Whoever dwells in the shelter of the Most High will rest in the shadow of Shaddai.
I will say of the Lord, “He is my refuge and my fortress, my God, in whom I trust.”
Surely he will save me from the fowler’s snare and from the deadly pestilence.
He will cover me with his feathers, and under his wings I will find refuge; his faithfulness will be my shield and rampart.
I will not fear the terror of night, nor the arrow that flies by day, nor the pestilence that stalks in the darkness, nor the plague that destroys at midday.
A thousand may fall at my side, ten thousand at my right hand, but it will not come near me. I will only observe with my eyes and see the punishment of the wicked.
If I say, “The Lord is my refuge,” and I make the Most High my dwelling, no harm will overtake me, no disaster will come near my tent.
For he will command his angels concerning me to guard me in all my ways; they will lift me up in their hands, so that I will not strike my foot against a stone.
I will tread on the lion and the cobra; I will trample the great lion and the serpent.
“Because she loves me,” says the Lord,
“I will rescue her; I will protect her, for she acknowledges my name. She will call on me, and I will answer her, I will be with her in trouble, I will deliver her and honour her. With long life I will satisfy her and show her my salvation.”
(Psalm 91 NIV – edited to I/she)
I seem to have spent a fair amount of time in Bowling cemetery over the last months. Maybe it’s because I’m marking the end of an era, or maybe it’s just because the dog needs walking.
I’m walking slowly today, lingering with the sorrow of a friend who has had the rug pulled from under her feet. Most times, when we talk, the resonance of her voice is low and dignified. Even over the phone her tone paints the portrait of how she is sitting: poised, dignified, held together. Her back straight up holding in place a thousand unspoken words and stories. Today there was something else discernible in her tone that betrayed how winded and wounded she was. Although faint, it was so new in its expression that I felt it like a punch in the gut. Devastation.
Sister Wisdom where are you?
Then I saw her. Not Sister Wisdom, but mid-sized Barbie. Half naked with all her curves on show and her feet up. She’s lying on a broken and overgrown grave, with tight and taught curves, and it makes me laugh/cry as I am thinking about this friend who too had form, but never got to run as fast or as free as her body was designed to. Never got to put her feet up on all that was broken and smile because in this she could still win.
The dog was content truffle-hunting in the wet leaves, and I pause here for a little while lost in thought. I couldn’t see dear Sister Wisdom, but I heard her voice as a faint whisper in the breeze:
Whoever dwells in the shelter of the Most High will rest in the shadow of Shaddai.
For months now the sky has been low and grey. A dome of gloom that covers the days and seals us in. How do we experience this as shelter? I wonder. It doesn’t always feel enough to know the sun shines above the dome when you’re dwelling under it.
I’m standing looking down at the remnant of the grave plot where mid-sized Barbie lies. I’m engaging with my breath in order to still my mind, in order to listen, and as I look at her, ridiculously, I smile because she is smiling. More than that – she is glowing. Arms allonge like a ballerina, resplendent in her mid-sized, two-toned costume that neatly expands around her curves. Back to the breath and the promise:
“Whoever dwells”
Breathe
“Shelters”
Breathe
“Rests”
Breathe….
I begin to whisper the words of Psalm 91 over the broken old gravestone, over Barbie, over my friend:
She will say of the Lord, “He is my refuge and my fortress, my God, in whom I trust. Surely he will save her from the fowler’s snare and from the deadly pestilence.”
As I slowly whisper the words of promise, part of my mind is still seeking out knowledge:
If I say, “The Lord is my refuge,” and I make the Most High my dwelling, no harm will overtake me, no disaster will come near my tent.
I’m breathing and also whispering and asking and looking too and fro: What is the snare, God, what is the pestilence my friend is dealing with? What do we need to do? How does she, how do we, fulfil the “if I say” and the “and I make” so no harm will overtake her? I ‘m looking and seeking and listening and longing and nothing is clear.
Until I hear this:
“Child,” said the Lion, “I am telling you your story, not hers. No one is told any story but their own. (C.S.Lewis, The Horse and His boy.)
And I stop.
And I am still.
I’m in the cemetery with The Lion who died every single death and then broke its power. The Lion who lingers in places of desolation to meet with every weeping Mary. To call her name again until she remembers, until she can reach for what’s to come, with arms open allonge and a smile as wide and gleaming as mid-sized Barbie. Until she is singing loud and free:
“I know the end of the story, I’ll come out of the wilderness, leaning on my beloved.“ (Jon Thurlow, Strong love)
“With long life He will satisfy her” (Psalm 91) He can be trusted with my friend.
The Lion lingers and the Lion leads. And the dog tugs me away from Barbie, and away from the familiar, and I let her. The shimmering city I could always see on the horizon through the graves is His shimmering city after all.
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