Watchtower

In a recent time of prayer—setting aside for a moment the urge to tell God what needs to happen in the world—I asked Him for His perspective of my heart. The request, from Psalm 139, is—I have learned, as you have surely learned—rarely safe for our egos and nearly always productive.

He showed me a watchtower
He showed me my eyes rimmed red, unblinking,
Staring hard into the plane not yet visible, time
Atop a spindly tower, fragile legs swaying—

And I there looking out at all that wasn’t, unfeeling toward all that was, is—but ready, beneath the boundaries of unconscious thought for an invitation whispered by the Shade at my right hand.

I turned and read the whole psalm slowly, letting Jesus wash me in His word. He would watch as I was watching, at all hours, without rest. He would grow a Vine against the slow circuit of sun, an ocean coolness piercing blistering heat, a column of fire drenching the dark vacancy of desert midnight with warmth and light. I bowed my weary limitations into His frame to receive the fullness of His promise. Tired eyes finally closed, new senses arose and the sound of singing came, plain and uninhibited and beautiful: His gladness at my weakness, and at my letting Him be God, and His joy in Father’s strength.