Worship of the work from Oswald Chambers

Beware of any work for God which enables you to evade concentration on Him. A great many Christian workers worship their work. The one concern of a worker should be concentration on God, and this will mean that all the other margins of life, mental, moral and spiritual, are free with the freedom of a child — a worshipping child, not a wayward child. A worker without this solemn, dominant note of concentration on God is apt to get his work on his neck; there is no margin of body, mind or spirit free, consequently he becomes spent out and crushed. There is no freedom, no delight in life; nerves, mind and heart are so crushingly burdened that God’s blessing cannot rest. But the other side is just as true — when once the concentration is on God, all the margins of life are free and under the dominance of God alone. There is no responsibility on you for the work; the only responsibility you have is to keep in living constant touch with God, and to see that you allow nothing to hinder your co-operation with Him. The freedom after sanctification is the freedom of a child, the things that used to keep the life pinned down are gone. But be careful to remember that you are freed for one thing only — to be absolutely devoted to your co-Worker.

We have no right to judge where we should be put, or to have preconceived notions as to what God is fitting us for. God engineers everything; wherever He puts us our one great aim is to pour out a whole-hearted devotion to Him in that particular work. “Whatsoever thy hand findeth to do, do it with thy might.”

As I wake to a christmas morning, my heart returns to the years that have been, the places from which we have come, and the paths we have trod. 

This fills my heart with thanksgiving and praise. Indeed He has brought us through various paths, but each one a testament to HIs faithfulness, mercy and love. 

For which i am intensely grateful. His love endures forever. 

I still like to think that each of us are still far from our home, with many more paths that lead into the unclear distance, but a certain destination. 

How wonderful that the God of Jacob is our fortress, our refuge, our constant companion, Emmanuel, now and forever more. 

With love and thankfulness

From Oswald Chambers

No man can come to Me, except the Father which hath sent Me draw him. — John 6:44

When God draws me, the issue of my will comes in at once — will I react on the revelation which God gives; will I come to Him? Discussion on spiritual matters is an impertinence. Never discuss with anyone when God speaks. Belief is not an intellectual act; belief is a moral act whereby I deliberately commit myself. Will I dump myself down absolutely on God and transact on what He says? If I will, I shall find I am based on Reality that is as sure as God’s throne.

In preaching the gospel, always push an issue of will. Belief must be thewill to believe. There must be a surrender of the will, not a surrender to persuasive power; a deliberate launching forth on God and on what He says until I am no longer confident in what I have done, I am confident only in God. The hindrance is that I will not trust God, but only my mental understanding. As far as feelings go, I must stake all blindly: I must will to believe, and this can never be done without a violent effort on my part to disassociate myself from my old ways of looking at things, and by putting myself right over on to Him.

Every man is made to reach out beyond his grasp. It is God who draws me, and my relationship to Him in the first place is a personal one, not an intellectual one. I am introduced into the relationship by the miracle of God and my own will to believe, then I begin to get an intelligent appreciation and understanding of the wonder of the transaction.

Pangi - the valley of sorrow

THE VALLEY OF SORROW

Come

Through stone  carved caverns

Ford rushing waters

Enter our valley

Past stone sentries

Who barricade hope

Leave behind  language and memory

They are unintelligible here

A dirge keens a communal sorrow

Insulated within mountain walls,

Frozen memories of children, and mothers

Locked in by broken bridges

We have learnt to live

Despite the deaths

We exist

And those we have watched die

Have frozen into our hearts

Their last gasps have etched our bones and scarred our eyes

So our tears are dry wadis in a desert that never blooms

Some sorrows are too deep to fill with tears

Bone on bones in a communal grave bury memory too deep

For individual mourning.

They etch the living with their dying

And whispers of what could have been

Are interred with them, dumb chasubles

Within a frozen earth

The memories seep into the water drunk by children

It enters the marriage wine, and the lovemaking

Of wide eyed brides

It  curdles in unformed marrow of unborn children

It congeals and sets, to melt into waters

Of the morrow of every morning sun.

Into this crucible of pain,

Hope drops like a blood stain

Wafting, dispersing its crimson, dancing

Wraithe like In the face of the despair,

Seen, yet not seen,slowly dissipating ,

Till at that is left is a trace, a scent, of nostril flaring pink

Can hope transcend tears?

Can it run in rime laden cheeks of wrinkled generations?

Is there breath enough to gasp

And life enough to cry?

Can it turn human again, 

To live, to mend, and to know to live

And not die before the knowing?

Is there hope enough to live,

And dare to a dignity in death?

Crack the cavern

Bridge the stream

Let light in to darkness

And unleash the scream.

This valley may yet bloom

With flowers from that seed

One day, a mothers breast

May not curdle its milk

And children may play

Knowing they have a chance

To grow old and die

Another day.

Be there in our conversations

My wife and my child figure in my conversations often. Nathaniel delights us with his insights and comments, many of which are hilarious, such as when he looks at one of us and proclaims profoundly- " You are missing some parts", referring to an absent dimple on one side of a face.

People who mean to us figure in our conversations. Their influences creep in from the positions they occupy in our minds and hearts. They encircle and color situations, and stand in the wings as we step out into areas that demand conviction and are new for us.

How much does Jesus figure in my conversations? What place does he occupy in the passages of my daily profession? Does his figure hover over my forays into uncharted areas? Do I refer to Him in the course of my day, or reminesce about His hand in the history of my past?

How I want Him to be there in my conversations, a silent  listener, approving quietly to statements of faith. And maybe, in between the noise, I will get a chance to hear Him too midst the cacophony of mixed messages. And I will know, because my heart will burn within me. 

After exhaustion

I reflect about doing justice to the patients.  Justice is one of the four tennets of ethical medical practice, and we are all called upon to enthrone it in our practice. Taking a good history, arriving at a diagnosis and administering appropriate treatment are all pillars of this justice in our medical ministration. 

I have every intention of doing justice to them. However, at the fringes of my stamina, when my body is pleading for some sleep, and my brain is running on fumes, if confronted by a problem patient, I find myself baulking. I recognize mistakes made from such non engagement. I am not able to mentally engage, and thereby the potential for missing diagnoses, erroneous prescriptions and and management. What to do in such situations? 

Temporising the situation by returning later to engage may be one coping mechanism, since trying to engage with the patient at that time may be counter productive. Delegating engagement may be another mechanism to cope by requesting some else to engage. A persistant problem in the peripheral hospitals is that there may not be anyone else. Whenever life threatening situations confront, adrenalin kicks in and fuels engagement. However, it is often at the fringe of the urgent that most mistakes are made, when a patient does not demand emergent care, yet is sick enough to warrant concerted attention. And what if I am sick, and not able to engage? The patient does not go away. As time passes, and the fire of  youth is replaced by the tiredness of middle age, one finds the reserves of energy more sparse and complaints from the physical body more frequent. 

After months of running on fumes, the body  and mind reaches a plateau of chronic fatigue, where it runs hollowly on adrenaline and reflexes, and accumulated exhaustion is factored into a continuum of daily habit. Continuing too long in such a state is deleterious for the community, the co workers and the patients one professes to treat. But when there is no one else to step in and provide relief, what does a professional do? Can he just shut the hospital and demand the patients go elsewhere? Can he just stay at home or go away and consign emergencies to a coffin? The  usual option is that the engine keeps running on fumes.

My grace is sufficient for you, my strength made perfect in weakness are words that have meaning for every moment at such times. There is no other mode of survival. I am very thankful for the doctors who have stepped in, for those who have provided relief and for the juniors who have stepped up to contribute to that grace which has been my sufficiency. I also recognise the fringes of that grace which has wrapped around me and paused the flow of patients, permitted uninterrupted sleep for four hours, and flowed over the patients to sustain them. I am grateful for mercy in protecting the patients through times of my failures and mistakes, and for the same grace healing and restoring them. 

Indeed His grace is sufficient, and His strength made perfect in our weakness. 

The waiting

Love died for me when I didn’t even know it

Love died for me when I didn’t even know it

It prepared my price and paid in full

When I was oblivious to my penury

It bled before my blood cord was cut

And it breathed its last before I breathed my first

Why should someone die for a yet unborn skin?

How can love love so much

That it can include a baby within?

And now that I breathe, on borrowed time and air

What miracle allowed me to see

Blood shed on a tree just for me?

Such knowledge is too wonderful for me

You surround me, behind, before

Borrowed time, bartered life, breathing grace,

Live till life’s debt is no more

A sinner, saved by mercy and grace