I’m scrambling up a leaf-strewn trail in the Blue Ridge mountains of North Carolina, and I’m thinking about giants. I will find out later that I could be thinking about snakes—copperheads, to be exact—but for now, the roots that entangle the dirt at my feet are just that and nothing more.
I’ve slipped out of a conference for a breath of quiet prayer and fresh air. One of those still sitting back in the room is my friend, who with a small cohort of others is training to share the good news of Jesus to people in faraway places. She’s here because she’s heard God calling her to this—a path much harder than the one I tread through the woods today.
She and her co-laborers are giants to me, and each of them has a story. I’ve only heard snippets. Some are twenty years younger, some twenty years older. All are stepping forward toward this battle without fear, and I’m in awe. I can’t claim their courage.
I pause on a worn wooden footbridge over a creek and ponder all the things that shake me: the news, health, friends in crisis, my own sin. My eyes rest on a boulder downstream, partly wrapped in moss, the water bubbling around it on its rush down the hill. I leave the path and part the branches and brush to stand by it reverently.
I think about all the times I’ve tried to grasp at the verses that tell me not to worry: Do not be anxious about anything; do not be worried but seek first His kingdom; cast all your anxieties on Him; let not your heart be troubled.
And all those words are good and true, but they make me, a doer, try to do harder and better. I’m like the creek at my feet, scrambling down and around in frantic haste. And I want to be like the boulder instead, resting and sure.
God gently reminds me of promises I’d read just days before:
“For God alone my soul waits in silence; from him comes my salvation.
He alone is my rock and my salvation, my fortress;
I shall not be greatly shaken…
For God alone, O my soul, wait in silence, for my hope is from him.
He only is my rock and my salvation, my fortress;
I shall not be shaken.” (Psalm 62:1-2, 5-6, ESV)
These words stop my scrambling heart. They compel me to wait in silence. I sit in that fortress in my mind, a fortress that is the Creator of this creek and the boulders beyond.
And I just am. No matter the arrows that fly, the fires that rage, the rams that batter—I shall not be shaken as long as I remember where my hope rests. As long as I stay on the Rock.
“He alone is my rock…and my fortress; I shall not be greatly shaken.”
I begin the trek down the path, passing two men in conversation by a cabin, one a trucker and the other wearing the khaki clothes of the grounds crew. One drawls, “That’s the third one I’ve seen in two weeks.” The other queries, “How big around?” The first man answers with his hands, “This big. Copperheads, all three of ‘em.”
And I start to walk a little faster and a little louder through the leaves, watching for anything that might be slithering among the roots that so easily entangle.
I return to the room of giants—those who believe Psalm 62. They are being equipped to battle for the souls of those who are still scrambling, those who are vainly striving for a security in that which is not Christ, those who are entangled.
We stand to sing, and the leader names a song that takes my breath away. Because God repeats Himself when I need to remember, just like the words in Psalm 62 that remind me twice to wait in silence for God alone. Twice that he is my rock, my salvation, my fortress. And twice that I will not be greatly shaken.
I open my mouth and join this group of giants in the old familiar words:
A mighty fortress is our God,
A bulwark never failing;
Our helper He amid the flood
Of mortal ills prevailing:
For still our ancient foe
Doth seek to work us woe;
His craft and power are great,
And, armed with cruel hate,
On earth is not his equal.
Did we in our own strength confide,
Our striving would be losing;
Were not the right Man on our side,
The Man of God’s own choosing:
Dost ask who that may be?
Christ Jesus, it is He;
Lord Sabbath His name,
From age to age the same,
And He must win the battle. (A Mighty Fortress is Our God by Martin Luther)
And I am done scrambling.
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