October 6, 2018:
Ray Hughes shared the below quote today on social media.
“I don't like either the word [hike] or the thing. People ought to saunter in the mountains - not 'hike!' Do you know the origin of that word saunter? It's a beautiful word. Away back in the middle ages people used to go on pilgrimages to the Holy Land, and when people in the villages through which they passed asked where they were going they would reply, 'A la sainte terre', 'To the Holy Land.' And so they became known as sainte-terre-ers or saunterers. Now these mountains are our Holy Land, and we ought to saunter through them reverently, not 'hike' through them.” ~ John Muir, "Father of our [US] National Parks"
It sums up so eloquently how I’ve been stirring for a great many years now - an overwhelming pull made more pressing in recent months.
It’s the saturation of a deep invitation to set down feet and absorb the land where I stand; to observe the intimate and ground-level details of my surroundings; to stake and touch and be present; to listen and respond. There’s no exact destination, but only the destination of the decision of the going. The more I sense the timing is drawing near to go, the more the impossibility becomes in my own personal season of circumstances in the natural.
And that is why the coordinates of our journey must catch the headwinds in how we apply our tense.
I believe faith that allows the guidance of Holy Spirit makes for a strong bridge to get us to where God has already connected our landmarks. If we truly stand in the knowledge of believing God’s word is complete, why are we spilling our words that say “if He will” and “if I can” onto already fertile soil? How much closer are the fulfillments of His words when we make it our normal to align in the past tense of “it’s already been done” versus staying in the revolving door of belief-disbelief-belief-disbelief?
Last night as I was walking to bed, I discerned that a heavy weight has shifted on the earth. I felt it in my spirit. I saw it like a Tetris block landing and locking into a baseline void. Things are no longer as they appeared in today’s yesterday. Iron has sharpened iron. Forges have been smelting deep into the night watch hours. The weight of this great shift is a gathering of many things now refit into appointed gaps, charted through strategic landmarks. God whispered in my ear recently to “become familiar with maps.” Soon after hearing Him speak, I came across an old reference book in a used bookstore about all types of maps and their uses. Without hesitation, I bought the book.
We’re all charting a course with points that have already been plotted. The map has already been written on our arm. Both the keystone and the cornerstone are magnificently as critical as the compass rose. All three, in placement and function, must intentionally choose the past tense.