Last night I tossed in bed well past a respectable time to fall asleep, unable to quiet my darting thoughts. Those same thoughts replayed the moment I woke this morning, lodging themselves into my early morning consciousness. Later in the afternoon when I squeezed in a run before dinner, it hits me that I'm weary. Runs normally invigorate me, body and soul, but with each step I felt increasingly worn out.
As I ran, my eyes were drawn upward to a mountain ridge ahead. That's when new words cut through the weighty soundtrack of my cares and concerns. I lift up my eyes to the hills; where does my help come from? My help comes from the Lord, the maker of heaven and earth.
The strength that I need daily -- the strength to parent, to teach, to maintain our home, to handle challenges and disruptions and disappointments, to live in a manner that's pleasing to God -- never was meant to originate from within me, as if I can just do more or try harder.
No, grace isn't like that. Grace is a God who takes our weaknesses and junk -- our mistakes and doubts, our frailties and imperfections, our dysfunction and sin -- bears it on himself, and in turn, gives us his righteousness so we can stand before him confidently.
It's a remarkable exchange.
I'm always turning my head to look for mountains, to lift my eyes to the hills, to remind myself that my help comes from the Lord, no matter my circumstances.
So, carry on, weary one. Carry on. Our help comes from the Lord. When we measure a day according to our strength, we get it wrong. It's not the degree of our strength that matters when we're upheld by God's.
Image compliments of Ian Turton.