Author: danefowlkes

“The Lord caused the sea to go back all that night.” Exodus 14:21

In this verse there is a comforting message showing how God works in the dark. The real work of God for the children of Israel, was not when they awakened and found that they could get over the Red Sea; but it was “all that night.”

So there may be a great working in your life when it all seems dark and you cannot see or trace, but yet God is working. Just as truly did He work “all that night,” as all the next day. The next day simply manifested what God had done during the night. Is there anyone reading these lines who may have gotten to a place where it seems dark?

You believe to see, but you are not seeing. In your life-progress there is not constant victory; the daily, undisturbed communion is not there, and all seems dark.

“The Lord caused the sea to go back all that night.” Do not forget that it was “all that night.” God works all the night, until the light comes. You may not see it, but all that “night” in your life, as you believe God, He works. (Streams in the Desert)

Anyone who meets or hears Henry Blackaby speak is the better for it; I number myself among the beneficiaries. God used his study Experiencing God as a catalyst that propelled me to serve Christ in Kenya, and later in India. A number of years after I arrived and began ministry in Kenya, Dr. Blackaby came to East Africa to address all the missionaries serving in Eastern and Southern Africa under appointment by the Foreign Mission Board (now International Mission Board). I maneuvered into a seat close to the podium so I wouldn’t miss a word of his teaching. I still have handwritten notes in the margins of my Bible from those days of heaven on earth.

One of the gripping truths Blackaby expounds that continues to shape my understanding of discipleship is that God is always precious. Blackaby begins his seven realities of experiencing God with the foundational truth that God is always at work around us. Grasping this first reality sets our sail for all that follows, tacking in a decidedly Godward direction. I will not recognize at any given moment all that God is doing in and around me, but knowing that He is fosters confidence despite the darkness that may envelope during the interim.

“God works all the night, until the light comes. You may not see it, but all that ‘night’ in your life, as you believe God, He works.”

On that day, when evening came, Jesus said to his disciples, “Let’s go across to the other side of the lake.” Mark 4:35

Even when we go forth at Christ’s command, we need not expect to escape storms; for these disciples were going forth at Christ’s command, yet they encountered the fiercest storm and were in great danger of being overwhelmed, so that they cried out in their distress for Christ’s assistance.

Though Christ may delay His coming in our time of distress, it is only that our faith may be tried and strengthened, and that our prayers may be more intense, and that our desires for deliverance may be increased, so that when the deliverance does come we will appreciate it more fully.

Christ gave them a gentle rebuke, saying, “Where is your faith?” Why did you not shout victory in the very face of the storm, and say to the raging winds and rolling waves, “You can do no harm, for Christ, the mighty Savior is on board”?

It is much easier to trust when the sun is shining than when the storm is raging.

We never know how much real faith we have until it is put to the test in some fierce storm; and that is the reason why the Savior is on board. If you are ever to be strong in the Lord and the power of His might, your strength will be born in some storm. (Streams in the Desert)

Having spent my childhood on the Gulf coast, I am accustomed to storms. In fact, one of my strongest early memories is of fleeing as a family before the ferocity of Hurricane Camille in 1969. Camille was the second-most intense tropical cyclone to strike the United States on record. We escaped to East Texas to the farm of my mother’s relative that we called Uncle Pete. I am certain my parents experienced a goodly measure of fear as they sought to keep us safe, but what I remember most is the time spent with Uncle Pete in overalls gathering eggs and milking cows. I also recall the expansive breakfast spread that seemed to my childish eyes to go on forever. Perhaps that farm table is where my love of pancakes was born.

You need not go out looking for storms—they will find you soon enough. When they inevitably do, remember the boisterous tempest is not the important thing; the quiet presence of the Lord is our Center. He takes us by the hand, and walks the narrow valley with us. We do not celebrate the hard things in life; instead, we cherish successive memories of the Lord’s nearness in the toughest of circumstances. Storms are not a concern for those secure in the presence of another.

“Against hope Abraham believed in hope with the result that he became the father of many nations according to the pronouncement, ‘so will your descendants be.’ Without being weak in faith, he considered his own body as dead (because he was about one hundred years old) and the deadness of Sarah’s womb.” Romans 4:18-19

“Great faith must have great trials.”

We shall never forget a remark that George Mueller once made to a gentleman who had asked him the best way to have strong faith.

“The only way,” replied the patriarch of faith, “to learn strong faith is to endure great trials. I have learned my faith by standing firm amid severe testings.” This is very true. The time to trust is when all else fails.

Dear one, you scarcely realize the value of your present opportunity; if you are passing through great afflictions you are in the very soul of the strongest faith, and if you will only let go, He will teach you in these hours the mightiest hold upon His throne which you can ever know.

“Be not afraid, only believe.” And if you are afraid, just look up and say, “What time I am afraid I will trust in thee,” and you will yet thank God for the school of sorrow which was to you the school of faith. (Streams in the Desert)

It is beginning to dawn on me that nights are gifts from God. As a boy, the dark terrified me. I remember crouching in bed, pulling covers over me like a cotton force field, quoting mantra-like the first Bible verse I ever committed to memory—“What time I am afraid, I will trust in Thee” (Psalm 56:3). The night no longer frightens me; in fact, I embrace it as solace for body and spirit. Insects exclaim the glory of their Creator while I do the same in mind and heart. Traffic sounds in the distance encourage me for the very fact that they remain in the distance. This space to be, the close of a day to consider what it means to be, is a divine gift, and I guard it jealously. When schedules become hectic and work demands exceed the time available to fulfill them, I experience the full grief cycle, albeit in a shortened span—denial, anger, acceptance. But occasionally at night there is no grief, only mercy—no anger and nothing to accept apart from a peace so strong that it must be a sweet shadow of the greater peace that awaits beyond time and space. Author Barbara Brown Taylor encourages just such a transformed view of the night in “Learning to Walk in the Dark.” Instead of avoiding the dark’s mystery or opposing it as some nocturnal enemy, try seeing it as a gift. Pause, remember, evaluate, meditate, dream, pray, and most of all, enjoy.

“I will give you the treasures of darkness and riches hidden in secret places, so that you may know that it is I, the Lord, the God of Israel, who call you by your name.” Isaiah 45:3, KJV

The Lord said to Moses, “Why do you cry out to me? Tell the Israelites to move on.” Exodus 14:15

Why dost thou worry thyself? What use can thy fretting serve? Thou art on board a vessel which thou couldst not steer even if the great Captain put thee at the helm, of which thou couldst not so much as reef a sail, yet thou worriest as if thou wert captain and helmsman. Oh, be quiet; God is Master! __C. H. Spurgeon

I entreat you, give no place to despondency. This is a dangerous temptation—a refined, not a gross temptation of the adversary. Melancholy contracts and withers the heart, and renders it unfit to receive the impressions of grace. It magnifies and gives a false coloring to objects, and thus renders your burdens too heavy to bear. God’s designs regarding you, and His methods of bringing about these designs, are infinitely wise. __Madame Guyon

(Streams in the Desert)

Thomas Didymus, a.k.a. “Doubting Thomas,” was more a complainer than a doubter. He is best known for questioning Jesus’ resurrection when he first learned of it, but his famous doubting was the visible side of a more subtle attitude that may be detected in earlier exchanges. He was never one to look on the rosier side of things. “Then said Thomas, which is called Didymus, unto his fellow disciples, ‘Let us also go, that we may die with him'” (John 11:16). “Thomas saith unto him, ‘Lord, we know not whither thou goest; and how can we know the way?'” (John 14:5).

I guess that’s why I feel an odd sense of kinship with Thomas; he was bent toward the Eeyore way of looking at life. We may label it with different terms such as grumbling, griping, belly-aching, or whining, but the result is the negative same. On one of our first dates, I was waxing critical about something and my soon-to-be wife startled me by asking if I wanted ‘a little cheese with my whine.’ She then uttered one her all time classic one-liners: “Whining is not attractive.”  In King James English the word for complaining is “murmuring,” but regardless of how we say it, whining is not attractive. Webster’s says complaining is “an expression of unhappiness, dissatisfaction, or discontent.” To say it another way, “Complaining is the outward expression of discontent from within” (Dr. Dale A. Robbins).

The interesting thing is that the one to whom Thomas complained most was Jesus himself. Irregardless of whatever circumstances evoke dissatisfaction, complaining is really deep down unbelief. If God is in charge the way we profess Him to be, murmuring and grumbling is essentially accusing the Lord of not holding up his end of the bargain. I read how Thomas questioned the Lord and my inclination is to say, “I would never complain to Jesus”; yet, to be honest, I do it all the time.  I complain about this, grumble about that, murmur about the other, all the time thinking that I’m doing it to myself, yet God hears it all. In the end, my complaints are to and against the Lord Jesus, and call into question the quality of my faith.

“I use to think people complained because they had lots of problems. But I have come to realize that they have problems because they complain” (Robbins). Complaining doesn’t change anything or make situations better; it amplifies frustration, fosters discontent, and spreads discord. Whining is an open wound that refuses to heal. Thankfully, Thomas was eventually able to declare, “My Lord and my God!” (John 20:28) (From Ordinary Glory: Finding Grace in the Commonplace by Dane Fowlkes)

“Like a shock of corn fully ripe.” Job 5:26

A gentleman, writing about the breaking up of old ships, said that it is not the age alone which improves the quality of the fiber in the wood of an old vessel, but the straining and wrenching of the vessel by the sea, the chemical action of the bilge water, and of many kinds of cargoes.

So there is a vast difference between the quality of old people who have lived flabby, self-indulgent, useless lives, and the fiber of those who have sailed all seas and carried all cargoes as the servants of God and the helpers of their fellow men. Not only the wrenching and straining of life, but also something of the sweetness of the cargoes carried get into the very pores and fiber of character. (Streams in the Desert)

It is far easier to lament failure than celebrate progress. Disappointment looms large when moping over a big picture that encompasses missed opportunity, impotent decision making, intentional disobedience, and insufficient courage. Shadow boxing with the worst of me; I end up with a brown study of life with little reason to look up. Cruel truth is often convince myself I have failed at everything I’ve ever attempted; disappointment threatens to debilitate.

Thankfully, my grandson reminds of what is so amazing about grace. He and my granddaughter were on the floor competing to construct the best track arrangement for a battery powered car manufactured to navigate the track. He tended to opt for steep inclines that prevented the car from making it over the top and around the course. Invariably, his car reached the same spot only to topple over and off the track. I waited for him to meltdown—an emotional throwing-in-the-towel—but he surprised me. Instead of quitting the contest, he said that he learns something every time the car falls off the track and adjusts the course accordingly. “The chance to get better keeps me from giving up.” Deep truth from an eight-year-old—if only I can embrace the same.

“Forgiveness is the giving, and so the receiving, of life” (George McDonald). We are not created to live in reverse. Our bodies face forward; our lives should as well. Each of us have reason to occasionally crane our head around to look behind, but the greater portion of our time is spent scanning what lies ahead. The horizon spreads before us, not abaft. Our past is forgiven and our future guaranteed.

“And no man could learn that song but the hundred and forty and four thousand, which were redeemed from the earth.” Revelation 14:3

There are songs which can only be learned in the valley. No art can teach them; no rules of voice can make them perfectly sung. Their music is in the heart. They are songs of memory, of personal experience. They bring out their burden from the shadow of the past; they mount on the wings of yesterday.

No angel, no archangel can sing it so sweetly as I can. To sing it as I sing it, they must pass through my exile, and this they cannot do. None can learn it but the children of the Cross. . . Thy Father is training thee for the part the angels cannot sing; and the school is sorrow. I have heard many say that He sends sorrow to prove thee; nay, He sends sorrow to educate thee, to train thee for the choir invisible.

In the night He is preparing thy song. In the valley He is tuning thy voice. In the cloud He is deepening thy chords. In the rain He is sweetening thy melody. In the cold He is moulding thy expression. In the transition from hope to fear He is perfecting thy lights. Despise not thy school of sorrow, O my soul; it will give thee a unique part in the universal song. (Streams in the Desert)

I met our oldest grandson twelve years ago when he was two years old and I was forty six. His grandmother and I had met a short time before and she warned me ahead of time that he was perfect and that she was not interested in a relationship with anyone who didn’t fit like a welcomed glove with her family. I recall like it was yesterday my anxiety in anticipation of that first meeting. One-by-one I was introduced to her family, and then, finally, I met Joey. We went almost immediately to the backyard where I pulled him around in a little red wagon until I feared my arm would fall off, which would likely have been the end of my efforts to win him over, and his grandmother as well. As providence would have it, about the time I could no longer feel my arms or legs, Joey climbed out of the wagon and scooted over to the Little Tikes swing suspended by yellow ski rope from a frazzled red oak. I hoisted him up into the seat, secured him there, and gave his red plastic cocoon a gentle push. Joey giggled his approval. I slowly relaxed, and began to enjoy the moment as well. He was visibly contented seesawing back and forth in his cozy cockpit, so much so that he fell asleep to the rhythm of the swing. He was out, and I was in.

Joey’s grandmother and I married less than a year later, and as soon as he was comfortable sleeping away from mom and dad we began a Friday night ritual. I would drive in from working out of town and Joey would be waiting for me in our home. Weekends began the same way each week with what we still affectionately call the “sock game.” Joey and I, in turn, would take a running start on shoeless feet and launch ourselves into a slide down our wood floor hallway, measuring our ending mark against the other’s. Occasionally, we added a sleeping bag to the mix as a landing pad for knees and a sled to add distance to our slides. As Joey matured and I aged, he became more proficient at our sock game and I less so. Eventually he outgrew our weekend soirées, and the sock game went the way of Chinese checkers.

For whatever reason, Joey announced recently that on Friday night we were going to relive his childhood sleepovers and have a rollicking grandfather-grandson night, which began, of course, with the resurrected sock game. Time plays cruel tricks on the body and I quickly remembered that I am not the man I once was, at least when it comes to sliding down a hallway in socks. To be honest, I held my own at first against the twelve-year-old would-be sock Olympian, but when Joey threw the sleeping bag sled into the mix things went south–literally. I hurtled down the hallway and dropped downward toward the nylon sled, but instead of landing on my knees as intended, I plopped backward awkwardly onto my tailbone. To this day I’m unclear as to the Creator’s intent for this piece of human anatomy, but suffice to say it falls far short as a shock absorber. I fell back stunned, surprised at the amount of pain ruminating from my backside, and in the same instance it hit me—an old man should be wiser than to pit himself against a limber youth, at least when it comes to sliding down hallways.

Regret is a four letter word. In my current race against time, it renders me breathless when I should be gaining my second wind. Remorse does more than paralyze; it removes the flavor and fulfillment of any endeavor or experience, present or future. We remain bound by our past. The unfortunate thing is that regret is a prison cell entirely of our own making. We choose to be sidelined by mistake and sin.

Aging wastes time waiting on dejavue. I am not and cannot be the man I once was. Many endure each day attempting to recover something that was lost; the problem being they can’t determine exactly what it is that’s missing. The key to navigating the incessant flow of years is learning from the past while refusing to repeat or be vanquished by it. Wrestling with aging is an unavoidable occupational hazard, but maturity seizes the moment, holds it up to the light of experience, and responds with patient resolve to live better. Aging is a double edged sword—hardened by fatigue & failure, yet softened by wisdom forged from experience. Learn as much as you can from this life; others are watching to see what they may learn from you.

“For with God nothing shall be impossible.” Luke 1:37

Far up in the Alpine hollows, year by year God works one of His marvels. The snow-patches lie there, frozen with ice at their edge from the strife of sunny days and frosty nights; and through that ice-crust come, unscathed, flowers that bloom.

Back in the days of the by-gone summer, the little soldanelle plant spread its leaves wide and flat on the ground, to drink in the sun-rays, and it kept them stored in the root through the winter. Then spring came, and stirred the pulses even below the snow-shroud, and as it sprouted, warmth was given out in such strange measure that it thawed a little dome in the snow above its head.

Higher and higher it grew and always above it rose the bell of air, till the flower-bud formed safely within it: and at last the icy covering of the air-bell gave way and let the blossom through into the sunshine, the crystalline texture of its mauve petals sparkling like snow itself as if it bore the traces of the flight through which it had come. And the fragile thing rings an echo in our hearts that none of the jewel-like flowers nestled in the warm turf on the slopes below could waken. We love to see the impossible done. And so does God.

Face it out to the end, cast away every shadow of hope on the human side as an absolute hindrance to the Divine, heap up all the difficulties together recklessly, and pile as many more on as you can find; you cannot get beyond the blessed climax of impossibility. Let faith swing out to Him. He is the God of the impossible. (Streams in the Desert)

We played a familiar game, even though it had been some time since I had tried it. It came at the tail end of the nature walk my wife invented as a way of occupying our three year old granddaughter while her mother took her sister for a horseback riding lesson. We enjoy being with this dynamite in dimples, but she does keep us on our toes, hence the outdoor adventure. First, we marveled at the magic flurry of a myriad yellow green butterflies gorging themselves on Turk’s Cap near our carport. Onward we trudged and a short distance down our caliche path I began to skip and broke into an off key rendition of, “We’re off to see the wizard…” Neither wife nor granddaughter were impressed. We held hands, laughed and mimicked cow sounds, and shooed away the Great Pyrenees from next door while winding back the way we had come. In front of a stately old home that peers down on all passers by with historic indifference, my wife introduced the game. She stepped onto the fairly narrow cement edging of the park like lawn and said, “Follow me.” Hannah spread arms like an airplane and did her best in little girl cowboy boots to balance herself while staying close behind Jo Jo. I drew up the rear, so no one could see my clumsy efforts to imitate our leader. We successfully navigated the concrete balance beam and moved on to try our feet on the circular brick ledge that defines the transition from lawn to driveway in front of our bungalow. At the close of our grand adventure, Hannah declared, “Following is hard.” I agreed.

As Jesus traveled throughout Israel urging people to repent and believe the gospel, “Follow me” was his constant refrain. He began public ministry by calling his first disciples with the terse command, “Follow me and I will make you fishers of men.” As his ministry progressed, he warned the crowds, “If anyone would come after me, let him deny himself, take up his cross and follow me.” At the end of his earthly ministry, Jesus commissioned the repentant Peter, “Follow me.” This simple two word directive should lead to profound, transforming change in how we think about and practice the Christian life. Following Jesus begins when we respond to his call to repent and believe the Good News that God loves us and has taken initiative to reconcile us to the Father. He awakens us to God’s grace and motivates us to want to live well. When we turn our attention to what it means to follow Jesus in ordinary living, two things immediately stand out: allegiance and identification. Following Jesus demands ultimate allegiance, expressed through obedience and priority. Hearing and obeying Jesus’ teachings are fundamental to following him, and doing so forces us to reorder priorities, removing from our vocabulary an oath of intermittent allegiance, “Yes Lord, but…” Discipleship also requires imitating Jesus. After washing the disciples’ feet in the Upper a Room, Jesus instructed, “If I then, your Lord and Teacher, have washed your feet, you also ought to wash one another’s feet, for I have given you an example, that you should also do just as I have done to you” (John 13:14-15). A concrete example makes a deeper impact than statements of principle.

Following Jesus, then, entails both obeying his teachings and identifying with his example, but obeying and imitating are not ends in themselves; they are the means to an even greater end. Following Jesus results in deeper intimacy. We more clearly resemble Jesus the more frequently we walk with him. Make no mistake about it, the goal of discipleship is nothing short of becoming like Jesus–to think as he thought, to feel as he felt, to act as he acted, and to desire what he desired. “Whoever says he abides in him ought to walk in the same way in which he walked” (1 John 2:6). Because Jesus is the image of God in human form (Colossians 1:15; Hebrews 1:3), the more we reflect Jesus, the image of God is increasingly restored in us. Following is hard, but it is everything.

Then the man said, “Let me go, for the dawn is breaking.” “I will not let you go,” Jacob replied, “unless you bless me.” Then Jacob asked, “Please tell me your name.” “Why do you ask my name?” the man replied. Then he blessed Jacob there. Genesis 32:26,29

Jacob got the victory and the blessing not by wrestling, but by clinging. His limb was out of joint and he could struggle no longer, but he would not let go. Unable to wrestle, he wound his arms around the neck of his mysterious antagonist and hung all his helpless weight upon him, until at last he conquered.

We will not get victory in prayer until we too cease our struggling, giving up our own will and throw our arms about our Father’s neck in clinging faith. What can puny human strength take by force out of the hand of Omnipotence? Can we wrest blessing by force from God? It is never the violence of wilfulness that prevails with God. It is the might of clinging faith, that gets the blessing and the victories. It is not when we press and urge our own will, but when humility and trust unite in saying, “Not my will, but Thine.” We are strong with God only in the degree that self is conquered and is dead. Not by wrestling, but by clinging can we get the blessing. (Streams in the Desert)

Sin must be confronted and weakness confessed for our prayers to ring true. Apart from relentless transparency, praying becomes a religiously correct attempt to manipulate Almighty God, the very thought of which is repugnant, yet frequently repeated. The goal for every disciple is not self-efficacy but self-effacement. He must increase, and we must decrease. This is not vain effort to convince the Father of humility in order to gain something from Him; surrender is setting aside our own agenda in preference to God’s revealed and yet-to-be unveiled will at any given moment. The great cost of following Jesus is laying aside self-preservation in deference to worshipping God with our whole heart.

“Bring them here to me.” Matthew 14:18

Do you find yourself at this very moment surrounded with needs, and nearly overwhelmed with difficulties, trials, and emergencies? Each of these is God’s way of providing vessels for the Holy Spirit to fill. If you correctly understand their meaning, you will see them as opportunities for receiving new blessings and deliverance you can receive in no other way.

The Lord is saying to you, “Bring them here to me.” Firmly hold the vessels before Him, in faith and in prayer. Remain still before Him, and stop your own restless working until He begins to work. Do nothing that He Himself has not commanded you to do. Allow God time to work and He surely will. Then the very trials that threatened to overcome you with discouragement and disaster will become God’s opportunity to reveal His grace and glory in your life, in ways you have never known before.

“Bring [your needs] here to me.” (Streams in the Desert)

When brown-bagging solo, I prefer to picnic under the shade of a significant oak that towers above the east side of St. Francis Church on the west edge of downtown Waco. The tree canopy is ideal for lowering car windows and allowing gentle zephyrs to blow in and out, finding refreshment in the process. I routinely enjoy these tranquil moments without distraction, which explains my frustration with the young woman who interrupted my Taco Bell Deal #4 by approaching and sitting on the steps nearby, disturbing my solitary peace in this cherished space. Her arrival annoyed me and I was about to depart in frustration when I looked closer and noticed that she was both pregnant and crying. The teenager was speaking with someone on a cell phone and from her gestures and expression I could see the conversation wasn’t going well, her end of it anyway. Annoyance yielded to compassion and I paused to pray for resolution of all that was distressing and leaving her in tears. For all I know, her life and that of her unborn child hung in the balance of that conversation.

I am fairly adept at paying attention to my own needs and desires; I often falter at shifting my attention to others. Life is fragile and deserves awareness. How often do life and death struggles wage war under my nose with no acknowledgement whatsoever on my part? How frequently am I stone cold oblivious to the damage done to human dignity by preoccupation with myself? I cannot say that my prayer helped the young lady observed from behind my windshield, but I can say that it softened me towards the angst of a fellow human being. In the end, prayer is more for my sake than for God’s, and compassion changes me far more than it changes anyone else.

Then Israel sang this song: “Spring up, O well, sing ye unto it!” Numbers 21:17

This was a strange song and a strange well. They had been traveling over the desert’s barren sands, no water was in sight and they were famishing with thirst. Then God spake to Moses and said:

“Gather the people together, and I will give them water,” and this is how it came.

They gathered in circles on the sands. They took their staves and dug deep down into the burning earth and as they dug, they sang,

“Spring up, O well, sing ye unto it,” and lo, there came a gurgling sound, a rush of water and a flowing stream which filled the well and ran along the ground.

When they dug this well in the desert, they touched the stream that was running beneath, and reached the flowing tides that had long been out of sight.

How beautiful the picture given, telling us of the river of blessing that flows all through our lives, and we have only to reach by faith and praise to find our wants supplied in the most barren desert.

How did they reach the waters of this well? It was by praise. They sang upon the sand their song of faith, while with their staff of promise they dug the well.

Our praise will still open fountains in the desert, when murmuring will only bring us judgment, and even prayer may fail to reach the fountains of blessing.

There is nothing that pleases the Lord so much as praise. There is no test of faith so true as the grace of thanksgiving. Are you praising God enough? Are you thanking Him for your actual blessings that are more than can be numbered, and are you daring to praise Him even for those trials which are but blessings in disguise? Have you learned to praise Him in advance for the things that have not yet come? (Streams in the Desert)

This passage brings to mind an unforgettable image of the “singing wells” of the Samburu people in a remote area of northern Kenya. Sarara means meeting place in Samburu and at the singing wells all the different families from the area come to meet and share stories, as well as to water their livestock. Inside the hand-dug wells dotting the landscape, a young Samburu man in each balances on a rock ledge hewn into the interior mud walls, and bends down to scoop water with a container from the well. Then he passes it upwards to the next warrior on a higher ledge who pours it into a wooden trough on the lip of the well, where the cattle come to drink. During extremely dry seasons, there can be as many as seven men in each well, passing the water from the depths of the water table up and up and up some more. All the while, they repeatedly sing their own family song, summoning their cattle to their well.

Praise honors God, and transforms me. As I openly ascribe glory to the Almighty, I cease being the center of the universe, and shift focus to the One True Center. Selflessness liberates and overt adulation is the conduit of spiritual freedom. I add my own voice to the music of the earth and all creatures contained on it, summoning others to join in the chorus. Release your heart to sing, and discover deep reserves from which to worship the Lord.