Blessed Assurance: Jesus is Mine.
I knew the words, but the assurance took some years to master. Jesus was always mine, but knowing how much I could have was a clouded sky.
Oh what a foretaste of glory divine.
Setting foot outside the door of dependance and seeking first a kingdom I had been promised would satisfy me was a fearful task, but one I took at a young age. Like light shining on my face, it warmed me into a faith I didn’t need my eyes open for.
Heir of salvation, purchase of God,
I had a life coming to me I could not earn. I walked a little lighter, my chin lifted to a greater certainty of a future I couldn’t work hard enough for.
Born of His Spirit, washed in His blood.
No longer born to live out the path of the flesh, no longer focused on the limitations I couldn’t control or fix, I laid out the tattered garment and let a King wear it to the cross.
Then I forgot.
Now, years fill hands, adding faces and names to the task list. I pour myself into good gifts and watch my arm stretch out and around the hearts and bodies of those I am commissioned to nurture.
I do my work.
I do what comes toward me and expect it to fill the pages of my life consistently. Without disappointment.
It doesn’t. The husband, no matter how God given and precious, is not always going to meet the need, speak the love language or help with bath time. The kids, no matter how full of promise, are not always going to follow the standard, accept the reward or come home without homework.
That is when I step back and begin to wonder. What had happened to my assurance? Where was my powerful faith in a God who was always enough, and why was I losing my joy? When did I lose sight of Who I leaned on and find myself stumbling over the pride of expectation in others?
I questioned the purpose in the bond of human relationships. Did God intend for my husband to meet my needs as an instrument of His own desire to do so? Was He handing me off to him instead of holding me next to him?
No. God is still all I need. He did not replace Himself, by giving me a family to love me just enough. He added joy to my life by multiplying His love through my family.
Then why was I slowly losing fulfillment in the midst of my calling?
I didn’t do my work…
…as unto the Lord. (Colossians 3:23-24)
I don’t serve my family, I serve the King who purchased me. I don’t serve my husband. I don’t serve my children. I serve the God who binds us in our mutual love and service to Him.
My love for my husband and his love for me is a beautiful thing. It’s a warm and fragrant worship, but it is not my story.
My affection for my children and their love for me is an amazing gift. It’s worth so much sacrifice, effort and prayer, but it is not my story.
This is my story, this is my song,
Praising my Savior all the day long!
In the active worship of laundry, dishes, dusting and goodnight kisses I am fulfilled, but only if I recognize Who is hearing the praise, writing the story and singing over me the song that will not grow old.
Perfect submission, all is at rest,
I in my Savior am happy and blest,
Watching and waiting, looking above,
Filled with His goodness, lost in His love. ~Fanny J. Crosby