He is Good, Even in the Storms

Gusts rage against the front of our faces as eyes squint for the big, yellow, school bus, coming up the hill.

At only a few feet tall, I see the wind push and pull, take the mighty cedars and bend them low, without question or permission.

And I wait, as his tiny voice, resonates through the ear-piercing winds torrenting through my brain.

Howling, aching, as if the heavens have heard, know, sympathize with the pain of broken children.
I was in Peru the other day. At an orphanage where children were kept behind a large, iron gate, tucked tight, trapped behind a thick restraining wall.

Yet, I couldn’t see their faces.

Then one. One little boy peeked behind a structure. Small, four or five, the same age as our little guy.

“Ricardo”, “Yuan”, or “Javier”. I can’t remember his name….

But, I do remember his face. Faces leave imprints on the brain, that can remain….for a lifetime.

His eyes dart. His grin, wondering why two Americans were standing in his space, this place he has called home for who knows how many years.

And I wanted to scoop him up. A boy without mom or dad. No one he can own. No parent to shelter him from the storm.

And yet, this call, He makes clear, is more than some pew-sitting, fake-smiling, formulating-grace, while my feet remain stagnant.

“Let the little children come to me.” I hear His words, The One I claim and love and have laid down my life for…

Inn minimal proportions compaired to what He has done…for me.

While I get on a plane and fly back to the comfort of a big house, large space, countless trees bending and bowing to the praise and power of the One I serve.

And yet, he remains….

The boy I can’t remember his name.

And some people loose sleep, or worry, or weigh upon the fact that they don’t have enough “likes” on Facebook, or about their education or some relationship.

But, when I lay my head down to sleep, it is not enough to have my home filled with children…

It’s the notion that there are still little ones, like the boy in Peru, struggling to put his face towards the sun, fighting for some hope to believe in….

A boy that may never be able to have someone to look to or shelter him from the storm.

And this morning, as we stand against the gusts, my little guy tucks tight into my gut, to protect him from the wind…as the bus begins to reveal itself over the stormy hill….

There, in the blizzard, he starts singing, “My God is so good, so strong and so mighty, there’s nothing my God cannot do.”

There I spin, in the reality that children are without mama’s, and yet, it is the heart of a child to find good, and sing praise, and give thanks, unlike most adults do….especially in the storm.

And I learn from him. Here.

That I too, need someone to lean against…a helper, bigger than me, to lean into when the winds rage, and invisible forces sting my face…

And the noise of the storm starts deafening my own ears from the reality of who He is.

And aren’t we called to be like little children, utterly dependant, living for a God who delights when we sing our own song of adoration and praise?

And doesn’t He want us to find good even on the wild and stormy days, and rest tight in the embrace of the One who knows our name?

Yes, He sees…

The child playing peek-a-boo at an orphanage in Peru, my little boy, and a million other children who desperately need someone to cling to.

And it’s o.k. to be weak and vulnerable.

In fact, we are to be like little children, if we want to feel the fullness of a life lived happy and whole, and complete and truly loved.

Knowing family was His design. And even God resides as community; Father, Son, and Holy Ghost.

So, why should we tough it out, weight, or even expect to live lives independent, strong, so-called, “fine” without Him?

Might we be like little children, singing, “How Great Is Our God,” even when we can’t yet see the answers….

Especially when we aren’t home, long for family, or have questions that struggle that despite all our effect, still painstakingly, struggle for solutions.

Yes, He is good…

Even in the storms.