THE BROOK HAS DRIED UP by Charles R. Swindoll

Read 1 Kings 17:5--7

One morning Elijah noticed that the brook wasn't gushing over the rocks or running as freely as it had in days past. Since that single stream of water was his lifeline, he checked it carefully. Over the next few days he watched it dwindle and shrink, until it was only a trickle. Then one morning, there was no water, only wet sand. The hot winds soon siphoned even that dampness, and the sand hardened. Before long, cracks appeared in the parched bed of the brook. No more water. The brook had dried up.

Does that kind of experience sound familiar to you? At one time you knew the joy of a full bank account, a booming business, an exciting, ever-expanding career, a magnificent and exciting ministry. But the brook has dried up.

At one time you knew the joy of using your voice to sing the Lord's praises. Then a growth developed on your vocal chords, requiring surgery. But the surgery removed more than the growth; it also took your lovely singing voice. The brook has dried up.

Your partner in life has grown indifferent and has recently asked for a divorce. There's no longer any affection and no promise of change. The brook has dried up.

I've had my own times when the brook has dried up, and I've found myself wondering about the things I've believed and preached for years. What happened? Had God died? No. My vision just got a little blurry. My circumstances caused my thinking to get a little foggy. I looked up, and I couldn't see Him as clearly. To exacerbate the problem, I felt as though He wasn't hearing me. The heavens were brass. I would speak to Him and heard nothing. My brook dried up.

That's what happened to John Bunyan in seventeenth-century England. He preached against the godlessness of his day, and the authorities shoved him into prison. His brook of opportunity and freedom dried up. But because Bunyan firmly believed God was still alive and at work, he turned that prison into a place of praise, service, and creativity as he began to write Pilgrim's Progress, the most famous allegory in the history of the English language. Dried-up brooks in no way cancel out God's providential plan. Often, they cause it to emerge.

Taken from Charles R. Swindoll, Great Days with the Great Lives (Nashville: W Publishing Group, 2005). Copyright © 2005 by Charles R. Swindoll, Inc. All rights reserved worldwide. Used by permission.

Contentment

We learned the end of last week that the missing young lady returned home....
Answered Prayer - and we give thanks.
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Contentment

He who follows righteousness and mercy finds life, righteousness and honor. Proverbs 21:21 (NKJV)

In our world, contentment is a strange street vendor, roaming, looking for a home, but seldom finding an open door. He moves slowly from house to house, knocking on doors, offering his wares: an hour of peace, a smile of acceptance, a sigh of relief. But his goods are seldom taken. We are too busy to be content.

"Not now, thank you. I've too much to do," we say. "Too many marks to be made, too many achievements to be achieved...."

So the vendor moves on. When I asked him why so few welcomed him into their homes, his answer left me convicted. "I charge a high price, you know. My fee is steep. I ask people to trade in their schedules, frustrations, and anxieties. I demand that they put a torch to their fourteen-hour days and sleepless nights. You'd think I'd have more buyers." He scratched his beard, then added pensively, "But people seem strangely proud of their ulcers and headaches."

- From: No Wonder They Call Him the Savior Copyright (W Publishing Group, 2003) Max Lucado

Please pray

Dear Trace Crossing family -
We normally don't use this blog as a prayer board; however, tonight (after the 10 p.m. news) our hearts are burdened. A young lady that we know and love (and love her parents and grandparents) was described as missing since Monday. Please join us in praying for her safe return. She is a Tupelo girl that has grown up in Harrisburg Church. Apparently she was last seen at ICC by the news report.

Thank you for joining us in prayer,
Marilyn and Jennie

LAMININ - Louis Giglio

HE UNDERSTANDS

Cries of loneliness. Tune out the traffic and turn down the TV. The cry is there. You can hear their cries. You can hear them in the convalescent home among the sighs and the shuffling feet. You can hear them in the prisons among the moans of shame and the calls for mercy. You can hear them if you walk the manicured streets of suburban America, among the aborted ambitions and aging homecoming queens. Listen for it in the halls of our high schools where peer pressure weeds out the "have-nots" from the "haves."

Many of you have been spared this cruel cry. Oh, you have been homesick or upset a time or two. But despair? Far from it. Suicide? Of course not. Be thankful that it hasn't knocked on your door. Pray that it never will. If you have yet to fight this battle, you are welcome to read on if you wish, but I'm really writing to someone else.

I am writing to those who know this cry firsthand. I'm writing to those of you whose days are bookended with broken hearts and long evenings. I'm writing to those of you who can find a lonely person simply by looking in the mirror.

For you, loneliness is a way of life. The sleepless nights. The lonely bed. The distrust. The fear of tomorrow. The unending hurt.

When did it begin? In your childhood? At the divorce? At retirement? At the cemetery? When the kids left home?

Maybe you have fooled everyone. No one knows that you are lonely. On the outside you are packaged perfectly. Your smile is quick. Your job is stable. Your clothes are sharp. Your waist is thin. Your calendar is full. Your walk brisk. Your talk impressive. But when you look in the mirror, you fool no one. When you are alone, the duplicity ceases and the pain surfaces.

Or maybe you don't try to hide it. Maybe you have always been outside the circle looking in, and everyone knows it. Your conversation is a bit awkward. Your companionship is seldom requested. Your clothes are dull. Your looks are common. Ziggy is your hero and Charlie Brown is your mentor.

Am I striking a chord? If I am, if you have nodded or sighed in understanding, I have an important message for you.

The most gut-wrenching cry of loneliness in history came not from a prisoner or a widow or a patient. It came from a hill, from a cross, from a Messiah.

"My God, my God," he screamed, "why did you abandon me!" (Matthew 27:46)

Never have words carried so much hurt. Never has one being been so lonely.

Out of the silent sky come the words screamed by all who walk in the desert of loneliness. "Why? Why did you abandon me?"

I keep thinking of all the people who cast despairing eyes toward the dark heavens and cry "Why?"

And I imagine him. I imagine him listening. I picture his eyes misting and a pierced hand brushing away a tear. And although he may offer no answer, although he may solve no dilemma, although the question may freeze painfully in midair, he who also was once alone, understands.

- from No Wonder They Call Him the Savior, Max Lucado