Psalm 139:1-5, 12-17

1 Lord, you have searched me out and known me; you know my sitting down and my rising up; you discern my thoughts from afar.
2 You trace my journeys and my resting-places and are acquainted with all my ways.
3 Indeed, there is not a word on my lips, but you, O Lord, know it altogether.
4 You press upon me behind and before and lay your hand upon me.
5 Such knowledge is too wonderful for me; it is so high that I cannot attain to it.
12 For you yourself created my inmost parts; you knit me together in my mother's womb.
13 I will thank you because I am marvelously made; your works are wonderful, and I know it well.
14 My body was not hidden from you, while I was being made in secret and woven in the depths of the earth.
15 Your eyes beheld my limbs, yet unfinished in the womb; all of them were written in your book; they were fashioned day by day, when as yet there was none of them.
16 How deep I find your thoughts, O God! how great is the sum of them!
17 If I were to count them, they would be more in number than the sand; to count them all, my life span would need to be like yours.

When I began seminary, Professor James Forbes told incoming students to memorize Psalm 139. (A portion of that psalm turned up in the lectionary for the past Sunday and is also reprinted in this email.) Dr. Forbes said the psalm would change our lives. I did memorize it, though I can’t totally recite it now. But I’ve held it close because it reminds me that God holds me close. That is indeed a life changing insight. In that spirit, this morning I’m sparing you my Monday morning ramblings and deferring to the wisdom of Howard Thurman who wrote a poem that I also hold close. It's a poem that speaks of the ways that God holds us close, even and especially when times are tough.

-Jay Sidebotham

The Threads in My Hand

Only one end of the threads, I hold in my hand. The threads go many ways, linking my life with other lives.

One thread comes from a life that is sick; it is taut with anguish and always there is the lurking fear that the life will snap.
I hold it tenderly. I must not let it go.

One thread comes from a high-flying kite; it quivers with the mighty current of fierce and holy dreaming invading the common day with far-off places and visions bright.

One thread comes from the failing hands of an old, old friend. Hardly aware am I of the moment when the tight line slackended and there was nothing at all — nothing.

One thread is but a tangled mass that won’t come right; Mistakes, false starts; lost battles, angry words – a tangled mass; I have tried too hard, but it won’t come right.

One thread is a strange thread – it is my steadying thread; When I am lost, I pull it hard and find my way. When I am saddened, I tighten my grip and gladness glides along its quivering path; When the waste places of my spirit appear in arid confusion, the thread becomes a channel of newness of life.

One thread is a strange thread – it is my steadying thread. God’s hand holds the other end.

-Howard Thurman

Footnote: Since many of you have been watching a lot of tennis over the past two weeks, I thought I'd note that Arthur Ashe concluded his memoir, Days of Grace, with this poem by Howard Thurman. The poem sustained Mr. Ashe in the challenges he faced.