Lord, You have been our dwelling place in all generations. Before the mountains were brought forth, or ever You had formed the earth and the world, from everlasting to everlasting, You are God. You return man to dust and say, "Return, O children of man!" For a thousand years in Your sight are but as yesterday when it is past, or as a watch in the night. (Verses 1-4)
Man who is born of woman is few of days and full of trouble. He comes out like a flower and withers; he flees like a shadow and continues not. Job 14
There is an older house on Orange Street in Huntington Beach where we live. Surrounding its wooden frame on every side are rows of grandiflora roses that perfume the air and assault the eyes with color and form that makes us stop each time we walk by them just to breathe in the scent and marvel at their beauty. Some of the roses are huge, so heavy they tilt out into the sidewalk. Others stand straight and proud atop their long sturdy stems. We don't walk by every day, so we rarely see the same flower twice. The roses that were in full bloom, at the height of their glory, when we last stopped to admire them, are usually turning brown and dropping their petals within a week's time. Past their glory already, soon to be cut from the stem so other roses can bud in their places. The circle of life. The rose was created with fading beauty--a short but wondrous life cycle.
Time seems so important to us. As we rush here and there to get it done, maybe there is a part of us deep down that constantly reminds us that our life is but a vapor. Here one day and gone the next--like the roses on Orange Street. Moses wrote this psalm before the second generation of Israelites crossed into the land promised them by God. The prophet had seen the mothers and fathers of the Israelite children die off. Unfit for their destiny because of their failure to listen to and love the God Who dwelt among them, led them by fire and cloud, and went before them into battle. The eternal God, Who isn't tied to time, wasn't in a hurry. Isn't in a hurry to accomplish His will. But what we do with our lives obviously matters. It not only affects our path, but also our beauty--glory--while we bloom.
I'm haunted by a picture I saw a couple of days ago of a young woman in a stark military cemetery filled with small, uniformly fashioned headstones. She is young and in her left hand is a bouquet of flowers ready to be placed in the small receptacle lying lonely as it awaits its decoration. But the woman hasn't made it to the urn. No, she's fallen atop the length of the grave, for beneath the manicured lawn that blankets the graveyard is her husband, his crypt five feet below. It's all she has left of him, so she warms him with her body and wets the grass of his grave with her tears. Her heart aches to see him look at her again. Just once more. And she wonders if it was worth it. Her life blew apart when his did, and she doesn't know how to recover. She can't think she'll ever love again. Wishes she were with him there, in the dust, forever.
Struck down in their full glory, there are many, many more graves. And countless other broken hearts and lives. Given so that today we can wonder at our fragile freedom. Young men and women cut down like so many roses now buried in the soil they fought to preserve for you and me. The sorrow of some isn't their deaths but the lives they now are living without limbs, without jobs, or maybe, without the loved ones they hoped would be faithful. Some are home in full glory. But not unaffected by the scenes of battle, the loss of friends, the weight of war. The journey has been costly generation after generation.
It matters what we do with our short lives. Even if we lived to be a thousand, it is but a drop in the bucket compared to eternity. Everlasting to everlasting debunks the idea of time, for it's only an invention of the Creator Who someday, sooner or later, calls us to an end of ourselves. In our evanescence, may we be as courageous with our lives as those who died to make us free. May we stand for what we believe is true. Protect our freedoms from the tyranny of our own countrymen as well as the brutality of our enemies. May we live more exemplary lives filled with love, mercy, joy and devotion to America so that the young widow lying atop her husband's simple grave can know he didn't die in vain.
Man who is born of woman is few of days and full of trouble. He comes out like a flower and withers; he flees like a shadow and continues not. Job 14
There is an older house on Orange Street in Huntington Beach where we live. Surrounding its wooden frame on every side are rows of grandiflora roses that perfume the air and assault the eyes with color and form that makes us stop each time we walk by them just to breathe in the scent and marvel at their beauty. Some of the roses are huge, so heavy they tilt out into the sidewalk. Others stand straight and proud atop their long sturdy stems. We don't walk by every day, so we rarely see the same flower twice. The roses that were in full bloom, at the height of their glory, when we last stopped to admire them, are usually turning brown and dropping their petals within a week's time. Past their glory already, soon to be cut from the stem so other roses can bud in their places. The circle of life. The rose was created with fading beauty--a short but wondrous life cycle.
Time seems so important to us. As we rush here and there to get it done, maybe there is a part of us deep down that constantly reminds us that our life is but a vapor. Here one day and gone the next--like the roses on Orange Street. Moses wrote this psalm before the second generation of Israelites crossed into the land promised them by God. The prophet had seen the mothers and fathers of the Israelite children die off. Unfit for their destiny because of their failure to listen to and love the God Who dwelt among them, led them by fire and cloud, and went before them into battle. The eternal God, Who isn't tied to time, wasn't in a hurry. Isn't in a hurry to accomplish His will. But what we do with our lives obviously matters. It not only affects our path, but also our beauty--glory--while we bloom.
I'm haunted by a picture I saw a couple of days ago of a young woman in a stark military cemetery filled with small, uniformly fashioned headstones. She is young and in her left hand is a bouquet of flowers ready to be placed in the small receptacle lying lonely as it awaits its decoration. But the woman hasn't made it to the urn. No, she's fallen atop the length of the grave, for beneath the manicured lawn that blankets the graveyard is her husband, his crypt five feet below. It's all she has left of him, so she warms him with her body and wets the grass of his grave with her tears. Her heart aches to see him look at her again. Just once more. And she wonders if it was worth it. Her life blew apart when his did, and she doesn't know how to recover. She can't think she'll ever love again. Wishes she were with him there, in the dust, forever.
Struck down in their full glory, there are many, many more graves. And countless other broken hearts and lives. Given so that today we can wonder at our fragile freedom. Young men and women cut down like so many roses now buried in the soil they fought to preserve for you and me. The sorrow of some isn't their deaths but the lives they now are living without limbs, without jobs, or maybe, without the loved ones they hoped would be faithful. Some are home in full glory. But not unaffected by the scenes of battle, the loss of friends, the weight of war. The journey has been costly generation after generation.
It matters what we do with our short lives. Even if we lived to be a thousand, it is but a drop in the bucket compared to eternity. Everlasting to everlasting debunks the idea of time, for it's only an invention of the Creator Who someday, sooner or later, calls us to an end of ourselves. In our evanescence, may we be as courageous with our lives as those who died to make us free. May we stand for what we believe is true. Protect our freedoms from the tyranny of our own countrymen as well as the brutality of our enemies. May we live more exemplary lives filled with love, mercy, joy and devotion to America so that the young widow lying atop her husband's simple grave can know he didn't die in vain.
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