A few things that happened this week: Josh was away visiting one of our schools, the oldest son sent out his first forms for university, I got a bike seat for Zoë, we entered another lockdown.
It may not come as a surprise that there were moments where I felt a little thin in the emotions department.
The bike seat, believe it or not, was the highlight.
I am not sure entirely why; maybe because the summer weather has arrived along with seeing all the trips and plans that the rest of the world is once again delighting in, and needing some way to assuage the longings I feel, or because it is simply a pleasure to balance on two wheels with the wind in your hair, or because Zoë loves it. Maybe for all those reasons and more, we climb on that bike countless times a day and ride and ride and ride.
We go slow, and breathe in the roses our neighbors are growing by the gate. We pick up speed and pass the cooks lounging behind the restaurants where it reeks of oil and chilis and rotting vegetables. We wave at the old ladies exercising in the park. We circle the block, the park, the block again.
I cover the same roads a hundred times and something in it reminds me of the Psalms. How we rehearse them over and over, though each day feels much like the one before with little change in circumstance. And this circling starts to become a rhythm that soothes me, that gives voice and words to my frustrations, but also my joys and my hope.
As we ride, I pray Psalm 37.
We hit the speed bumps, and I think of that kid with the the mountain before them or the plank in their eye— though he fall, he shall not be cast headlong, for the Lord upholds his hand.
We turn the corner and I ask for a change, for some kind of relief— Trust in the Lord and do good, dwell in the land and befriend faithfulness.
We pass under the trees and I remember the promise— I have not seen the righteous forsaken or his children begging for bread. He is ever lending generously and his children become a blessing.
We pass a group of kids playing, two of mine in their midst and I ask for grace to be here— Commit your way to the Lord, trust in him, and he will act.
I see neighbors planting, making gardens from molehills, and I wonder at the fruit of any of our labors— Be still before the Lord and wait patiently for him; fret not yourself…
And whether the sky is blue and bright, or hazy and grey, shot through with the morning sunrise, or the fading clouds at the end of the day, this Psalm rings over my life and our lives and all the ways we worry and wonder at it: Wait for the Lord and keep his way, and he will exalt you to inherit the land.
I think this means that we have to keep seeing our days with the flyover vision of God. There is a moral order to our world even if others don’t see it. There is a personal God who is keeping care. There is a Righteous Judge who will make it all right.
The inheritance of the land is not something we get to define or fight for. Our role is to dwell in the land and befriend faithfulness, to refrain from anger and lend generously, to turn away from evil and love justice. To plant flowers and forgive our enemy, to make our bed and love a difficult neighbor.
Inheriting the land is the promise of a good ending and a rightful ordering of it all. For this we wait, and while waiting, we ride. Thank God for bike seats.
Thank you for your words - a balm, as always.
Beautifully spoken.