All That Is In Me

All That Is In Me, All That I Am

October 24, 2017

West on Route 2, on Michigan’s Upper Peninsula. A dreary, rainy day. The two lane road, sometimes, widening to four, arches around Lake Michigan. Trees line both sides of the road, sometimes thinning on our right so that the vast lake is visible, white capped waves crashing ashore. A wall of wind pushes from the west, causing the truck to sway.

We stopped at a hamburger joint in Manistique for a late lunch. Clyde’s was a small place, in business since 1949, and not a whole lot has changed.

 There was no provision for opening the windows, but I noted old fashioned transoms atop the doors. Likewise, no evident source of heat, save a small EdenPure in one corner. For such a small place, maybe the heat from the grill was sufficient?

 The staff was sweat shirted and casual. The curved counter allowed for six stools. A tiny table in the front corner added two more seats. Perched on stools at the counter, surrounded by locals who welcomed us, but did not include us in conversation, we absorbed the atmosphere.

The topic of the day seemed to be that internet service was down, which took phone service down with it. Hamburgers were hand shaped and generous, fries were real potatoes, freshly cut and fried. Soups, while not on our order, looked just right for a rainy, 40 degree day in October.

Back in the parking lot, the Trucker handed me the keys. Yay! Generally driving isn’t a privilege I would compete for, but here? Sure! Occasional cars, the odd pickup with fenders flapping, log trucks stacked precariously high, their loads leaning in the curves of the road. Those I passed carefully, tempted to think that only my desperate prayer kept them from toppling onto our four wheels. The spray from the big trucks, combined with rain, was my incentive to pass. Out in front, the view is much clearer. Here, 75 mph into the wind seems like we are creeping.

Our noses detect the local paper mill, before we see the road where all the log trucks turn off. The Trucker reminisces about the load he picked up there a few years ago, when the lady in charge made things impossibly difficult for him, just because she could, and bound by the union, her supervisor could do nothing to help. Memories.

Farther on, snowflakes mix with the rain, splatting frosty designs onto the windshield just before melting to liquid.

As I drive, music from the 1980’s group Harvest, fills the air. Their harmonies and convicting lyrics never grow old for me.

Back in our only-two-car-seat days, I kept their cassettes in our little Saturn, and played them while running errands. (Now, I wonder why it never occurred to me to play children’s music, or stories??) If I forgot to start the tape, a swift kick into the back of my seat was felt, and a two year old voice was heard requesting, “Mommie, make it thump!” This little person loved not only the music, but especially when Mommie turned up the bass for fun.

Today, those memories came flooding back. A simpler time in our family, when we didn’t know how good we had it, or how happy we were. Tears pushed at my eyes, my throat tightened, and my heart twisted, even as my hands steadied the wheel.

It's not often I feel like lifting my hands in worship

It's not often I feel like singing a song of joy
But I'm often reminded of His ways, how He is so faithful
So I'll offer Him this sacrifice of praise

In the last few years I have come to realize that praising God really is a sacrifice. Because lifting our eyes above our own circumstances, and focusing them on Him, takes effort. The action does not come naturally. We want praise to be upbeat, happy, an emotional experience that makes us feel good. But I don’t feel "good."  Happiness is elusive. And while I’ve got emotions leaking out everywhere, they are not what I care to share with the general public. I want to give God the good stuff, not this mess. I don’t feel worthy, I don’t WANT to do this.

All that is in me all that I am
There's nothing I with hold from Him
All that is in me all that I am
Will glorify the Lamb

But God wants all of us, all that is inside us, the stuff that defines who we are, in our eyes.

It's not often enough my heart and spirit are broken
It's not often enough that he finds me on my knees
But so often He comes in His cleansing love and forgives me

Not often enough? Really? I am tired of being broken. Tired of weeping. Tired of asking, when the answer doesn’t seem to come. And my knees hurt. I alternate between mentally pounding my fists on His chest and demanding “Whywhy,” to crumpling at His feet in a sodden mass of helpless tears.

So I'll offer Him this sacrifice of praise
All that is in me all that I am
There's nothing I with hold from Him
All that is in me all that I am
Will glorify the Lamb

It's not often enough I've seen through what He's given
It's not often enough I'm seeking in His Word
But so often I stand amazed that I'm one He's chosen

He chose me. HE chose me. He CHOSE me. He chose ME. This is a good thing? This is a gift? HE CHOSE ME. I don’t want to be chosen for this. I want left alone. No more pain. No more crushing grief. A clear mind, the ability to concentrate and function normally again. A return of my health, my family.

So I'll offer Him this sacrifice of praise

It is a sacrifice. Because I don’t want to give it. Not this way. I am unworthy, a colossal failure cut open, splattered for all to see. Like a child cupping protective hands over a skinned knee, choosing the known pain over the unknown sting of healing salve, I resist. But He holds out his arms, to receive the mess that is me.

All that is in me all that I am
There's nothing I with hold from Him
All that is in me all that I am
Will glorify the Lamb

It is really about Him, not me. The mess that is me, glorifies the Lamb? Why would He stain His white robes with me? But I raise my arms, and place my fears, failures, and fractured, bleeding heart, in His. Because this too is worship. This glorifies the Lamb. He died for this. He can ease the pain, mend the broken, restore what the locust has eaten. He only asks that I trust Him with all that I am, trust Him to guide me through the sting of healing. It is about Who He is, and What He has done. Not about me at all.