waving as though greeting one another in the mid morning sun. They’d stood for hundreds of years dotting the grounds surrounding the great house. Dignitaries had once discussed important matters beneath the stately boughs but where once was heard the voices of powerful men a new sound was heard; the sound of children.

As the children’s voices filled the morning air a girl emerged from the garden. The sun danced across her short black hair causing it to shine in its light. Her frame was small, her face delicate and her eyes were beautiful almond shaped and black as coal. Normally her eyes were guarded, protecting a heart that bore deep scars of being abandoned and unwanted and she wore an expression of resignation to the fate of unwanted girls in China. But today was different. In her arms she carried a package and in her eyes hope.

The call had come for her right after breakfast to go to the office of the director. The director’s words still rang in her ears, “Mai, you have been chosen.” Mai’s eyes had been big question marks as the director went on to explain that seven months earlier a family in America had seen her picture and wanted her to come be a part of their family. That wasn’t all; the family had written Mai a letter. She sat quietly as the director read the letter to Mai written by a man and a woman who wanted Mai to come and be their daughter. They wrote of how they saw her picture and loved her right away. They talked about their home and of how they were preparing a place for her.



They wrote of longing to know all about her and how they already knew how she loved to read, play games and write poetry. They knew about her interest in bugs. They even knew that her favorite color was green because praying mantises were green and they were her favorite bug. They went on to describe the room they were preparing just for her. There was a large window in her room that looked out at the garden and next to it was a writing desk where she could pen her poems. There was a large bookcase with some books already on it but lots of room for her to add to the collection and there was a shelf that held games they knew she loved but also some that they loved to play and looked forward to teaching her.

The letter ended with words of encouragement penned from the one who called himself “father”. He wrote: Dear Daughter, how good it sounds to call you that, though now you are loved from a distance soon you will be drawn near. You do not know it but my thoughts of you began long before this letter was written. You do not need to wait until you reach your new country to begin your new life; already it has begun for you see I have adopted you into my family. I have written it down and signed my name. You are my daughter. I have a surprise for you, Mai. I have a new name for you and when I come for you I will whisper it in your ear. The letter ended with a promise that soon they would be coming to take her home.

Mai sat on her bed and took the pictures of the people who were now her family from the envelope. Tears filled her eyes and suddenly she picked up the pictures, the letter and even the envelope and clutching them to her chest she ran to the window and looked out across the property of the orphanage and she smiled. Nothing appeared different yet everything had changed. She was part of something bigger than Mingshaw Orphanage. It stretched across China and across a big ocean to another land. She was no longer an orphan, she was a daughter.

The months that followed were filled with excitement, anticipation and packages. Mai’s family sent her small toys, books and clothes and they often included small gifts for her friends and even for her housemother, Shesu. Mai loved the letters tucked into every package. She hung on every word as Shesu read them to her and at the end of each one her father wrote a special message just for her, his daughter, and always ended with the assurance that soon he would come for her. A funny thing was happening to Mai, as time passed the orphanage no longer felt like home; her home was in another country and she longed for it. Each morning she woke up and wondered if this would be the day they came for her.

It was spring and a gentle rain patted against the window and Mai stood with her face pressed against the glass watching intently. The room behind her was alive with activity as other children who also were meeting their new families played but Mai didn’t want to miss anything so she stood and watched. A squeal of delight suddenly escaped her as she saw two familiar figures on the sidewalk outside. Though she had only seen images, she knew them. Her new parents entered the room and were welcomed by the director and as instructed Mai waited for the director to motion her over so she could make the introductions.

The director turned her gaze toward Mai and nodded and Mai began to walk in their direction but as she neared the one called father knelt down and opened his arms to her and smiling said, “Daughter.” That’s all he said and Mai flew into his arms and melted into his chest and then her mother joined in the embrace and the room disappeared and it was only Mai and her family. And then just as he promised, in a gentle voice overflowing with emotion, Mai’s father whispered into her ear a single name, “Elizabeth”. Two weeks later Elizabeth Mai Hart sat in a seat between her mother and father as the jumbo jet sped down the runway and she sat up tall and looked out as the airliner left the ground, leaving behind the old and before her lay all that was new.

The car pulled into the circular drive and Elizabeth looked out the window at the house nestled in the pine trees. There were birdbaths in the yard and birdfeeders hung from a few of the trees. A squirrel chattered noisily from its lookout on top of one of the feeders and Elizabeth giggled as it scurried up the tree and disappeared among the branches. There were wildflowers that were almost as tall as she was and butterflies joyfully fluttered from one bloom to the next. Her eyes danced with wonder as her attention was drawn back to the house. She glanced at her parents and with smiling faces they beckoned her to follow them inside her new home.

She was speechless as they explored each room. When they arrived at the last room she recognized it right away from the many pictures they had sent. She walked through the door eyes wide with wonder. The walls were a very pale shade of green and the bed was adorned with a green and yellow patchwork quilt that her mother had made for her. Her mother opened the closet and Elizabeth stood looking at the new clothes that hung there just her size. She looked at the bookcase and the game shelf and then slowly walked to the writing desk where a journal and pens and pencils and colored markers lay waiting for her to write of her new life. Standing next to the journal was a picture of her mom and dad holding a picture of Elizabeth the day they learned the adoption was approved. She reached out and gently touched the frame and then looked at the large picture window that looked out over the garden. She was overwhelmed. She turned to her parents as a large tear slid down her cheek and her father immediately bent down and asked what was troubling her. She threw her arms around his neck and whispered, “Baba” (daddy).

Evening found the little family holding hands at the dining room table and Elizabeth watched her parents as they closed their eyes and her father prayed. Elizabeth had a good appetite and ate her fill of the wonderful food and she listened to her parents talking and she would occasionally chatter in Chinese. She pointed to each dish and they told her the names of the foods they were eating and she did her best to repeat after them. They laughed when she wrinkled her nose at the spinach and her father wrinkled his nose too. Later they sat in the living room playing a game called Sorry but her head began to nod and her eyes closed and so her father picked her up and carried her to bed. They stood for a long time looking at her sleeping so peacefully. Their daughter was where she belonged, in her father’s house.

Elizabeth was home schooled and a fast learner. It wasn’t long and she was speaking English quite well. Her favorite subject was reading. She loved her parents and enjoyed to the full all that her father provided for her. Elizabeth grew and thrived in her father’s house. She lived each day with confidence and full assurance in who she was and to whom she belonged.

One late, chilly November afternoon Elizabeth and her friend Abigail who lived up the road were sitting in an apple tree pretending it was part of a magical kingdom. It was getting dark and they saw Elizabeth’s father come out into the driveway calling her name. Elizabeth started to climb down the tree when Abigail pleaded, “Oh, don’t go.” Elizabeth never hesitated when her parents called, she always responded right away. Why wouldn’t she? “I have to go”, Elizabeth said emphatically. “My dad is calling me.” Abigail argued, “He’s not your real dad.” “What?” Elizabeth said uncertain of what her friend was trying to say. Abigail went right on to explain exactly what she meant. “You are just adopted. You don’t really belong to them. Everyone knows that. My brother Timmy said that sometimes adopted kids get sent back to the orphanage if they aren’t good.” Abigail’s mother came out just then and Abigail scurried down the tree and went home leaving her wounded friend behind.




“Elizabeth!” Her father called more firmly this time. Elizabeth climbed down the tree and her father met her at the end of the driveway. “Didn’t you hear me calling you”, he asked. He didn’t wait for an answer as he continued, “You left your bicycle in the driveway. I nearly ran over it when I came home from work. Are you supposed to leave it in the driveway?” He finished. She began to shake her head in response to him but as they entered the house they heard her mother call out from the backyard, “Elizabeth Mai Hart!” Elizabeth began to worry as it was never good when mother used her full name. Her father opened the back door and went out and Elizabeth walked very slowly outside in the direction of her mother’s voice.

Her mother was standing in the flower garden or rather where the flower garden used to be. A few feet away were pails and shovels where she and Abigail had been attempting to build an imaginary castle. They had trouble getting the dirt to stay put so Elizabeth had turned on the hose so they could get the dirt wet and it would hold together better. But Abigail said she saw a rabbit at the side of the house and so they had run after it leaving the running water behind. They had decided to climb the tree to see if they could find the elusive rabbit and that’s when they started playing imaginary kingdom. The forgotten water had flooded the garden. The bulbs her mother had planted for spring were submerged and some had no doubt washed away. Elizabeth stood before her parents guilty as charged desperately trying to think of a good reason for her forgetfulness but unable to think of any she just stared at the ground.

Breaking the silence her father said, “Elizabeth, please go inside and get cleaned up. We’ll talk about this after dinner.” Elizabeth left her parents behind to deal with the water and mud and went inside. As she closed the bathroom door behind her Abigail’s words flooded her nine year old mind, “…adopted kids sometimes get sent back to the orphanage if they aren’t good.” She began to worry and fear crept into her heart. She remembered what happened just last week when she and her mother had stopped at her father’s office downtown. Her mother had asked her to run in to give an envelope of important papers to her dad that he had forgotten at home. She had taken the elevator to the third floor and was headed to her dad’s office when a man had stepped between her and the door and told her she could not disturb her dad, he didn’t have time to see her. The man had taken the envelope from her hand and sent her on her way. “He’s not your real dad”, Abigail’s words played over and over in her head. As Elizabeth stood looking at her reflection in the bathroom mirror she no longer saw Elizabeth Mai Hart, daughter. She saw Mai Diannuo, orphan.



She left the bathroom and went to her bedroom and still covered in mud and dirt she closed the door. Abigail’s words were shouting through her mind now as she looked around the room. She suddenly felt so out of place. She went to the closet and turned on the light and crawled on her hands and knees to the back corner until she found a large box. She dragged the box out of the closet, removed the lid and began going through it until she found what she was looking for. She hesitated a moment but then made her decision and carefully removed the clothes her dad had bought her on a special father daughter date just last month and folded them carefully and laid them on the bed. She then put on the clothes from the box. The shirt was too small and no longer went all the way to her waist and the pants were too short and she couldn’t get them buttoned. But she didn’t care that they no longer fit and then stuffing her feet into shoes that were too small she crept out into the hallway and then out the front door, the very door she had entered clothed as a daughter she now exited clothed as an orphan and disappeared into the darkness.

Mai walked as quickly as she could, frustration, worry and fear choked her and tears spilled down her cheeks. She was uncertain how long she had been walking when she realized the familiar things of home were gone and she knew beyond a doubt that she was lost. She kept walking until she came to a cluster of trees and just on the other side came to a campground. It appeared to be empty and she took a seat on a park bench. Her feet hurt and her old clothes were uncomfortable, the pants were cutting into her waist. She shivered and she thought about her parents and wondered what they were doing. They were probably eating dinner. After dinner they would sit in the living room and drink hot cocoa and play games in front of the fire. She loved to hear the logs crackle and pop and watch the way the flames danced and changed colors. She closed her eyes and could see her dad’s face. She loved the way his eyes got all crinkly at the corners when he smiled. But Abigail’s words pushed their way to the front of her thoughts and shouted at her “He’s not your real dad! You are an orphan and orphans get sent back when they are bad.” She shivered and pulled her knees to her chest in an effort to get warm.
Her stomach growled and looking around she spotted something on a table a few camp sites away. She got up and walked over and found remnants from a picnic. She picked up a dried piece of bread and put it in her mouth. It was stale but at least it was food. She found a few more pieces of stale bread and put them in her pocket for later and returned to her place on the bench. She curled up in a ball on the bench to keep warm and fell asleep unaware that someone had left the warmth and comfort of home to look for her.
She did not hear the footsteps draw near or the sound of the broken heart of a father as he watched his beloved daughter shiver in the cold on a campground bench. He gently wrapped a blanket around her and as he did something fell from her pocket, pieces of stale bread. Pain filled his father heart and tears spilled from his father eyes as he knelt by the daughter for whom he had sacrificed much and traveled across the globe to make his own. She had turned away from his abundant provision and chose for herself instead a place of discomfort, cold, stale bread and orphan’s clothes.

As he knelt there the love that gave all to make her his daughter, the love that sent him a world away to bring her into his presence, to make her his own filled him and he spoke the words of a father; words written in a letter that proclaimed a father’s love. “Dear daughter”, he whispered in her ear. “How good it sounds to call you that, though now you are loved from a distance soon you will be drawn near. You do not know it but my thoughts of you began long before this letter was written. You do not need to wait until you reach your new country to begin your new life; already it has begun for you see I have adopted you into my family. I have written it down and signed my name. You are my daughter.”

As he spoke she opened her eyes and as the words he spoke filled her heart they overcame the words of defeat and doubt that had caused her to turn away from a father’s love. She believed his word. She believed his father-ness. She knew then that Abigail’s words or the man at the office and even her own failings could not keep her from her father’s love. She sat up and wrapped her arms around his neck and as he lifted her once again from the ground of fatherlessness and held her near she heard the heartbeat of a father’s unsurpassed love and she whispered into his ear “Baba” (Daddy) and he carried her home.


An original Conversations at the Well
By: Diana Morgan
September 8, 2008

Clouds

CLOUDS

The breeze rustled the pages of my journal as I wrote and I set my pen down and looked out toward the mountains. The clouds caught my attention as they danced across the sky; swirling in time to music that my earth ears could not hear. This thought began churning around and I was imagining the sound of this heavenly symphony thundering through the clouds as they moved. “What are you looking at?” He asked. I hadn’t heard Him arrive but I was so glad He had come and my heart smiled and moved closer to Him. “I was watching the clouds,” I said. I was secretly hoping He might let me hear some of the music the clouds were dancing to. But of course He knew my secret thoughts and He laughed. I love His laugh and then I wondered if that was what made the clouds dance and creation move, the sound of His voice and His laughter. Ahhh, what must it have been like when Father, Son and Spirit together created the universe; mountains, valleys, grass, trees, stars, planets and the first clouds. The breeze touched my brow and I closed my eyes and tried to imagine the sound of the Trinity pleased with the work of Their hands.

I opened my eyes again and continued watching the clouds. They had moved lower and were concealing the tops of the mountains; their shadows painting murals of light and darkness on the mountain sides. I wondered if it was raining or perhaps snowing on the mountaintops and I recalled the storm we’d had just before Christmas. It had been very cold and a storm had come and rain fell on the dry desert for a full day and night. How I loved rain and it was a rare treat so I relished every raindrop. Early the next morning my daughter and I left the house in darkness for our morning walk. We were chatting and keeping an eye on the sky for shooting stars enjoying the freshness of the recently rain washed air. As we walked through the park an unseen hand nudged the day and the eastern sky began to stir and turned various shades of purple, mauve and pink. As we walked past the lake with the ducks still sleeping and swans gliding silently over the water we turned west facing the mountains. The mountains rose up majestically in the dawn and all around them lay a midnight blue velvet sky with stars twinkling like tiny lights above them while the eastern sky grew brighter and unveiled what the clouds had hidden from view; the mountains wore a blanket of white. It was breathtaking.

Later that morning I along with several others were taking a friend to lunch to celebrate her birthday. One of my friends commented on how much she disliked cloudy days but wasn’t it amazing that while the clouds hid the mountains God was doing all of this (she motioned to the snow covered peaks). She laughed as she said that there must be a story there and I should write about it. She hadn’t known that clouds had already been in my thoughts a great deal and I tucked her observations into a corner of my heart to ponder and add to my other cloud thoughts. During lunch as we celebrated our dear friend, my thoughts turned to previous birthdays she had celebrated, birthdays with her husband. He wasn’t here for this birthday; God had taken Him home after a long battle with cancer. Children left without their dad; a wife without her husband and friend. “Clouds”, I sighed to myself.

Now I sat with my journal in my lap and watched the clouds on the horizon as they continued to build and grow darker and hide the mountains. I wanted to see; to know what was going on behind them. Would they bring rain or snow or would they simply stay awhile and then move on as silently as they had arrived. My thoughts turned to family and friends who were facing clouds of their own. Clouds of sickness, death, financial uncertainty, children wandering in clouds of confusion, clouds of strife, separation and even divorce, clouds of abandonment and abuse. “Clouds,” I sighed out loud.

Then as if to remind me of His presence I heard His voice whisper, “I AM in the cloud.” I moved in closer to Him as He opened His Word and He spoke to me from Exodus 19:9 Then the LORD said to Moses, “I will come to you in a thick cloud…” I was quiet a moment and softly said, “I have always loved clouds. All kinds of clouds: the big billowy kind that look like you could take a nap on them as they float lazily across the sky; the dark thunderheads that rumble as lightning flashes through them. The thin wispy puffs that look like pieces of cotton when you’ve stretched them thin and can see through them. I have always liked clouds. But Lord, right now thinking about world clouds that come into lives for no reason we can see; they engulf us and seem to hide You from us; those clouds make me unsettled.” I finished and turned my eyes back to the clouds over the mountains as their shadows continued to dance on the mountainside.

Then He who loves me drew me very near Him and there in the stillness He reminded about the time He prayed in the garden under the shadow of the cross shaped cloud. He had prayed until He literally sweat blood; He prayed for another way if possible and yet He prayed for God’s will to be done and not His own. I looked at Him and noticed the thorn scars on His brow which in the shadowed light of clouds seemed more pronounced and I thought of Him hanging in agony on the cross as His Father turned His face away and He cried from the depths of His soul, “My God, my God, why have you forsaken Me?” I wondered about the disciples and Jesus’ friends who stood that day at the foot of the cross. They must have felt so sad and frightened and alone as Jesus breathed His last and the cloud of death engulfed them and took their beloved Jesus from them along with all their hopes and dreams. When the clouds seemed darkest and the storm raged about them; behind it all God was working out His plan with precision timing and perfection. Three days later as the clouds of grief hung thick and heavy Mary Magdalene went early to the tomb and it was there as the eastern sky was just waking up and revealed with breathtaking beauty that Jesus had walked out of the tomb; the stone rolled away; the cloud of death lifted.

He drew my attention to Acts 1:9-11 and He read it to me. After He said this, He was taken up before their very eyes, and a cloud hid Him from their sight. They were looking intently up into the sky as He was going, when suddenly two men dressed in white stood beside them. Men of Galilee, they said, “why do you stand here looking into the sky? This same Jesus, who has been taken from you into heaven, will come back in the same way you have seen Him go into heaven.”

I sat quietly as His Word soaked deep into my heart. He asked me, “Diana, what do you think about clouds now?” I looked at the clouds over the mountains as I replied, “They fill me with wonder.” I was going to continue my thought but when I turned back to Him He was gone though I knew He was always with me. I looked out at the clouds and wondered if today would be the day He would return. As I sat quietly watching the clouds a poem suddenly began to take shape and I wrote it down and left it on the steps outside my hearts door with a note, “Lord, thank you for talking to me about clouds. I’m looking forward to the day you ride in on the clouds to take me home with you. I wrote you a poem about clouds. I hope you like it. Love, Diana.








CLOUDS

Clouds hung in the distant sky,
They seemed to dance on cue
Casting shadows on the mountainside
Painting pictures of every hue.

They sat upon the mountaintops,
hiding the tallest peak.
Their beauty cloaked in mystery;
shrouded in grayness bleak.

The wind blew. The rain fell.
The tempest became so cold.
The storm raged on through the night,
Obeying what it had been told.

But as dawn kissed the morning sky
And the stars put out their light.
What the clouds had secretly hidden from view
Became clear in the sweetness of morning light.

As the sun peered over the eastern sky
Creation’s breath seemed to be stolen away
As the sun cast its light on the mountain peaks
Their secret announced to the day.

For what once had been shrouded in grayness
Concealed by the darkness of night,
Was revealed in breathtaking beauty
Lovingly wrapped in a blanket of white.

When clouds move across my horizon
Hiding the Savior’s dear face
I remember in whom I have placed my trust
He is Truth and He is Grace.

When storm clouds obscure what He is doing
His grand purpose from me concealed
I remember the morning is coming
Secrets once hidden will be revealed.

Sometimes life brings heartache and pain
Cloaking my heart in the darkness of night
But He whispers He’s weaving a tapestry
To be displayed in His glorious light.


When the Son appears in the eastern sky,
His bride coming to claim
His hand will lift the cloudy veil
As creation praises His name.

For what once had been shrouded in grayness
Concealed by the darkness of night,
Is now revealed in breathtaking beauty
Lovingly wrapped in His garments of white.


Later that day I saw that the poem was gone and there was a note there tucked in the corner on the steps of my heart and it said, “Dear one, I’m looking forward to coming for you and I can’t wait to show you what clouds look like from here. Great poem! And then He noted a verse from His book and I read it over and over again until His Words turned golden in my heart never to be forgotten.

12 We don't yet see things clearly. We're squinting in a fog, peering through a mist. But it won't be long before the weather clears and the sun shines bright! We'll see it all then, see it all as clearly as God sees us, knowing him directly just as he knows us!
1 Cor 13:12 (MSG)


An original Conversations at the Well
By Diana Morgan
January 26, 2009

Broken Pieces

BROKEN PIECES

Quiet your busy mind and harried heart. Be still. Do you hear it? It is the Teacher and He is sitting at your heart’s door inviting you to sit a while. Kick off your shoes of busyness and sit down at His feet. You notice His hands, the ones with the deep scars in the centers and in them He is holding a book, His Book. Ask Him to open it to you. He opens the pages and then you see them, the Words but these are no ordinary Words, no, these Words are alive and He looks deep into your heart; He wants to send His Living Words into your soul to take root. Are you ready? Stop and talk with Him about it and then open your heart to what He has for you. It may be tucked in the following pages or He may lead you in another way. Listen.

Ephesians 2:10 says, “For we are God’s workmanship, created in Christ Jesus to do good works, which God prepared in advance for us to do.’

We are God’s workmanship. Not just me or you but we – all of us who have put our faith in Christ Jesus – created in Him. Made new (2 Corinthians 5:17).

The music moved through the dusky streets as bustling people slowed their harried pace so they could take in every note as though they were fragrant flowers in a bouquet unseen by human eyes. The music entered an open window where a young mother rocked her newborn and she hummed softly as the gentle notes carried the infant to the land of dreams. The music continued on its journey as it entered through an open door where a father watched his daughter descend the staircase in her mother’s wedding dress. The music stirred his father heart and he extended his hand to her and father danced with daughter one last time before placing her in the care of another, the music painting a soft memory in their hearts of these treasured moments. On through the night the music traveled; causing heads to turn, voices to quiet, and hearts to hunger for something deeper than what the world around them offered.

The lobby door of an old apartment building opened and the sweet, deep strains invited people to come and rest. Tired eyes smiled and brows relaxed, letting go the tensions of the day as the rich notes seemed to carry burdens away to some distant place. Up the stairs and down a shabby, poorly lit hallway the music grew louder and sweeter; apartment doors stood propped open to allow the music entrance into their homes, into their very lives. At the end of the hallway where darkness threatened to overtake a single flickering light bulb that hung from the ceiling stood a door with peeling paint and rusted hinges; their shabbiness stood in sharp contrast to the beautiful music that poured from behind them.

The room was warm and welcoming and the music seemed to give it a light all its own. In the center of the room a woman with delicate features sat on an old stool with eyes closed as she ran the bow across the strings of the cello which seemed alive as it breathed the most glorious music; music that could not be purchased at the local music store, downloaded from the internet or learned in ten easy lessons. The pieces she played were original works but they were not hers. As the notes faded she opened her eyes and waited quietly in the presence of He who was the source. Her teacher nodded approval and her face took on a look of sheer delight as she bubbled over with praise, “What a beautiful piece. Thank you for allowing me to play it.” She finished softly. She glanced at the clock but quickly looked back to him, hoping he had not noticed her looking at the time or her hurried pace as she placed the cello in its case and headed out the door. If He did, He didn’t say so. Normally they would spend some time oiling the cello and tending to the strings but lately she had other things that seemed more pressing. She hailed a cab and gave the address to the driver as she told herself that soon things would slow down and she would spend more time maintaining the instrument; more time with the Teacher. Her hand touched the case that housed the precious gift the Teacher had given her.

She thought back to when she had first met Him or was it that He had found her; she wasn’t exactly sure. He introduced her to music but not the music she grew up listening to, no this music was different; music written by an unseen hand in a place that must be wonderful and she longed to go there; to live there. One day when she went to spend time with Him she found Him playing the most beautiful music. She was enthralled and it was then He taught her to play something He said His Father had written; she was never the same after that. It was soon after that He presented her with the cello as a gift. It had been so unexpected and she never ceased to feel humbled when she thought of it; ah, such a gift. When she was alone she would pour over the Teacher’s notes but her favorite times were the precious hours sitting in His presence – learning at His feet. She was brought back to the present when the cab stopped and she got out.

She hurried up the steps still thinking about the Teacher as she made her way through the double doors of the hospital. She had not asked Him specifically if she should accept the invitation to play but surely He would not object; she was playing for the terminally ill, it was a “good” thing she was doing. She hurried down the corridor to a multi-purpose room. She quickly pulled the cello from the case and winced as in her hurriedness she caught the base of it on a chair leg and heard a crack come from deep within it. “Oh no!” she thought to herself but there was no time to examine it now as the other musicians were already tuning up their instruments and patients had begun entering the room. Some walked in attached to IVs while others were in wheelchairs or on gurneys; their eyes told the story of their need. She took her place with the other musicians and turned her attention to the conductor and with a wave of his hand music filled the room.

Ninety minutes later found her kneeling on the floor placing the cello in its case; she needed to get home and do a thorough examination of the instrument and she wondered if she should have the Teacher look at it as well but before she could think that through there was a tap on her shoulder; it was the conductor. “You are quite good. Where did you go to school?” he asked. She told him the Teacher’s name but the conductor shrugged it aside as if it were nothing and went on to explain that he conducted a small symphony downtown and their cellist had been taken ill that afternoon and there wasn’t time to look for a replacement and would she be so kind as to step in. He could see the reluctance in her eyes and so he quickly added, “You would truly be doing us a great favor if you would play, just for tonight.” She looked at the cello and knew she should go take care of it but the conductor said, “Please, come.” The Teacher will understand, she said to herself, after all I’m just helping them out; they are in need and it is only one night.

One night turned in to weeks and in those weeks the times with the Teacher grew fewer and she kept putting off the maintenance time on the cello. Instead of being immersed in the writings of her Teacher she was distracted by the musicians of the City. She found herself practicing what the conductor gave her and she laid aside the music of the Teacher. Attendance to the symphony grew and it wasn’t long and they were invited to move from downtown to the largest music hall in the City uptown. That night as they played to a full house and the last notes died the crowd erupted in applause but as she stood to bow to the crowd the stem of her cello broke and it fell over, tears stung her eyes as she saw pieces of her gift on the floor being trod upon by the City’s musicians. No one stooped down to help her pick up the pieces so she quickly placed the cello along with the pieces into the case and hurried out of the room, out of the building, out of the noise.

The cab dropped her off outside her apartment building and she picked up her cello and walked through the double glass doors. She climbed the stairs; the shabby hallway seemed darker and so very still; there were no doors propped open; they were all tightly shut. She walked to the end of the hallway; the light bulb hanging from the ceiling had all but gone out and she had trouble finding the keyhole in the growing darkness and sighed with relief as she felt the key slide into the lock and it clicked as it turned and as she shut the door with the peeling paint and the rusty hinges behind her she thought of the music and the Teacher.

She placed the cello case on the floor and opened the lid. She hurried to her room and came back with the pages of music the Teacher had given her. Perhaps it wasn’t as bad as it appeared. She sat on the stool in the center of the room and laid the cello across her lap and then touched the bow to the strings but the notes were sour and her neighbor banged an annoyed hand against the apartment wall letting her know in no uncertain terms that he didn’t want to hear her sour notes any longer. It was then the knock came on the door, followed by the voice of the Teacher calling her name.

What should she do? She couldn’t let Him in. How would she explain what had happened; the distraction of the musicians, the lights, the approval of the crowd and then her eyes fell on the cello. She shook her head as what she saw with her eyes sank into her heart; the gift was ruined. He called her again but she knew she couldn’t let Him see His gift broken. She quickly looked around the room hoping an answer would present itself but nothing came to her and so she held her breath and pretended she wasn’t home. As she waited for Him to leave she realized hope had already gone and so when she thought the Teacher had left she laid the cello in the case along with all the music and she closed the lid. Closed the lid on the cello, on the music, on the gift, on her dream and she placed it all under the bed.

She lay face down by the bed feeling utterly discouraged when she heard it; the gentle voice of the Teacher. She groaned inwardly as she turned and saw the key in His hand, the very one she had given Him as she had told Him to come in anytime He wanted; “make yourself at home” she had said and here He was. He didn’t say anything; He simply took a seat on the floor next to her and waited. There was something very powerful about being in His presence and she sat very still and she turned to Him and poured out her heart right there in His presence and He listened to it all and then He reached under the bed and pulled out the case with one hand and lifted her up with the other.

As they walked the Teacher talked about His Father and told her wonderful things about Him, things she had never heard before. It was then that they arrived at a little shop. “Where are we?” she asked. “My Father’s shop” the Teacher said with a twinkle in His eyes. He opened the door for her to go in and there she was in the Father’s presence. She was speechless standing there. She knew what she needed to do, she opened the cello case and carefully removed it but as she did the broken pieces scattered everywhere and she was suddenly overcome with emotion and she wept aloud but the Son stooped down and He gathered all the broken pieces and He carried them to the Father on her behalf and they left it all at the feet of the Father and she walked out with the Son no longer burdened by the brokenness.

The weeks passed and she spent as much time as she could with the Teacher wanting to know everything about Him and the Father. She found that she was spending time with Him not because of anything He had given her or could teach her but simply because of who He was and it dawned on her then that He was the gift; the music had been icing on the cake. One evening she heard His voice calling her name and she eagerly opened the door and invited Him in for a cup of coffee (everyone knows He loves coffee with Toffee Nut creamer) and a heart to heart chat but He beckoned her to follow Him instead. She was surprised when they arrived at His Father’s shop and even more surprised when she saw the cello case with a big bow wrapped around it and there in the Son’s presence she opened it. What she saw took her breath away. The rich dark wood of the cello gleamed up at her; the gift had been fully restored. The Teacher directed her attention to the heart of the cello and revealed the Father’s work for He had taken all the brokenness and used it to make the instrument whole. The brokenness would no longer prevent the instrument from playing; oh no, it would make the tones richer, fuller and more beautiful.

The Teacher set a stool out on the sidewalk in front of the shop and she sat down. He brought her the cello and once she had it positioned He handed her sheet music. She took it and looked at it and then looked up at Him. The title caught her immediate attention, ‘Rebecca’s Song’ an original work and it was signed by the Father. She set the music on a stand and there before an audience of One as the stars came out one by one she touched the bow to the strings and out of the depths of what once was broken poured the most beautiful music.

Play: Turn Your Eyes Upon Jesus by Michael W. Smith (stringed version)

As she played it seemed to her that creation itself bowed down to listen and as the final note was played thunderous applause erupted; she looked around startled. Were the stars applauding? The Son laughed at the look of surprise on her face and He nodded His approval and then drew her attention and it was then she saw Him; the Father and He was clapping. Glory!


Sweet one, you are precious to God. You have been chosen and called by Jesus Christ Himself. He has gifted you to touch the hearts of others and point them to Him and to the Father. You are an original work signed by the Father and sealed by the Holy Spirit. As you go about knowing Him and allowing Him to direct your steps oh the music that will pour out from within. It will cause hearts to hunger for more than the world around them can give. Brokenness will no longer prevent you from living the life God has for you. On the contrary, the music that pours through your life will be sweeter and more beautiful. The angels look on in wonder and creation itself bends down to hear and as you touch the bow to the strings of your life ahhh the sound. The approval of man is shallow and nothing compared to what is about to happen. As the last notes of your life song are played on this earth and you step across the threshold into Heaven you see Jesus and He is nodding hearty approval and then thunderous applause erupts and you see Him – the Father and He is clapping. Glory!

An Original Conversations at the Well

By Diana Morgan
January 3, 2009