Rodent Redaction

I seem to be having a rodent problem. 

Example #1: Several months ago, while cleaning a bedroom where a guest had just slept, I lifted the knit blanket from the chair in the corner and I jumped. Stuck to the bottom of the blanket, seemingly sleeping serenely, was a petrified baby squirrel. Yes, I was appropriately mortified. And no, I don’t know how it got there or why I didn’t smell its putrid, decaying frame until I picked up the throw. Evidence below:

Example #2: I had decided to clean my screened porch because spring weather had arrived. I was hoping to sit on the patio furniture and drink my coffee on the upcoming cool mornings. Again, this incident involves a blanket. And again, I was lifting the blanket off the couch when I screamed and started. Under the red, tapestry-like throw, I found a mouse scurrying away with five babies attached to her bottom. Either she was birthing them or nursing them. Judging by the size of all the babies, I decided they were nursing. She was a slow scurry-er with the attached babies, so I got to view her actions for several minutes. In her panic, a few babies detached from her bottom and were laying in the corner of the couch. She tried to grab one of them in her mouth and found another hiding place for them under a pillow. By this time, I was freaking out and had no idea how to move this little family without mouses climbing up my arms. I ran to get the kitchen broom, pushed the pillow away with the broom, and was finally able to prod her onto the floor and out the porch door. In her surprised haste, she dropped several of her babies on her way down the stairs. I gathered up the dropped furless babies carefully in a dustpan and put them on the grass below the stairs. They were making pitiful squeaking sounds. Then I went back into my porch and found the perfectly round hole in one of the screens where mama mouse had chewed through so she could nest in a blanket that lay upon my patio furniture. I didn’t have time to fix the hole in the screen, but I placed a mouse trap just below it on the windowsill and yelled down to mama mouse, “I saved you and your babies but now you must stay out of my porch.” Apparently, mama mouse did not understand English and apparently, she thought some of her babies were still on my couch because she made her way through the hole, stepped onto the mousetrap, and got caught by her head. RIP mm. See very fuzzy screen shots from video as evidence below:

Also, I am not a bad housekeeper.

                       

Example #3: As I was drinking coffee on my now rodent-free porch this morning, I glanced out the screen door and saw this:

This was not a pleasant sight first thing in the morning, especially with my recent rodent problems. I wasn’t sure who had pooped on my porch stairs, but I knew whoever it was had been eating lots and lots of seeds. I proceeded to finish my coffee, then go to the garage and gather up a trowel. I used the trowel to scoop the poop and plop it onto the grass below. As I walked outdoors, I noticed that the pooper had also visited the nearby swing set and decided to leave a seedy deposit on the lofted playhouse. No one wants a poopy playhouse, so I also removed the poop via trowel and threw it out into the yard. After I had performed all this stinky seedy scat removal, I googled “dark brown seedy rodent poop” and discovered that a raccoon was the most likely culprit. I also discovered that raccoon poop is VERY TOXIC because it often contains Baylisascaris worms and, according to the CDC, I was supposed to be VERY CAREFUL when removing it. These are the directions listed for clean-up. I have placed a check mark after the ones I followed:

• Wear disposable gloves.

• Wear a N95-rated respirator. 

• Avoid stirring up dust and debris.

• Wear rubber boots that can be scrubbed or cover your shoes with disposable booties that can be thrown away.

• Feces and material contaminated with raccoon feces should be removed and burned, buried, or sent to a landfill.

• Treat feces-soiled decks, patios, and other surfaces with boiling water or a propane torch. ✔                

I read these precautions AFTER I, gloveless, maskless, and bootless, had quickly discarded the poop. I did not burn, bury, or send the poop to a landfill. I threw the poop in the yard where my dog and my grandchildren play. 

Reading further, I learned “Raccoon droppings are dangerous because many contain tiny roundworm eggs that can infect humans and cause serious illness if accidentally swallowed or inhaled. Although these infections are rare, they can lead to irreversible brain, heart, and sometimes eye damage and death.” Because I am a worst-case scenario kind of person, I was certain that I had inadvertently ingested Baylisascaris larvae and that I would die within the month. Wanting to spare my husband (who would mow over the poop and also ingest the larvae), I quickly went inside (and after spitting a lot and gargling with salt water to kill any worms in my mouth), put the kettle to boil and proceeded to pour boiling water on the scattered poop pieces and upon any stairway surface the poop had touched. I chose the boiling water method because I did not desire to burn up my house, yard, or swing set. After pouring all the water out on the feces pieces, I boiled another pot and poured it on the poop spot on the swing set loft. Then I carefully looked in the river rock under the loft because I was sure that my granddaughter would play in those pebbles, pick up the poop, eat it, and become disabled for life. And it would be my--and the absent raccoons--fault. So, excuse me now as I contemplate my recent rogue rodents and the uncertain fate of myself, my husband, my current and future grandchildren. 

Finally, as with all experiences, I have gained a few droppings of insight, so I will leave you with some solid advice: Check your blankets carefully before you entertain guests, use wisdom when choosing to assist a mother mouse, and never ever invite a raccoon to share your bathroom. 

You Do You?

This is a repost from a few years ago. Someone said this ubiquitous phrase to me the other day and I remembered that I had written about somewhere. That somewhere was on my very own blog. Check it out: 

My children, who are now grown and think I am old and peculiar will often respond to my strange habits or proclivities with “you do you.”  I used to think this was funny, and actually kind of empowering, since I do think and act differently than your average millennial.  But, as I mulled it over in my old, peculiar brain, I decided that “you do you” was pretty bad advice theologically. 

If I followed the mantra of “you do you,” I would eat only tortilla chips and salted (not ‘lightly salted’) almonds and Breyer’s Cookies and Cream Ice Cream.  And I would drink only ice water (with good ice) and extra hot hazelnut coffee from Panera (with plenty of half and half), with an occasional Diet Coke fountain drink thrown in (not into the coffee of course) for good measure (again, good ice).  I would lie in my hammock for days on end and read stacks of books and sleep.  I would rarely leave my house unless I ran out of the above-mentioned foods.  And I would wake up in the morning around 9:30am and wear a hat every day because I would never fix my hair. I would use parenthesis liberally.

If I followed the mantra of “you do you,” I would take every opportunity to tell you why you are wrong, and I am right.  I would complain incessantly about anything and everything.  I would criticize the way you thought and dressed and spoke.  And if those words that you spoke hurt me, I would not forgive you.

If I followed the mantra of “you do you,” I would believe that I was too bad to enter God’s presence; that I was too small to gain his attention; that I was too far gone to deserve his forgiveness. 

And I would be right.

Because if I followed the mantra of “you do you,” I wouldn’t be able to restrain my tendencies to hurt and to hate.  I wouldn’t be capable of forgiveness and flourishing.  I wouldn’t be fit to come close to God.

So, I have decided instead to live by “you do Jesus,” since the whole “you do you” just isn’t gonna cut it. 

If I live by the mantra, “you do Jesus,” I can retrain my brain and restrain my body to make it healthy and holy. 

If I live by the mantra, “you do Jesus,” I can measure my words and monitor my mouth and renew my mind.

If I live by the mantra, “you do Jesus,” I can not only forgive the ones I hold captive, I, myself, can be forgiven!  I can become fit because he was forsaken; lifted up because he brought himself low!  I can give him my rags of shame and gain his robe of splendor! 

If I live by the mantra “you do Jesus,” I can come close to God!

So, really, you don’t want me to do me. 

The me you see now is Jesus in me, slowly (oh, so slowly), but ever so surely working out my salvation for his glory.  I am learning to walk in his ways (clumsily, imperfectly, even sometimes disobediently), and he is making me into the Tori he intended before the world began.

I am learning to rest in his love. 

Next time you hear “you do you,” don’t let it fool you.  And don’t let it make you a fool.

Don’t “you do you.”  Hide yourself in Jesus instead.

Since, then, you have been raised with Christ, set your hearts on things above, where Christ is, seated at the right hand of God. Set your minds on things above, not on earthly things. For you died, and your life is now hidden with Christ in God. When Christ, who is your life, appears, then you also will appear with him in glory.

Colossians 3:1-4

Why We Shouldn’t Teach Children that Jesus is Their Best Friend

 

A few days ago, I was in a meeting in which we were discussing creative ways to present Bible truths to children.  As we were each presenting our methods of telling the week’s Bible story to the kids, one of my fellow teachers said, “I just tell them that Jesus is their best friend.” I was very uncomfortable with this statement.  Let me explain…

Good Sentiment. Bad Theology

A W Tozer famously writes, “What comes into our minds when we think about God is the most important thing about us.” If we believe this to be true, then we must be very careful to present the God of the Bible with utmost care and accuracy.  If we don’t teach our children to view God correctly from their very earliest years, their impressions of their Creator will be unbalanced at best... or heretical at worst. As parents and teachers, we need to take God’s reputation very seriously.    

In A Class of His Own

Yes, I want my son to feel loved and valued by God, but I don’t want God to be fully accessible to his small mind.  When my child thinks about God, I don’t want him to see the magnificence of God enveloped in a disheveled, skinned knee, gap-toothed buddy. God is wholly other--sui generis--unique, peculiar, in a class of his own--he is not limited to an elementary classroom.  When my child thinks of God, I want him to be awed by the wonder that this amazing being, whom he can’t fully understand, chose to come to earth and be bound in skin. He chose to live as a child who did skin his knees and lose his teeth but in a way that they never will--perfectly.  This perfect child grew to be a perfect man who became a perfect sacrifice. His amazing grace towards us should stir in us a mighty reverence for him.  

The Lion of Judah

Rather than tame what Revelation 5 calls The Lion of Judah by introducing him to our kids as a cuddly, snuggly pet, let’s approach his throne with Christ-earned confidence and fall on our knees in worship.  

Someday, maybe in the not-so-distant future, every knee will bow, and every tongue will confess that Jesus Christ is Lord.  So, let’s give our kids a solid foundation--and accurate theology--by looking on our great and glorious God with hearts full of joy and appropriate trepidation.  

In the words of Mrs. Beaver from the Chronicles of Narnia, “Course he isn’t safe.  But he’s good.”

Mother, behold your son. Son, behold your mother--a Good Friday Meditation

Near the cross of Jesus stood his mother, his mother’s sister, Mary the wife of Clopas, and Mary Magdalene. When Jesus saw his mother there, and the disciple whom he loved standing nearby, he said to her, “Woman, here is your son,” and to the disciple, “Here is your mother.” From that time on, this disciple took her into his home.  John 19:25-27

What was it like?  To see your firstborn on a cross? Making plans for your care with the last of his breath?  30 years ago, I had a baby boy, my firstborn.  Instantly, I loved him.  Did Mary feel that too?  What was she feeling as her son, just a little older than mine is now, died a horrific death as she watched, helpless? Reflecting on this passage, I put myself in her spot; I see the Lord Jesus as if he were my child. My baby. My heart.

I Carried You. I remember the night the angel told me I would carry the Son of God.  I was confused, scared... but satisfied.  What the angel said would happen.  I carried you in my womb and felt your kicks in my belly.  My body gave you life.

O God, my son, my precious one, hangs there naked, moaning. Do you hear him?  Are you carrying him now?

I Saw You Breathe. When you arrived on that starlit night, you took your first breath and let out a cry. Many nights after that, I would go in quietly just to see you breathe--your little chest rising and falling.  Then I would silently creep out, comforted by your abundant life.

O Lord, He is crying! His chest heaves as his life, my life, creeps out of him. Will he really breathe again?

I Held Your Hand. As a toddler, you would reach for me, chubby hands would hold my face.  I basked in your soft tenderness. After you played, I washed the dust out of the creases of those velvet hands. Oh that I might hold those bleeding hands now; that my kiss would make all well.

When they pierced his hands, Holy Father, the hammer resounded as if in victory. This is your son too, Lord. Why could it not be me?  

Your Hands Heal My Soul. But, it is with those same hands, now broken, that MY SOUL is tenderly healed.  My son, whose hands I held, bears the wrath of God for ME!.  It’s YOUR blood that washes away the dusty creases of my sin.

"My God, My God, why have you forsaken your Son? His suffering, his separation -- will bring salvation? But this way... this pain?"

Your Breath Gives Me Life. It is your body that breathes its last so that I will never die.  The warm breath I felt on my cheek now makes my chest rise and fall. When you silently creep out of this world, I gain abundant life. 

God, is this the sorrow you spoke of at first?  The sorrow I couldn’t see through the joy?  Please remind me that this is not the end.  He lived a life of perfection for you so he could die a death of ransom for me.

You Will Carry Me Home. It is You who carries me now.  What the angel said would happen.  When you were small I carried you, snuggled up close to my heart. Now I kick and cry but I cling to the hope of Shalom; I am confused and scared...but satisfied.  Your body gives me life.

I long to see you Lord, to join my son in forever. He will rise again, my Savior!  Bring shalom to greet us Lord; bring heaven to this broken place and peace to my broken heart. 

 

Make all things new!

Make all things new!

Make all things new!

God's Mystery Unvieled

                                         The star which frightens brings Good News!

The shepherds hail God’s name!

The Heavens sing, the sheep bow down, 

all earth now greets Shalom!

Peace we prayed for now has come

The galaxy proclaims,

“He who loves you has been born

Come greet Him, Christ the Lord!”

Born for grief, this little One

His mother’s heart pierced through

Peace and Justice will prevail

God’s Mystery unveiled.

May you have a very blessed, Christ-focused Christmas!

The Newborn King

 Enjoy a repost from December 2016...

This is my new grand niece, Amelia Josephine, born two just two weeks before this picture was taken.  I had the privilege of spending her very first Christmas with her along with lots of extended family.  We spent most of our holiday time "ooing" and "ahhing" over her tiny perfection and watching her 22-month-old brother do cute things.

As I held little Amelia in my arms, I was struck by the reality—THE REALITY-- that Christ was born to us as a baby--A BABY!  At this time of year, we read and sing of this fact often;

"You will find a baby wrapped snugly in strips of cloth, lying in a manger." 

   "The little Lord Jesus lay down His sweet head." 

"Holy infant so tender and mild" 

 "Glory to the newborn King"

But do we truly understand what Christ did for us by becoming utterly helpless?  Do we comprehend how He left His place in Heaven and confined Himself in skin?  Do we grasp how our most powerful God allowed Himself to sleep silently in an animal trough?  Can we truly fathom that the same voice that created the entire universe now limited Himself to a feeble cry?

It’s absurd, really.  A limitless, ageless God chose to intersect time and space and become a limited, time-bound man; and not just a man, a baby; tiny, helpless, poor.

So why did He do it?  God saw His children needed Him.  Yet, because of their sins, there was no way they could get to Him.  So He became one of them, and He lived among them to save them and bring them close again.  Not only did He live with them; He loved them; and He died for them…and in their place.  And then He rose again—conquering death, their greatest foe. 

He chose to enter the world in a way that none expected; not as a king; wearing extravagant robes and sitting on a royal throne, but as a baby; swaddled with strips of tattered cloth and lying in a hay-filled manger.  Our mighty, strong, omniscient God chose to come to us in the most unthinkable form, wrapped in skin and humility; a tiny newborn babe.

Just like little Amelia.  Just for little Amelia.  And just for you too.

What child is this, who, laid to rest,
On Mary's lap is sleeping?
Whom angels greet with anthems sweet,
While shepherds watch are keeping?
This, this is Christ the King,
Whom shepherds guard and angels sing:
Haste, haste to bring him laud,
The babe, the son of Mary.

She will give birth to a son, and you are to give him the name Jesus, because he will save his people from their sins.

~Matthew 1:21

Joseph's Journey

 

Many miles and dusty valleys

Tired donkey, tired wife

Many people but no refuge

Desperate husband, soon...new life!

Big dark city, small dank stable

Sounds of livestock, bright starlight

Bedding down in hay for horses

Frightened mother, strange still night

Pain is coursing, man is pacing

Time is birthing God’s own Son!

Red and wrinkled, baby Savior

Are you the Long Expected One?

Great rejoicing with the angels!

Great rejoicing in the field!

All at once, time races forward 

Grace now present, Word fulfilled 

Awestruck wonder, man is speechless

Grateful heart and weary soul

Gently kneeling low to greet him

Welcome baby, welcome Lord!

Usher Her Home

Anna’s prayers were interrupted by a loud voice--a deep, booming voice--announcing something in the temple courts.  As she got up stiffly, slowly, she could just make out the words, “...a light for revelation to the Gentiles, and the glory to your people Israel!” What...or who... was this light, this glory?  Opening the door of her room slightly, she could see a young couple and an old man.  Was that the weaver, Simeon?  What did he hold in his arms?  Was it a lamb?  A sacrifice to cover his offenses? The bundle was small, swaddled in a worn serving cloth; it began to move, then cry.  It was a baby!  The weaver was holding a baby!  

It had been a sweet seven years.  Though Anna and her husband ached for a child of their own, they had become content in their togetherness and the simple routines of life.  Then tragedy struck; Anna’s beloved husband, Adah, had been working on a grand structure --a tall and majestic theater--for most of their short marriage.  One gray autumn afternoon, just after the mid-day break, an angry storm rolled in from the east. With one gust of its violent breath, the wind toppled the scaffolding which held Adah.  Thrown to the ground, Adah was killed instantly, pinned by the stones which had once provided for his life. Now homeless and hopeless, Anna begged the priest to allow her to live in one of the empty storage rooms which lined the front wall of the temple.  Normally used to store worship items and fuel for the altar fires, this small, windowless room had been abandoned in favor of the larger ones nearer the rear door.  Close to the temple courts, it allowed Anna direct access to the people that came there.  These people, the regulars to the temple, became the family that she had lost when Adah died. Ministering to these same people became the focus of her meager, but fulfilled, existence.   She used her long days, sometimes fasting, always praying, to lift these people to the Lord.  Anna, a prophetess of God, often sensed the burdens of those God brought into her presence, and praying for them, sent them on their way confident that they had met God through her words. Her quiet contentment with God’s sovereign plan had pulled her out of her own hopelessness nearly 70 decades earlier.  She had learned to hope in Him and wanted others to do the same.   

Anna’s mind was jolted back to the present by another shrill wail.  It was the cry of a newborn.  The old man handed the baby carefully back to the mother.  Was she crying as well?  Slipping on her sandals, Anna opened her door wider and stepped out into the court.  The baby’s cries had stilled.  But all was not quiet.  The old man began shouting, “He is here!  He is here!  Messiah is here!  He has come!”  The Messiah?  The Lord’s Anointed?  The Deliverer for whom she had prayed?  As she neared the baby and his parents, a strong stinging breeze moved a strand of gray hair across her face. As she pushed it back into place beneath her scarf, her spirit also cried; “Yes!  He is here!  He is the One!”  Anna had long ago learned to trust those spirit promptings, and her shuffling steps moved quickly towards the child.  A song erupted in her soul and came out of her mouth as she greeted his parents and the elderly weaver, “Today I have seen my long awaited Messiah!  This baby is my Lord!”  Tears streaming down her lined face, she kissed the tiny cheek and placed a gnarled hand upon his downy head.   The other hand she placed upon his mother, and she blessed them saying, “May this Tender One be a light for all of those in darkness as he brings glory to the Holy Father.  May you, Holy Father, guard this mother’s heart as she learns to trust in your plan.”  The prophetess left the trio then, gratefully proclaiming Messiah’s appearance.  The baby’s mother was overcome with emotion...or was it confusion?  She and the baby’s father, toting twin turtle doves in a wicker cage, carried their sacrifice toward the temple’s altar.

As she entered her dark room, Anna’s bright mood turned to sorrow.  Recalling the prophet Isaiah 53, read last Shabbat by the visiting Rabbi, Anna knew that this child was born to bear her iniquities--the ones now temporarily “covered” with the blood of animals;“By His knowledge the Righteous One, My Servant, will justify the many, as He will bear their iniquities.” This sin-bearing Messiah was God’s plan of old--from the beginning of time!  How Messiah would do that, she did not know.  But, that he would do it was certain.  Did she feel her hope returning?  He had been sent to live in Shalom. He had been sent to love his own.  He had been sent to save all sinners. He had been sent... the Perfect Lamb. 

No, Anna had not brought a child into her home, though she wished and hoped for one.  But now, this baby, this Glorious Child whom she had kissed with her lips and touched with her hands, this Messiah, had come for her--for her!  Sent from Heaven to subdue sin and defeat death, this baby was God’s perfect plan.  His birth would prepare him for death.  

And his death would usher her Home.

He is Here!

 This Christmas season, I wanted to prepare by myself by imagining the lives, thoughts, and musings of some of the people in the Christmas story.  Today's character is Simeon, and he appears in Luke 2.

Another sunrise for Simeon.  Simeon had seen hundreds of sunrises in his 79 years.  Built into the low-lying limestone cliffs that surrounded Jerusalem, his family home had an east facing door which Simeon swung open to greet the sun. Young Simeon and his father had baked mud bricks to form walls for the exposed sides of the structure.  A wooden staircase led out of the home’s front door, turned at a 90-degree angle and ended up directly at the entrance to the busy Jerusalem market.  It was in this market that Simeon sold the woven fabric that he created. Others called Simeon a Tarsim, or master weaver, but Simeon was simply providing for his family in the way that his father had provided, and his Zaydeh before that.  Simeon’s hands seemed made for the loom, but lately, his weaving was slow, his hands stiff and sore.  More and more, Simeon’s grandsons were taking his spot on the weaver’s stool, their deft and skilled hands providing products for the increasing market demand. 

 

Today, as with all days, Simeon rose slowly like the sun that showed its first red rays through his door. He gathered the shuttle and began to rhythmically guide it through the weft; over, under, over, under, over, under.  Such a familiar motion allowed his mind to ruminate.  Was it all just a dream? Last night, as he lay on his mat, his wife breathing softly in sleep, a voice spoke to him.

“Simeon, though your hands grow tired on the distaff and your bones become weary from the work, you will not die until you see the Lord’s Messiah!  He is here!” 

Simeon’s heart beat wildly…the Lord’s promised Messiah!  He was here?  In Jerusalem?  The prophet Micah proclaimed that the Lord’s anointed would be born in Bethlehem, “But you, O Bethlehem…, from you shall come forth for me one who is to be ruler in Israel, whose coming forth is from of old, from ancient days.”  Why would Messiah be in Jerusalem?  Simeon, falling into fitful sleep, dreamt wild dreams of this grand warrior who would save his people from their oppressors.  Now, awake and alert, he worked and wondered about the presence of the Messiah.  Would he be at the temple?  Did he possess a caravan to display his mighty power? As if to add emphasis to that thought, a powerful wind blew his door shut and raised goosebumps on the back of his neck.  Feeling suddenly compelled, Simeon put down the shuttle, quickly grabbed his outer mantle, and, with unfamiliar vigor, made his way down the wooden staircase.  As he stepped to the street, earlier than his normal mid-day appearance, he was nearly overrun by a noisy group of boys on their way to the synagogue for Torah school.  Simeon was also headed to the synagogue, but not for school.  Simeon was on his way to meet Messiah!  Righteous and devout, Simeon regularly visited the temple to make sacrifices for his family and to listen to the traveling Rabbi’s teaching.  But now, following the unruly group, his mind raced to the previous night’s mysterious words and passing the surprised boys, he entered into the outer court.

 

“He is here!”  “He is here!” 

 

Simeon’s mind could think of nothing else.  He scanned the court, looking for an impressive figure, a kingly presence, but his eyes saw nothing but a poor young couple meekly entering the court carrying a baby.  Suddenly, the Spirit within him spoke again,

 

“He is here! The baby they are dedicating today is Messiah!”

 

When he was just a boy, Simeon’s mother told him the meaning of his name: “God is listening.” God had graciously heard Simeon’s plea for the coming of the King--God’s chosen Messiah…but this baby… was him?  Wasn’t Messiah the One who would be victorious and save the nation of Israel?  This “warrior” was a helpless babe. 

 

“He is here!” 

 

Now it was Simeon’s turn to listen, and filled with the Spirit of God, he approached the little family exclaiming, “He is here--Messiah!” Motioning to them, he took the boy in his hands, and praised God saying,

“Sovereign Lord, as you have promised,

    you may now dismiss your servant in peace.

 For my eyes have seen your salvation,

   which you have prepared in the sight of all nations:

a light for revelation to the Gentiles,

    and the glory of your people Israel.”

 

  The child’s father and mother, weary and worn from travel, marveled at what was said about him.   Then Simeon blessed them and said to Mary, his mother: “This child is destined to cause the falling and rising of many in Israel, and to be a sign that will be spoken against, so that the thoughts of many hearts will be revealed. And a sword will pierce your own soul too.” Tears of anticipated grief fell upon Mary’s scarf as she looked on her baby in Simeon’s embrace and wondered at the events which would surely take place.  Simeon’s rough hand touched her cheek, and he carefully placed the infant in her arms.  “God is here…and here,” pointing to the child.  “My eyes have truly seen his glory.”  Then Simeon left the family as he exited the temple courts.

 

Now, as he wandered through the now-busy market, he was struck by the Lord’s unceasing attentiveness to his people.  God was listening, and the Master Weaver of history had used Simeon’s hands--his old and aching hands-- to show the beauty of His ancient plan!  God had carefully ordained a rescue with an unexpected Rescuer, interwoven with the life of Simeon, to display his tapestry of grace toward man! 

“He is here!” “He is here!”

 

Simeon could now die fulfilled. Today his eyes marveled at the sunrise. Today, his soul exulted in the Son.  Today, his human hands held Heaven’s Rescue.  Today Messiah had come!

 

 “He is here!”