Then Jesus went up into the hills and sat down…Jesus soon saw a great crowd of people climbing the hill, looking for Him. Turning to Philip, He asked,

Philip, where can we buy break to feed all these people?

There’s a young boy here with five barley loaves and two fish. But what good is that with this huge crowd?

Tell everyone to sit down, Jesus ordered.

And they all ate until they were full.

John 6:3,5,9,10,11

I am the bread of life.

No one who comes to Me will ever be hungry again.

John 6:35

The Meaning of the Name:

The people who were drawn to Jesus on the hillsides of around the Sea of Galilee were not wealthy folk. They didn’t have a lot of extra stashed away in a bank account to help them through the lean times. For these men and women to take a day off of work in order to listen to Jesus meant almost certain deprivation. It cost them something.

And yet they came in droves— thousands filled the grassy slopes. Gathered in clusters of friends and family, they soaked in the words of this man whose audacious claims earned him enemy-of-state status.

I wonder sometimes what it would have been like to be in that crowd. To be jostled by neighbors trying to get closer, to sit in the relentless heat with sweat pouring down my back.

What must it have been like to feel the hunger and sense the thirst of those thousands? To hope like they must have, when all other hope was gone? Was the place crazy with excitement? Were they scared? What drew them there? And, I wonder,

Did they walk away with what they wanted?

The story tells us that the very next morning some of these same people came clamoring for more. With visions of sugarplums dancing in their heads (or maybe it was barley loaves), they gathered for a second helping. Just think of it, no more work, no more striving for every little scrap, here was a man who’d just hand it to them, no questions asked!

Only this time, instead of baskets of bread, they got an earful of honesty.

…you shouldn’t be so concerned about perishable things like food.

Spend your energy seeking the eternal life that I, the Son of Man, can give you…

I am the bread of life.

No one who comes to Me will ever be hungry again.

Those who believe in Me will never thirst…

But you haven’t believed even though you have seen Me.

John 6

They knew exactly what He was saying— that if they wanted to have hold of this bread that filled the gnawing hunger of 5000 people in the wilderness, they were going to have to get off their passive pattucies and go after Him in risk-taking trust. He wasn’t going to prove Himself one more time in order to help them off their wavering picket fence.

If they wanted that bread— that magical, mystical, richly satisfying-to-their-toes kind of life they were hoping for, they were going to have to fully and irrevocably entrust every aspect of their lives to Him. And He wasn’t giving any guarantee that He would cooperate with their wishes.

Jesus wasn’t about to make it easy. And He still doesn’t.

Instead he says,

This is the way it is. You want bread?

You want what will keep you fully alive and strong?

Above those soul-crushing waves, out of your endless wilderness of worry?

It’s Me you want!

Not Ten Steps to the Happy Life, satisfaction guaranteed or your money back. There aren’t ten steps, there’s only one: Me.

To get at that bread you crave you’re going to have to let go of everything else

that makes you pretend you’re safe.

Your family, your inflexible this-is-the-way-we-do-things approach to life,

your pitiful attempts at control.

And some days you’re going to be faced with impossibilities

like feeding 5000 men out of your sack lunch.

Or loving someone who betrays you.

Or shutting up when everything in you screams for justice.

Or giving thanks for deafness when straining to hear leaves you limp with exhaustion— left out and alone.

When Jesus held that loaf of barley bread in His hands, He wasn’t offering peace-filled platitudes. He was issuing a challenge.

Will you trust Me?

Even when you’re hungry and the cupboards are bare

and all you have is all I am?

Because that’s when I’ll be the Bread of Life to you.

That’s when you will know that deep-down soul-saturating fullness that only I can give.

When you’re absolutely starving and you choose Me and only Me.

Not your friends, not your family, not another seminar or counselor or guarantee. Just Me.

I don’t know if you’ve been to that place of nothingness. I do think that everyone of us gets there at some point in our lives. Maybe some of us arrive a little more hallow eyed and gaunt-cheeked than others, but if you’ve been there you know exactly what I’m saying.

And I know this: once you’ve eaten deeply of who He is- the Bread of Life- you’ll never hunger for anything else again.

From my heart,

Diane

…How blessed are all who take refuge in Him.

Psalm 2:12

NASB

(source)

Satisfaction and rest. The world searches frantically for both.  I search for both.

If only I had…

If only I were…

If only I could…

Lasting satisfaction is not filled by people or places or things.

And rest.  Where do I find that?  A perfect vacation?  A beach house?  A lighter schedule?  Less work to do?

No. Rest is found in only one place. Deep down daily soul rest is found only in the Shelter of the Almighty.

I know the satisfaction and the rest to be found in the Shelter.  I’ve been there.  It is a wonderful place to be.  The problem is, I tend to just go for a visit. I pop in when the hassles of life get to me, when I feel restless and dissatisfied, when things don’t go my way.

Rest is for those who live in the Shelter of the Most High.  There is a big difference between living there and taking a quick visit when the need arises.  This Shelter is not a vacation home. It is a place to move into permanently. A place to get comfortable in, to hang some picture memories, to snuggle down deep.

I have known the Shelter as a hospital room. When I am hurting or grieving it is the first place I want to run to. I have known the heart-healing of that place.

I have known the Shelter as a refuge. When I am worn out and weary I seek a respite there.  In that Shelter I have been refreshed and renewed.

I have known the Shelter as a library of sorts.  I have gone there seeking solutions, answers for questions too big for me.  I have come away with a heart full of His wisdom.

I have known His Shelter as a place of pure joy. I have worshiped there alone and have celebrated in His presence with the family of believers.  I have touched His Throne and been transformed again and again and again.

And yet with all these wonderful visits, I have yet to consistently dwell there. I move in and out.  I don’t know why.  I just sort of drift out.  Until another crisis or an especially beautiful quiet time reminds me that this is where I want to be.  I don’t want to be so foolishly fickle.  I love it there in the Shelter.

I am coming to realize that the act of dwelling there, really living in the Shelter of the Most high, is a daily decision.  No, it’s more like an hourly decision, a moment by moment awareness of the Father.

I can choose to live there when things are good and when they are not.  I can live there when the kids are squabbling, when I am shuttling teenagers, at the drizzling soccer field, and at the crowded grocery store.

I can live there from the moment I wake up to the time I go to sleep and every moment in between.  The Bible tells me that He will keep on giving to me even in my sleep!

But the decision to stay there is mine.  The Father will not force me.  I must decide if I want to seek Him with all my heart.   I must put aside, at times, thoughts and words and actions that do not belong in the Shelter.  Just like I make my kids leave their muddy shoes outside in the garage, so must I leave my filth at the altar before I can enter into His presence.  He is not expecting perfection- He knows me too well for that.  But when He whispers in my ear I must listen and obey lest I push away His Spirit and push myself out of the Shelter.

So here it is.  On this page of my journal I state the desire of my heart:

I want to live,

to daily dwell in

the Shelter of the Most High.

I seek the rest and the satisfaction

that is found in Him alone.

I long to live

in Him.

From my heart,

Diane

Why don’t you soak into Psalm 16 for a while? It’s David’s yearning to dwell there.

(repost)

I will teach you and instruct you in the way in which you should go;

I will counsel you with My eye upon you.

Psalm 32:8

Come, let us go up to the mountain of the LORD,

To the house of the God of Jacob,

That He may teach us concerning His ways,

And that we may walk in His paths.

Isaiah 2:3

The Meaning of His Name:

I have always been terribly forgetful. I forget where I put my keys, what I did with my jacket, where I parked my car. When I was a little girl I forgot my homework, my library book, my gym clothes, my lunch.

My mom (who forgets nothing) used to say, If your head wasn’t attached you’d forget that too! My big brother nicknamed me Dingbat-Di for all the times I got in trouble for forgetting again.

All that forgetfulness made school, to say the least, challenging. I was always borrowing pencils and lunch money. I don’t know how many times I stared at my teacher in horror and proclaimed total and complete ignorance of an assignment due that day.

It’s not that I didn’t want to do well; I loved the order of the classroom, the smell of the textbooks, the discovery of something new and unknown. It’s just that there was so much to remember and nothing seemed to stick in my head for long enough to grab hold and stay there.

Of all my teachers, Mrs. Brown was my favorite. Tall and slim with softly waving hair, she wore long flowing skirts cinched at the waist and funny half glasses with a chain around her neck.  Every day after lunch, she’d wait for us all to settle into our seats and quiet down.  Perched on her stool with all the poise of royalty, Mrs. Brown would quietly open a book and read us into new worlds.

Secret animal kingdoms with Wind in the Willows, Victorian England with Black Beauty, back country farms with Charlotte’s Web. I lost myself in her stories, relishing every detail, remembering every character, laughing and crying and hanging onto every word.

After school I’d run home and recount every detail to my mom over a plate of homemade cookies and milk. Names and places and descriptions and who said what to whom.

I forgot nothing.

And mom noticed. Maybe her little girl wasn’t so hopelessly forgetful after all.

Pretty soon my mom (ever the organized scheduler) had settled us into the routine of stopping by the library every week. She helped me find the books Mrs. Brown read to us and then she’d take me home and cuddle up with me on the couch and gently coach me through the words. While at school I painfully pushed myself to memorize flash cards of words (this was way before phonics), at home Mom slid her finger under sentences as she enveloped me in the stories.

At school I learned to read, but it was at home that I fell in love with learning.

(my mom and me)

There was a kindness in the way my mom taught me. As if she had all the time in the world to read it again and again. I remember the cadence of her voice, the feel of her crisply ironed blouse, the scent of her perfume, the press of her cheek against my head. Time slowed down to my pace and all the things I could never remember filled up and made sense and stuck tight.

And I think that’s how Jesus teaches too.

Slow and soft and gentle and easy. He pulls us up tight against His heart and runs His finger under what we’re supposed to know. Lets us linger a little so we can get it down deep. Listens while we say it back. Leads us to the edge of wonder and makes us feel safe there.

When Jesus taught His disciples He said the same things over and over again. He used stories from real life and asked strangely probing questions and let silence get comfortable. He compared people to sheep and mixed mud into medicine and made sure everyone saw everything He ever did.

Kinda like my mom.

And is it any wonder those guys followed Him right down to their deaths? Peter upside down on a cross, John all alone on an island, James with his head on a block.

Those men knew all about the Teacher. His truth slid past their ears right into their brains and on down into the very fabric of their lives.

His truth changed everything.

Sometimes I get mad at myself because, once I again I forget. I forget to be gentle, I forget to forgive, I forget to talk nice, I forget to trust. Over and over, it seems, I have to learn the same lessons.

And I keep waiting for Him to get frustrated with me, to slam down His fist and shout, enough!

And all He does is lift me onto His lap and hold me close and open the pages again.

As if He has all the time in the world to wait for me to get it right.

As if He knows I will

because He knows I want to

because He knows I can

as long as I stay all curled up close in His arms.

From a heart that is learning in the lap of the Rabbi,

Diane

Make me to know Thy ways, O LORD;

Teach me Thy paths.

Lead me in truth and teach me.

Psalm 25

I’ve worried today about an awful lot of things…

Will I be home in time to swipe the dust before my friends arrive?

Are my jeans sagging where I don’t want them to because I’m filling them where I shouldn’t?

Dinner… what’s for dinner that’s easy and at least a little healthful?

What do I wear this weekend if it’s hot? Can I get away with bare legs at a funeral or have I got to cover up with nylons?

I really should go running… and I really don’t want to… but that ½ is coming and I really should go running…

And while I worry about a lot of things, my friend is worried about just one…

How long will her daughter recognize her face?

My friend could care less about dust cloths and saggy jeans or nylons on a hot day. She just wants Rachel to know who she is. To be assured at her touch. To snicker a little laugh at an inside joke. Vickie just wants Rachel to remember.

A couple of decades ago, Rachel came squalling into the Hughes family, a healthy, vibrant baby girl with a little more than the normal number of chromosomes and a whole lot more than the average amount of girlishness.

A little fairy of a child, Rachel loved pink and glitter and Cinderella wands. Her silky blond hair framed a face kissed by God Himself, a smile with dimples, and those lovely slanted eyes that marked her as different.

Everyone who knew Rachel relished the different—the grace and the light and the pure joy that wrapped her little frame from head to toe.

By the age of two, Rachel’s fragile body was attacked by leukemia. A battle raged with horrific force as her mother and father joined an army of souls to fight it back. Needles and drips and searing pain marked that little girl’s days. She thought the white-robed ones were enemies, the hospital a house of horror.

All she wanted was to go home.

After what seemed like forever, she did.

And she flourished there.

Years went by. Years of Barbie parties and pretend weddings and real wedding dresses. Dangly earrings and fresh cut bangs. Sandals with heels.

And pink, lots and lots of pink.

Then Crohn’s hit. And migraines. And hormone problems. And more pain.

My friend, Vickie, cared for little Rachel through many a long night of pain. She sang songs and read stories and played Barbie and stroked those silky blond bangs.

She and Dave stayed home when other parents went to the beach or out to dinner or otherwise flew the coop. Rachel needed them and so they stayed.

And so did her brother and sister. Teenagers who loved that little girl with a fierce kind of love. The kind that grows kids up in a hurry and creates a gentle waft of fragrance in their presence.

Real love.

After a while, the battles subsided once again and Rachel came back full of all the vim and vigor of a true teenager. She carried purses with nothing in them and joined a cheerleading team and worshiped with her hands held high.

An angel in the pew.

And we all loved Rachel. She swept us into her world of fairy tales and beauty and everything good.

Never bold or bombastic, she just managed to leave in her wake a certain kind of smile, like a secret yet spoken. She was a lady and proud of it, with a little bit of girliness still lurking just under her sophisticated surface.

But then she began to fade. To draw away. Her mom noticed it first, the mumbling  words and sinking deep. Rachel’s humor waned and with it her smile.

Something was wrong.

Once again a round of doctors. Tests. Wonderings.

But Rachel retreated further and further away, lost in a world of her own, rarely reachable.

Instead of dancing, Rachel straightened. She fussed and fixed and folded t-shirts over and over again. Had to get it right. Had to have the order her mind was missing. Had to do something to calm the swirling inside.

And then the diagnosis: Alzheimer’s.

What do you say to a parent of a teenager with Alzheimer’s?

Read that again.

A parent of a teenager with Alzheimer’s.

Cancer… Crohn’s…Alzheimer’s.

Wouldn’t you think my friend, Vickie, would be mad?

Cursing God?

Ranting and raving and kicking the cat?

Or at least popping pills to alleviate the anguish?

Not Vickie, not a chance.

Instead this grieving mom is writing about birds’ nests and beauty and lessons learned in that shadow world. About hugging and memories goodnight songs. About letting go and holding on and allowing God to be good in the midst of all that bad.

Vickie is laying out lessons every harried mother needs to know. Lessons every family needs to grasp.

Lessons hard won and hardly ever learned.

I don’t know how long Rachel has in our real world or how long until she forgets.

I don’t know how Vickie can smile through the kind of pain no mother ought to suffer.

I only know this: there’s still an awful lot I don’t know.

Oh Di,

I hear my Savior say to me in all my fussing,

you are worried about so many things.

But see your sister, Vickie?

Watch her.

She knows what’s really important.

She washes My feet with her tears and washes the world with her faith.

Go thou and do likewise.

Learning from a friend,

Diane

To learn from my friend, Vickie, click here.

“He Himself is our peace.”

Ephesians 2:14

The meaning of His name:

I just got one of those missives that made my blood boil. You know the kind… all couched in sweet sounding spiritual platitudes with an underlying ugliness meant to hurt deep.

Ugh!

The more I read the madder I got. I wanted to rave, to bite back, to form a sarcastic reply and disseminate the paragraphs of sugar coated half-truths. And I wanted to show the message around to others who’d agree with me and do a little ranting of their own.

But as I got up to make myself some breakfast, I passed a pile of writing I’d intended to do. A stack of reference books about the Names of God, a book about Shalom and its biblical roots, a couple of Bibles ready to open and dig deep.

Gulp. In this frame of mind I could hardly be expected to write niceties. I was way to mad for that. Indignant, righteous anger.

Or maybe just mad.

After filling my empty belly with oatmeal I decided I’d better fill my angry soul with something better than the sour grapes I’d swallowed whole.

And that’s when I discovered the beauty of this name- Sar Shalom. Prince of Peace.

You see, I thought this title to be a sort of grand name all lit up in lights on a marquee. For some strange reason no one seems to be able to trace, it’s a name we take out and shine all up at Christmastime. We like this name. We like the royal loveliness of the way it sounds as we sing it.

But do we really grasp what it means when we wake up to find a nasty note in our mailbox?

The Hebrew word for peace is shalom. It is a word dripping with meaning.  While most of us interpret peace as the absence of conflict, this word encompasses much, much more. It conveys a sense of tranquility and wholeness and completion. Shalom includes such benefits as health, satisfaction, success, safety, and prosperity.

It is everything we want in life, and everything we want for those we love.

But don’t forget the prince part. That’s important. A prince in ancient days was not merely a handsome figurehead waiting for his chance to snatch the throne. A prince was a man of power, a man with authority over his subjects.

A man to be feared and obeyed.

Uh oh, all those mean replies I’d been making up in my head were suddenly starting to look a little petty… and maybe a whole lot wrong.

Prince of peace.

I think this prince had a few things to say about not-so-nice messages and how He wants me to deal with them. Things like…

God blesses those who work for peace, and they will be called the children of God. (Mt 5:9)

God blesses you when you are mocked and persecuted and lied about because you are My followers. Be happy about it! Be very glad! For a great reward awaits you in heaven. And remember, the ancient prophets were persecuted, too. (Mt 5:11,12)

Don’t repay evil for evil. Don’t retaliate when people say unkind things about you. Instead, pay them back with a blessing. That is what God wants you to do, and He will bless you for it! (I Peter 3:9)

And that’s just the tip of the iceberg! This Prince of Peace talked about working hard at peace (I Peter 3:11), about doing good to those who are downright nasty (Mt 5:47). When people spit in His face and made fun of Him, He chose to stay silent and pray for them (Mt 26:63). Then He let Himself be led to the Cross and nailed there— just so He could offer His enemies that irrevocable peace they so desperately needed.

Will I ever learn?

My heart response this morning showed me some real blackness still buried down deep. I was so ready to bury someone in sludge who’d slung a little mud my way. So quick to bite back. So slow to follow in the footsteps of the One I call my King… the Prince of Peace.

I’m all confessed now… and repentant… and ready to do what He says… so that I can have what He offers… and relish the peace in His wake.

And I’ve told you all this so that you and I can do this together, this living in the kingdom of the Prince of Peace. So that you know that I struggle because I know that you struggle too. This is no easy task. It requires a daily determination to die to all my own ugliness and to follow hard after the One who knows the way.

Are you with me?

From my heart,

Diane  Comer

For more on Jesus’ response when being mistreated, read I Peter 2 and 3… and John 18-19:30. And for more on peace, read Philippians 4:6-9 and John 14:27

“Come my children, and listen to Me, and I will teach you…”

Psalm 34:11 (NLT)

“My heart has heard You say, ‘Come and talk with Me.’ And my heart responds, “LORD, I am coming.”

Psalm 34:11 (NLT)

It is early as I sip slowly from my second cup of steaming tea. Snuggled warm beneath a thick blanket, I watch reluctant light illuminate a fog wrapped world.

Silent. Still. Beautiful.

I love these early quiet hours. Before the world awakes and needs arise. Time to think, and sip, and go slow.

In this early hour I am fully me. Not who I need to be. Not who I wish I could be. Just me, with all my complexities and worries and hopes and dreams and possibilities. Me.

And here in this safe place I meet God.

My Father. My Lord. My dearest Friend.

He beckons me here, urges me to this seat by the window. Surrounded by books and Bible, pad of paper and favorite pen, I think. And ponder. And sometimes I know things I never knew before. Things that tell the truth about my insides, about why I do what I do and say what I say. Why I drive myself too hard at certain times and drag my heels at others. Why my list burdens and bothers and why I can’t let it go.

Somehow, here, all tucked into His love, I’m okay with me. Because He is. In His presence I seem right. I fit. I think He likes me. I know He does.

This is where He speaks. Here in the quiet I hear…

“Shh, Di, quiet now… Listen… I’ve wisdom for that worry.

Do you want My way? Are you sure?

Because mine is the way of the Cross…”

Bible open now and heart all soft, my soul soaks in all He has to say. Wisdom words about respect and hope and anxiety and striving. About living life different.

Here He tells me to trust. To forgive. To stop struggling all the time and finally just let Him have His way- since after all, I’ve told Him again and again that’s what I want.

“Now do it, Di, and see Me part those waters while you walk that muddy ground right up the other side.”

In this warm wrapped moment I know I can. Because I know He will.

Because He always has and He always does and He’s always been. And His stories tell me He’ll never stop.

I read Esther’s worries and hear her growing faith. The courage of this girl snatched from home, captive to a king’s lust, called to risk it all for an ideal- she takes my breath away. All her life for this one moment?

Do I live like that? Like that hard thing is why I’m here? Like all my life is for now? Like I matter that much?

Suddenly, forgiving that one who hurt me, doesn’t seem so hard. Of course I do…because He does… because hurting my feelings is really not the end of the world… because loving her in all her normalness is what He wants from me…because He sees me so much better than I am and makes me so much better than I could ever hope to be… and I want to love her like He loves me.

Of course I do…because He does.

My home is stirring awake now. A waft of coffee, a hint of hurry. The clock reads later than I’d thought. Time to go. The lists awaits.

Tomorrow I’ll come again. To hush… to listen… to let go… to gather wisdom to be who I really am and courage to do what I otherwise wouldn’t.

From my heart,

Diane

Want more? Read Esther’s story and then flip over to Matthew, chapter five to hear more about listening and living and loving His way.

God is our refuge and strength, a very present help in trouble…

The LORD of Hosts is with us.

Cease striving and know that I am God;

I will be exalted among the nations,

I will be exalted in the earth…

The Lord of hosts is with us.

The Meaning of His Name:

I might have mentioned a time or two how fear-prone I have always been. (read more about that here)

Cautious is my middle name; careful defines how I live my life.

I think I have thought of every possible scenario that could happen to one of my kids and warned them in somber tones about this story I just read in the newspaper…

Just letting them know, of course that danger lurks at the seaside and on the highway to the beach and in raw eggs and in crazy-macho-boy-man-showing-off moments of foolishness.

Just in case they hadn’t thought of that.

But I had an airhead moment many years ago where I forgot all my cautionary advice for just a few seconds and did the unthinkable- I opened my door to a stranger.

As I remember it, the day was a typically lovely day where we lived in Santa Cruz, California. The fog had burnt off around noon and now my kids were playing in the backyard with friends while their mother and I chatted on the sofa. Barbara was a doll-sized woman with a personality as big and bold as a warrior. Mostly when Barbara talked, I laughed- her hilarious recounting of everyday life situations, which she seemed to regularly encounter made my safe life sound tediously boring.

In the midst of our talking someone started pounding on the front door. And I do mean pounding. Like a sledgehammer on steel, the sound had me jumping off the sofa and rushing to investigate before I had a chance to think.

Instead of peeping through the hole to see who was on the other side (a safety precaution I’d insisted my husband install just in case…), I flung the door open to see who dared interrupt my day. And what I saw nearly took my breath away.

A man. A BIG man. A VERY BIG man with a very big black dog by his side.

Rooted to the spot, I could only stare as this VERY BIG man began to swing his arms in angry gestures and rant through tight clenched teeth,

Where’s Diane? They told me Diane was here… where’s Diane?

In the strangest voice, he mumbled and shouted all at once, pointing to his dog, demanding an answer, insisting he see DIANE. Meanwhile his big black dog swirled in agitated circles as if searching for a hidden enemy, barking, jumping, and moaning with the man.

I stood frozen with fear, my front door wide open, oblivious to caution and carefulness and common sense.

At just the moment the VERY BIG man stepped towards me, my tiny friend, Barbara came to the rescue. Leaping off the sofa a few feet away, Barbara ran to the door, shoved me unceremoniously aside, and slammed that door shut with a bang that could be heard miles away- all the while shouting, There’s no Diane here! Go away!

Still trembling, we snuck to a window to see where the man and his dog had gone. He stood there, shaking his unkempt black hair, muttering, looking up from time to time, as if arguing with someone by the front door. A great debate raged for several seconds between the man, his frothing dog, and some invisible adversary.

When he finally left, both of us crumpled to the floor in a uniquely female mixture of hysteria-laced hilarity. We were laughing and crying and shaking and completely beside ourselves with the ridiculous horror of it all.

I never did find out who that man was. I did discover that he’d gone from door to door in my neighborhood inquiring incoherently about Diane. My brother-in-law, Jack (who lived next door), politely pointed him to my house and then wondered what in the world his pip-squeak of a sister-in-law would have to do with a man like that… thanks Jack!

I believe that God sent His angels to protect me that day.

Me, who’d always been so careful to protect myself, needed His help. I think the invisible adversary the man was arguing with was a guard placed by God beside my door to stop the man from whatever havoc he intended to wreck.

He kept me safe when I didn’t know how.

And that’s what this Name is all about. Yahweh Sabaoth. LORD of Hosts.

The first one to discover this Name of God was a suffering woman who lived in the midst of fear-filled times. Her name was Hannah and she wanted a son more than anything else in the world. Hannah’s inability to conceive left her not only lonely and heartbroken— it also left her at the mercy of her husband’s nasty second wife. More than that, however, was the uncertainty of her future. In the absence of social security, a son was charged with the care of his parents in their old age. To be barren meant to die destitute.

Hannah, “greatly distressed”, “wept and would not eat”. She prayed to the Lord as she “wept bitterly” at the alter in the Temple… and “the Lord remembered her and it came about in due time… that she gave birth to a son; and named him Samuel.” (see her story in I Samuel 1,2)

LORD Sabaoth answered.

Decades later, Hannah’s baby boy would grow up to be the prophet-priest who anointed David king over all God’s people. And King David sang song after song about this LORD of Hosts whose protection defined logic.

Then came the pleas of Isaiah and Jeremiah and Zechariah and Hosea and Amos and Micah and Naham and Habakkuk and Zephaniah and Haggai and Zechariah and Malachi.

Men who saw where God’s people were headed and after warning, begging, pleading, urging them back to His heart, finally just placed them in His hands… the hands of the LORD of Hosts.

This is a Name for those long nights of waiting for someone you love to step back into the circle of His love and your care.

This is a Name for when you are unable to protect even yourself. For those moments when you open the door… and this One steps in to rescue you from your own foolishness.

This is a Name for those times when all your warnings and cautionary tactics fail.  When the one you love doesn’t listen. When all you can do is leave her in His hands.

This is the Name for when that VERY BIG man comes too close and you don’t know what to do.

Yahweh Sabaoth. The LORD of Hosts.

Hiding safe in this Name,

Diane

Do you have any real life stories of when God stepped in to rescue you without explanation?

Would you share those stories with us to strengthen our fear-prone tendencies to think we’ve got to be so very, very careful?

I’d love to hear.