This is a different sort of Biblia Luna. Normally these newsletters have a particular structure: an essay about one of the readings appointed for next Sunday in the church year; a helpful resource; an update on the marketing of my book Darkwater; and a “Biblia Blessing,” a scripture passage that might offer some hope. This week is different – instead of all that, I have composed an extended reflection on Psalm 121, which is the appointed psalm for Sunday, October 16. Each of the headings in bold type is a verse from the psalm. I hope you find it meaningful.
I lift up my eyes to the hills-- from where will my help come?
I am in a deep valley, a valley that stretches for untold miles. A valley of darkness, the valley of the shadow of death. This is the valley of depression, a valley filled with thick fog that blinds and chokes. It is all I can see. It surrounds me on all sides. I cannot walk fast enough to escape the fog. I cannot walk far enough to move beyond its reach. I see in the distance the hills peeking up above the clouds. The hills where there may just be hope. But they are too far away. I am lost, surrounded by the thick fog enveloping me and filling my lungs. I am alone and lost, and there is no hope for me here. I look to the hills, and cry out.
My help comes from the LORD, who made heaven and earth.
And yet, even from the nadir of the valley, I know that God is real. I know that God has made the earth. I know that God has promised to provide for the people God has called. I hold onto that. Desperately, in this choking mist, I cling to the hope that God is real. The mist turns to a chilling rain, and I cling to the hope that God is good. The rain turns to a rushing creek, and I cling to the hope that God is love. I cling, even as I feel the dust beneath me turn to mud, as I feel my footing slip, as I feel the waves of depression yearning to wash me away. I cling.
He will not let your foot be moved; he who keeps you will not slumber.
And my foot is not moved. I am not swept away. I thought it was the end. I thought this was finally the time I was lost forever – but no. Not this time. I am held firm, and somehow I am standing straight, eyes squinting into the pinprick icicles of rain. I stand. Is this the Lord? Is this God keeping me from falling? Keeping me from being swept away? It must be. Who else could it be?
He who keeps Israel will neither slumber nor sleep.
The rain begins to slow down. The raging river beneath me is now a calm stream. The crisis is passing, and I can begin to breathe again. This is still no fun, but the storm is abating, and the sky is growing lighter. The fog is still thick, but it no longer chokes. I can get through this, because I can see that there is an end in sight.
The LORD is your keeper; the LORD is your shade at your right hand.
I begin to walk. My shoes are soaked through, but I can move, and I am grateful. A warm breeze blows, and I turn to face it, feeling the wet evaporating from my clothing. The fog flows with the wind, and I can see more clearly around me. The wind speaks to me in a whisper: “yes.” I can see the foothills ahead of me, and I can see a path that winds toward them. I walk that way.
The sun shall not strike you by day, nor the moon by night.
I turn back, and I see my own footprints in the moist ground. As I look, I can see that they have not been going in a straight line; they have been meandering in circles all over this valley. I have been without direction for some time. Yet, as I look longer, I can see that they’re not quite circles, but something kind of like spirals. I have not been retracing my steps, going over the same old ground over and over, but I have been moving forward. Slowly, haltingly. It hasn’t been a straight line, but there has been direction. I have been moving toward these hills for some time now, and I didn’t even know it. Through the days of fog, the days of blazing sunlight, and the long nights beneath a cold moon, I have been making my way here, somehow. The wind sneaks past my ear again: “yes.” I turn around and start walking toward the foothills again.
The LORD will keep you from all evil; he will keep your life.
It’s easier to breathe now. I am not in the hills yet, but the air is clearer. I can see my destination now, and it’s beautiful. The hill ahead of me is blanketed with evergreen trees, and it beckons me to approach. I can almost feel the soft carpet of fallen needles on the ground ahead. The ground beneath my feet is no longer cracked and muddy. I walk now through moss of many hues of green. I take off my dripping shoes and socks; I don’t need them anymore. The moss feels like bliss between my toes. I don’t know what I’ve done to deserve this goodness. I am so grateful.
The LORD will keep your going out and your coming in from this time on and forevermore.
I don’t know when I’ll reach the hills, or if there will be another storm here in the valley before I get there. But right now I feel safe. Right now I feel like there’s hope. Right now I feel that I can weather the storm, that I can make it through tomorrow. Because I’m not alone here, and I never was, and I never will be.
And the wind blew again.