My first year on the mission field was eye-opening. Instead of living in a foreign country, God called me to my hometown. Instead of spending the first few months learning a language, I spent my time learning the rhythms of grace.
This morning, as I read Revelation 1, I was reminded of that time in the little white cottage on the edge of town. I remember spending a whole night in prayer, begging to hear God’s voice, and then taking a walk as dawn splintered across the sky. I walked down to the edge of creek, my eggplant colored Bible dangling from my fingertips.
“God, I can’t even remember what you sound like,” I whispered into the waters.
And then I opened to Revelation, the next place on my reading list. There, where the roaring of the waters covered my voice, I read aloud John’s description of Jesus.
and among the lampstands was someone like a son of man, dressed in a robe reaching down to his feet and with a golden sash around his chest. The hair on his head was white like wool, as white as snow, and his eyes were like blazing fire. His feet were like bronze glowing in a furnace, and his voice was like the sound of rushing waters.
His voice is like the sound of rushing waters.
I leaned my head back against a rock and let my fingers trail in the icy waters. I laughed.
Of course. His voice is sometimes a roar, sometimes a soft trickle, sometimes rushing and splashing. But always, always, is carries power. Water is what sustains us, and even a small stream can push back mountains.
And today I am reminded– it was His voice that spoke the universe into being. His voice that instructed the prophets as they wrote the Scriptures. His voice that spoke from the cross, “It is finished.” His voice that continues to speak life and truth into my heart, even today.