At top of the church stairs I mumble words, apparently aloud and louder than intended, as the woman two stairs ahead of me turns, asks with arched eyebrows, "Pardon me? Were you speaking to me?"
The awkwardness, it burns up the neck, scorches the tongue and I stammer out ashen words. "Oh, no. Just talking... to myself." Laugh, feeble, it's all I've got to stamp out the flames. "Don't you do that too? Talk aloud to yourself?" The laugh does a miserable job of extinguishing.
"Well..." she turns away. "Certainly not in public."
The fire whips and I'm singed.
But it's true and red-faced, burned, I own it. I talk to myself. But that's not the whole truth, really. It only looks like I'm talking to myself, mainly because no one is physically manifest.
Yet there is a shepherd and the sheep hear His voice and they follow Him.
Sheep bleat.
The bleating often, when the potatoes boil over and I leave the sink water running just to swamp out the floor with lily pads of suds and Little One's patting at my leg with her pencil, "Mama... Mama... Mama... How do you spell 'Dear Gram'?" -- the bleating is a whimpering plea pumped out of the sputtering lungs by resuscitating Spirit, "Lord. please. grant. grace!"
I carry stacks of the folded legs, the laundered arms, to the closets and line the shelves with voiced petitions, fresh clothes, "God, thank you for washing our daily mess in grace... (uncrumple a shirt stuffed on shelf, refold) ... for laying us out in the Son... (pluck withered apple core out of drawer, tuck in clean underwear) .... for blowing us in the wind of your Spirit... (toss dirty underwear to the door)... and for enfolding us in You."
Son wanders in, gnarly tree limb in hand, come looking for his carving knife. He's oblivious to his murmuring mother.
Sheep bleat.
My mind too, it wanders.
A stilled faith-tongue can steer body and mind straight to the pit. But if I steer the tongue towards Christ, the body, the soul, it follows.
Lost, I call out again, stay in audible prayer, and the soul has echolocation and I find Him again and He finds me. Tongue -- that rudder, bridle, flame of the heart -- keep that tongue with Jesus and you keep company with Jesus.
Hourly chime goes on the watch every mother needs
Wherever I am, whatever my hand is at, when the hour hand digitally strikes, I'm working on this sheep habit of bowing head right then and here, not later and there, because the idol of self-importance, the necessity of my work, lures, an irresistible magnet, and I am weak. I'm a delayed life learner but I'm starting to decipher: He wants communion more than cleanliness, worship more than work, knees more than hands. He wants the sheep to stay close.
Giving Him the first moments of every hour tithes time, establishes the purpose of time, Who it ultimately is for.
Time is for company with Jesus and if I keep the tongue close, I keep close company.
At the top of the church stairs, it's a long lost item I spot in a corner and I murmur, "Ah, so there it is! Thank you, Lord." Thank you, Lord.
The shepherd's gentle and the flock draws close.
Sheep bleat.
Lord God... I keep company with You, communion with You, when I keep conversation with You. Kindle my tongue in a love flame for You.
Three ways to Keep Company with Jesus:
1. Continual Conversation
2. Tithe Time
3. Steer a soul back to Communion with the Tongue Rudder
Every Wednesday, we Walk with Him, posting a spiritual practice that draws us nearer to His heart.
To read the entire series of spiritual practices
Next Week: Consider sharing in community, "What one spiritual practice has most deeply effected your relationship with Jesus?"
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Photos: sheep flock in pasture down the road
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