The LOCUST YEARS

I will restore to you the years the locusts have eaten (Joel 2:25):

A Guest Post by Penelope Swithinbank

I was really honoured and excited to be asked to write a guest post for Anita Matthias on her blog spot

http://dreamingbeneaththespires.blogspot.com/

 

Here it is again in case you missed it

I can remember how it felt – that walking across the Square, arms stretched long with shopping bags.

 

I can remember how it felt  - that looking at our church, heart stretched hard and cold with unbelief.

 

I can remember: before coming to that church the years of losing everything – the business I had started, homes and cars and income, all lost; the worldly stuff I had held so dearly, gone.  Taken by God, vindictively it seemed.But then came this church.  Its large draughty  Victorian Rectory. My life turned upside down and not in the way I wanted. For I had enjoyed my status: 20th century vicar’s wives did not usually head up their own nationwide company.

 

Gone. All gone.

 

I was tired, so tired of it all.

 

* * *

 

But then I remember: that clergy wives’ conference, days after crossing the Square. The reluctant going, the fear of being thought an abject failure, the hesitancy in case someone uncovered my unbelief. A speaker – who was she? And what did she have to say? Lost in time. But then, oh then, another speaker, who spoke creatively, humourously, and who then asked us to stand so the Lord could minister to us.

 

STAND? My hesitation – what was this about? My desire to melt away and not be part of this. And then finding myself standing, pulled by the Unseen Presence. His Light, flooding the room. His Warmth enveloping me in ways I could not comprehend. His Voice, unheard, speaking into my poor stretched heart: I am here, I am true, I am your strength.  I AM.

 

Their prayers for me, surrounding me. My tears falling.  Shaking with the overwhelming sense of His being with me.

One stood back, pondered, allowed Him to speak through her voice.

 

"I wonder," she said, "if this verse might be for you? Somewhere in the Old Testament I think. Words from the Lord.  I will restore to you the years the locusts have eaten."

 

They prayed some more. He took those words deep into that cold stretched heart. He promised restoration, things that would replace what was lost, devoured and devastated.

 

A swarm of things new and above what was lost.

 

So I clung to that verse over the years that were to come. Years with ups and downs, but years of fruitful ministry just as He had promised. A book was published, an international speaking gift confirmed, a ministry ordained. The years lost through unbelief were more than made up for.

 

Always I remembered that verse. He had restored the years the locusts had eaten – and more.

 

* * *

 

And then.

 

Seventeen months ago, my mother died. Swept away. One moment she was there, a feisty ninety-year-young who cared ceaselessly for others, drove old ladies to church, talked non-stop on the phone to her friends and family whenever she could.  Prayed for us all, every day.

 

And the next she was gone, swept away under the wheels of an out-of-control car.

 

And I stood there, frozen, helpless. Stunned from having been hit by the same car just a few moments before. Deafened by the shouts and screams and sirens. Deafened by the silent scream inside. And my tears turned to ice and my scream frozen deep within.

 

She was gone.

 

I stood at her feet and I tried to pray for her, aloud.  Tried to thank God for all she was and had been to me and others; tried to ask Him to take her to Himself; committed her to the One who loved her the best. And the paramedic had tears in her eyes.  “I’ve never heard anyone pray out loud before,” she said.  “Would you like her teeth? And her watch?”

 

I took the watch and turned to thank the paramedics and the police and the passersby.  People were so kind; so very kind.

 

But I was frozen.

 

For seventeen month now, I have been frozen. Unable to work or to play, to read or to write. Lost, barren, devoured by locusts.

 

But now.

 

A slow greening of tiny shoots again.

 

A decision to be grateful in the brokenness.*

A monthly Happiness Project.+

 

And confirmation from He whom my soul loves, that what has yet again been devoured by locusts will be restored to me.

The verse remembered.

 

That decision to have a monthly project – for March, to write again.

 

He promised.  And there was the verse, my verse: on Anita’s tweet. Her invitation on February 29 to write a guest blog.  And on March 1st an offer of a freelance writing project – very small but it’s writing and it’s paid! Unsought, it brought with it His Voice of Promise: I will restore to you the years the locusts have eaten.

 

Confirmation that my ministry years are not over, as I had feared.

 

He who has promised is faithful and He will do it. Again and again, whenever it is needed:

“I will restore to you the years the locusts have eaten.” Joel 2:25

 

 

*  One Thousand Gifts. Ann Voskamp. Zondervan

+ A Happiness Project. Gretchen Rubin. Harper

 

 

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Snowdrops

October 2010      Three weeks after The Day

There will be snowdrops again. There will be snowdrops again. I have to believe it. One day soon, the tiny tips will push through, struggling, light seeking, upward bound. First, there will be snow. Frost and freeze. Rain. Anything the elements can throw on a winter’s day. A test of patience, hope, belief. But for now, the bulb lies cold, deeply hidden, dormant.

So lies my soul.

A corpse, buried in winter snow. Buried within my cold cold body. Iced from within. I can see it from above, the rectangle of transparent ice surrounding all that is me.

It is hard to hear you through the ice. Impossible to reach out, touch you, feel your well-meant hug. This ice is brittle, sharp, so-very-cold. It forms a barrier.

Maybe that is my protection, for should the thaw come too soon I would feel too much.

So I will believe that snowdrops will come again. And one day One day My snowdrop soul will grow again a tiny tip of life.

For as [surely as] the earth brings forth its shoots, and as a garden causes what is sown in it to spring forth, so [surely] the Lord God will cause rightness and justice and praise to spring forth before all the nations [through the self-fulfilling power of His word].                                       Isaiah 61:11

Amplified Bible (AMP) © 1954, 1958, 1962, 1964, 1965, 1987 by The Lockman Foundation

Snowdrop (n): A.D. Miller

  1. 1.     An early-flowering bulbous plant, having a white pendent flower.
  1. Moscow slang. A corpse that lies buried or hidden in the winter snows, emerging only in the thaw.

A Twelve Month Journey Begins

September 23, 2011 A year ago, my mother died. Swept away, the one person who had known me, carried me, kept me close to her heart. The one who was always there for me, urging me on, supporting me in my crazy schemes; who nursed my children, prayed for them night and day, held their teenage confidences when I could not. The one who adored her great grandchildren and prayed for them too.  One moment she was there, a feisty ninety-year-young who cared ceaselessly for others, drove old ladies to church, talked non-stop on the phone to her friends and family whenever she could.

And the next she was gone.

Swept away by an out-of-control driver who could not, would not, stop.

And I stood there frozen, helpless, unbelieving; stunned from having been hit by the same car just a few minutes before.  Stunned now by what I was seeing; not understanding, not believing.

Deafened by the shouts and the screams of the passers-by.  Deafened by the sirens. Deafened by the silent scream inside.

Maybe I should have cried.

Maybe I too should have screamed.

But I kept it inside. And my tears turned to ice and my scream was frozen deep within.

At first, I thought of the hours and days she would have of convalescence; of how she would battle to walk again and fight for her independence. I looked at her face, ground into the road; at the white broken bone protruding from her leg; and her outflung arm, clawing frozenly at the tarmac. My heart froze too.

Then came the helicopter crash team; they rolled her over and their scissors ripped her clothes and their drips penetrated her body  -  and  I knew.  I knew.

They pumped and pushed and did their best.  But she was gone.

I stood at her feet and asked for her to be covered; I could not bear to see her naked chest.  They pulled the blanket to her chin; and I tried to pray for her, aloud.  Tried to thank God for all she was and had been to me and others; tried to ask Him to take her to Himself; committed her to the One who loved her the best.

And the paramedic had tears in her eyes.  “I’ve never heard anyone pray out loud before,” she said.  “Would you like her teeth? And her watch?”

I took the watch and turned to thank the paramedics and the police and the passersby.  People were so kind; so very kind.

But I was frozen.