Indeed, I cannot

But if I say, "I will not mention him or speak any more in his name," his word is in my heart like a fire, a fire shut up in my bones. I am weary of holding it in; indeed, I cannot. -Jeremiah 20:9

Just read this verse.  Insane, isn't it?  Is that how I feel when I am told to contain Him?  Is that how I feel when I am told to hold it in, to calm down a bit, to act a little more restrained?  Is that how I feel?

Do I feel weary?  Does it even strike a place in my heart?  Does it make me even think for a second that it's not right or that it's not natural or even that it feels kind of funny?

Do I feel the fire shut up in my bones, does it burn my heart to the core like a flame screaming inside of my skin just to break free?  Is that the type of pressure that I feel?

Or could I go on like any other day?

Could I go on?

I have been thinking a lot about the phrase "I can't live without your presence" because a song I have been listening to lately says that sentence in the bridge.  And I really liked it.  My ears perked up a bit and I sang along and I liked it.  Yeah, I liked it.

And then I started thinking about it.  Then I started to ponder it in my heart and it hit me.  The Holy Spirit hit me.

The sentence doesn't say "I can't live as well as I want to without your presence" or "Life isn't as fun without your presence" or "I can't call on you when I need you without your presence" or even "My Sunday mornings are free without your presence."

It doesn't say "I don't like it without your presence but I can still live."
Or "I miss you and all but I can go on without your presence."

And so I got to thinking about how I literally think without His presence... I could not live.

I could not breathe, I could not think or act or talk or move.  I would toss an turn in my bed at night for I could not sleep without having Him in my life.  I wouldn't be myself.  I wouldn't know what to do.  My identity would be in major crisis and everything on which I have built my life would be shattered and I would inevitably fall to the ground, left lying on top of the pieces of rubble.

I would be confused and disoriented and unsure.  I would be tired and drained and hopeless.  My head would probably snap right off at the pace of my neck twisting and turning, just looking, just looking for Him.  Somewhere, any sign of Him, His shadow, His breathe, even just to hear His voice.  I need it.  I need Him.

And there are people who don't have Him.

How do they do it?

No, really.  It's this serious.  It's not just that I can call on God when I need Him or laugh with Him when something funny happens that only He sees or cry out to Him when I am desperate and alone.  It's His presence.  It's the way He's always there and never leaves.  It's that at any given time I have an army of angels surrounding me protecting me against the enemy.  It's times like this moment now where I am alone in a coffee shop and am completely satisfied in Him and have nothing better to do but write to Him out of worship. He's here.  Times where I am walking and the wind is blowing and there is nothing on my mind in particular.  Or times when I am trapped behind a cubicle in the library and want to be anywhere but there, but I know He's there too.  It's sitting in my room by myself every morning, drinking in His word and just talking to Him like He is right there.  Because He is.

It's not only those extreme times.  It's those times, too.

It's times when thoughts of my past are completely shameful.

It's times when thoughts of my present are completely confusing.

It's times when thoughts of my future are completely frightening.

It's times in all this change.  And one thing remains.

So there is this stillness in the midst of war.  There is this peace in the middle of chaos.  There is this rest in the middle of busyness.  That's Him.  That's His presence.

And when I lay my head to sleep at night, He is there.  And when I wake up in the morning I imagine Him looking over me saying, "Good morning, sunshine!"

I can feel it.  I can feel His presence.  And sometimes I can't.  But I have this hope and this trust and this hidden, secretive feeling ingrained deep down in the calcium of my bones that says "I'm here."

There is this intimate connection between Father and Child, Rescuer and Rescued, Redeemer and Redeemed, Sinner and Savior.

There is this connection, this indestructible bridge that connects God and me.  Forever.  The cross.   And I have been sealed by His promise.  I am His.  Forever.

There is the Holy Spirit, living inside of me and it will never move to a new house or get tired of me or get fed up with my consistent disobedience or pride or discontentment or unbelief.  Grace overflows from this Spirit and fills the whole neighborhood within me and it bubbles out of me until I taste and see and realize that He is there.  I realize that I have no other choice but to respond to this grace, to move, to smile, even.

His presence.  I could not live without it.  I would be crawling on the dirt floor out of starvation and suffocation, weary and lost.  Desperate and hopeless.  Drained and dreary.  I would be nothing.  I would be useless.  I  would be pulling myself with every last bit of strength that I had.  I would collapse on my flimsy arms, lying in the puddle of my own tears whimpering, "I can't live without You, God."

What a humbling picture.  Is that how much I depend on Him?  Is that how much I value His presence?  Is that how much I treasure the Treasure?

My skin would explode, pore by pore, my bones would be clanging with the pain of suppression. My spiritual stomach would be growling for Bread, surpassing the pangs until it finally shrinks and shrivels up.  The Spirit would be pounding, kicking, screaming inside of my heart like someone locked alive in a casket, being lowered to their grave.  Pounding.

Tell me to hold it in.

I will tell you, "Indeed, I cannot."

LMB