My devotion while in Cuba

All the members of the mission trip were asked to prepare a devotion to share.  I had a rough idea of what I was going to do, but it didn’t hit until Sunday service.  The service was in Cuban Spanish – obviously – and I did not understand most of it. 

I am used to services that are done in quiet and contained reverence.  I have not really experienced a service where God is celebrated by exploding with full life.  The service was loud.  The service was fast.  In every way the service was as reverent as any other that I have been in. 

The pastor asked for everyone to pray over the mission team.  Two ladies held my hand.  One was a young woman in the mid-20’s who was very tall.  The second was an older woman who was 86.  They both prayed so hard, the three of us cried.  I had a glimpse of God in that moment.

Following is the devotion that I shared based on that experience.

We have a thing posted on our kitchen wall that came from Susan’s grandparents.  I hung it on our wall because I liked it.  She looked at me and said you really want to hang that there?  There is something about it that I really like.  It makes me feel hopeful when I look at it.  The text in the frame was found written on a cellar wall in Germany after World War II.  It is:

I believe in the sun even when it is not shining.
I believe in love even when I feel it not.
I believe in God even when He is silent.

There is a God.  I have no doubt.  It is easy to confuse a quiet space with an empty space.

I felt God this morning during the service.  It felt like he pierced my heart akin to the pop when opening a tightly sealed jar.  It was loud.  It was easy to hear God and feel God.

Now it is quiet.  I need to listen closer to hear God.  Saying God will come in your heart if you listen implies incorrectly that He ever left.

One of my favorite conjoins is “God is in the details but don’t sweat the small stuff.”  Take care of what you need to take care of and keep the focus where it needs to be.

I like the faces of the young and old here.  That is probably why I like to take tightly cropped pictures of them.  They are closest to God in birth and death.

The young have innocence.
The old have wisdom.
We’re stuck in the middle with neither.

Maybe I can find enough here to understand and accept the innonce of my children and the wisdom of my parents.