The ancient cry of “Hear me, Lord”, is still the universal cry today. Hear me. Hear me. Just listen to me. Please.
David panted it in the dark of the cave. He kept running against clammy walls, kept hiding and trying to see around shadowy corners. The dripping mold and oppressing silence felt like the only answer. Hear me, Lord.
Hagar wailed it in the lonely wilderness. Her son’s cracked lips and a load of grief and shame that was crushing the life out of her felt like the only answer. Hear me. Give me one more chance.
Hannah cried it in the golden confines of God’s house. The ranting faces and open scorn and an empty child’s crib felt like the only answer. Give me a child. Hear me, Father.
Job groaned it from the dust. Ripping pain, aching loss, and betrayed loyalties felt like the only answer. Death would be a breeze compared to this. Hear me. Hear me.

Maybe we’ve been running so hard, pleading so long, holding out cupped hands to receive the blessing, that we’ve missed that day by the river.

That was when the dove came down into the water, and sat on the shoulder of the Perfect Man and he looked up through dripping hair, and saw the heavens open. The Father filled all creation’s cupped hands. “This is my beloved Son. Hear him.” —Luke 3:22 (author’s paraphrase)

Stop running.
Stop hiding.
Hold the gift.
Hear Him.

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