The Solid Rock On Which We Stand... and Stand and Stand

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Fresh roasted Ethiopian Coffee filled the Perfect Touch Dixie cup I carried into the Sanctuary with me last Sunday. Don and I recently resolved to arrive early so we can enjoy fellowship and coffee between services.

The squishy, foam demitasse warmed my fingers until worship began and sipping coffee seemed irreverent. So I put it under the pew in front of me and stood to sing.

About three songs in, a familiar hymn took me back in time. I don't always travel to that day when we sing that hymn. But the memory was clear - as in very clear - Sunday morning.

Maybe it's because of the left hip, knee, and ankle pain that interrupted sleep and limited mobility last week; or the constant instability that stems from mitochondrial disease; or the stress that knots my insides knowing more surgery is likely inevitable.

Yes, it could have been all that or finances, sick grandparents, my friend's health, the constant awareness that so many suffer crazy things, or that this world just isn't our home... (Insert your own list. We all have them!!)

But as we sang The Solid Rock Sunday morning, I pictured the reddish brown horse that carried me across a Tennessee country side on a spring morning back in 1991. Two weeks earlier, my first husband had confessed he was experiencing double vision, indicating his brain stem tumor might be growing again.

While we waited for an MRI, we booked a night's stay in a state park, hoping to find solace and peace. Fear traveled with me instead, and I spent much of the time weeping, unable to comprehend losing my best friend.

By the time I climbed onto that horse, though, a familiar tune pushed through my mental darkness like an early morning light that distills the night. Tears still fell. But I sang the hymn (on horseback) with growing resolve:

My hope is built on nothing less than Jesus' blood and righteousness;

I dare not trust the sweetest frame, but wholly lean on Jesus' name.

On Christ the Solid rock I stand

All other ground is sinking sand

All other ground is sinking sand.

Edward Mote

 

As  I stood in church last Sunday, I relished the fact that twenty years later I was still singing those words with similar resolve.

Issues loom large. The future remains uncertain. Ice or no ice, we are not in control!

But as we gather and sing and declare where our hope really lies, we can live Sunday to Sunday till the trumpets sound.