I came across this chapter entitled, "What God is Giving" and it hit home, and I wanted to share it with you. I hope that it can be an encouragement to you, wherever you are in your walk with God. We're all at different places, and I'm learning (slowly) how to listen and be aware when God is trying to show me something.
"Walking with God" pages 66-70:
"Earlier this summer my son Luke and I discovered a great little stream. It runs hard and fast down out of the Flat Tops, broken by old beaver dams and an occasional deep pool. Now and then it flattens out into lovely runs. We had a wonderful time catching wild rainbows and brook trout, much larger than I expected to see in that little stream. But we only had time to fish about a mile of it. I've been wanting to get back ever since and explore more of what this little treasure has to offer. I noticed on a map that the creek meanders far from the road before it spills into the Bear River, and there's nothing that catches a fisherman's imagination like the possibility of untouched waters. I might be the first guy to fish that section in years.
But I've done some releasing this summer. Things are beginning to ease up down inside. So I pray, Jesus, is this a good day for fishing, or should I just lay low, hang out here? I pause and listen. I'm really okay with either answer. What do you think, Lord? I listen, open to anything else he might want to say. For I've also learned this: sometimes God wants to speak to me about something entirely different than the question I'm asking. If I don't get an answer on the subject I've raised, I may need to ask a different question. You'll find this very helpful in learning to walk with God. If he doesn't seem to be answering the question you're asking, stop, and ask him what he does want to speak to.
Today, I'm willing to surrender. Even fishing, which for a recovering fishing addict is a pretty good sign that God is at work. I sit quietly and repeat the question. Jesus, shall we fish? What do you have for today?
I hear, Fish.
My plan was to hike up the Bear to confluence and begin my explorations from there. But the canyon of the Bear caught me by surprise. It's beautiful down in there. The fiver flows through a forest of evergreens, some of them leaning way out over the water so that the sunlight comes through here and there, splashing the fiver with light and shade. The river separates now and then into braids and then rejoins itself.
Now, it wasn't my plan to fish the Bear-I was after the untouched waters of the creek. But when I reached the bottom of the canyon and started upriver, I was immediately met with a handsome run of clear green water just begging for a dry fly. It was too inviting. I caught a lovely thirteen-inch rainbow on my first cast and made a change of plans. I would fish the Bear as I hiked-not too seriously, because the creek was my destination-but enough to sample the most alluring runs.
The Bear proved to be the treat of the day. By the time I reached the creek, I'd caught a half-dozen fish without much effort. And now that I'd reached my goal, it became obvious that the creek was unfishable. It plunges off a geologic shelf for a mile or so, cascading down with far too much speed to make for good fishing. I was disappointed. The creek was the point; the river had been only tossed in for a bonus. Or so I thought.
Then I remembered something that God has been teaching me this summer-it's not what he isn't giving but what he is giving. We can get so locked onto what we don't have, what we think we want or need, that we miss the gifts God is giving. Really, though the river had proved to be everything I hoped the creek would be-solitide, beauty, wild fish on a dry fly-I sulked halfway back to the car because I didn't get my creek...
This was today's gift. God did lead me, just not to what I expected.
Later, in July, my family and I were canoeing the Snake River in Teton National Park. This trip was an international move toward joy. We absolutely love that place. It was evening, and I was guiding our family and some dear friends down a part of the river most folks don't get to see and rarely canoe at dusk. I knew we would be alone, at the prime time for wildlife to come down for a drink. Hopes were high of seeing bull moose, elk, and who knows what else. We had seen bear in here before too. The evening could not have been more beautiful. As we glided along the banks, peering into the wild growth on either side, time slipped away. It could have been the 1800s. It could have been the 1600s. We were utterly alone on the silent river, at twilight, and I knew we were in for a treat.
We passed a den of some river otters we'd seen last year. Nobody home. We passed the island that moose are always hanging out on. Nope. Just a beaver or two. Frustrated, I made the group paddle an extra mile through a back channel where I knew the moose had to be. But no. The sun passed behind Mount Moran, and everyone was enjoying a spectacular sunset in the clouds above. But I missed it entirely, because I was so disappointed we didn't see wildlife. I was totally focused on what God was not giving, and missed what he was giving. Only later, looking at the photos Blaine took, did I see all that I had missed. The sunset was truly stunning. Peaches and violets and reds above the black silhouette of the mountains, all reflected in the river. I missed it. I nearly missed the Bear River today.
Father, forgive me. Forgive my demanding posture that life has to come to me on my terms. Oh Lord, how many gifts have I missed? Forgive me. The posture is ugly and narrow. I pray for a more gracious posture, to be open and grateful for what you are giving at any time. I pray to be your son."
Now, I'm not a fisherman, and really, I'm not entirely a nature person either. I hate bugs and spiders, and this summer a friend and I went walking in the woods and I found several small ticks crawling on my legs and I pretty much swore off trail hiking in its entirety after my panic attack. But I live in this gorgeous part of Europe, and with nature quite literally surrounding me, I can't ignore the beauty and wonder of this place. I've learned to appreciate it, and have been able to see God in small things- the leaves changing color on the trees that surround our little town, the piles of drying wood for fireplaces and the smell that lingers in the air during the colder months, the immense quiet that only happens when it's snowing, and the light that comes through the trees when you're walking in the woods. It's wonderful, and new for a girl who grew up mostly in the suburbs. It's this new appreciation that makes me understand John's love for nature. I like the way this story illustrates his point.
It's easy for me to miss the things that God is giving to me, because my focus is elsewhere. I naturally tend towards seeing the glass half empty, and can get so caught up in the difficult circumstances that I fail to see the good things that are always happening: a good conversation with a student, a lesson that strays away from my original plans but ends up somewhere much better, that moment when I pray for additional patience and understanding with a difficult student and it comes in an unexpected way, joyous dinners over good food with my friends, etc. The moments are there, when I choose to see them.
My prayer is very similar to John's-that I will open my eyes and my heart to the special things that God has to share with me, that I will recognize them, and that I will give thanks.
