The Brick Maker

There is such a disparity between the flat earth of Louisiana where we live and the rolling hills of Michigan where I drove the roller coaster roads just a few short weeks ago.

Down here near the Gulf, there's not much "up" to be had with feet resting on the soil. We're barely above sea level, so our children live in trees--anything to get up off the ground.

But lately, God's been whispering in the everyday pieces of my life, fragments of thoughts about climbing up and about the Tower of Babel. Wind whispers that don't tell the whole message.

And Monday, my 10-month-old Amelia started climbing with tag-a-long Emerson right behind her. "What goes up must come down," I admonished. And minutes later, the self-impressed smile vanished as she tumbled down from her perch. Tears. Red cheek. But I know she'll be right back on that box again tomorrow.

And there was the reminder again. What is it about Babel? And why now?

I open the text and read, knowing something is there that I'm missing.

Genesis 11:4: "They said, 'Come, let us build for ourselves a city, and a tower whose top will reach into heaven, and let us make for ourselves a name, otherwise we will be scattered abroad over the face of the whole earth.'"

A city with a tower that would pierce the clouds, higher and higher until it reached heaven.

What engineering gurus they had on board to accomplish this feat, I don't know. But they started building upward with a pride, a plan for "thoroughly" baked bricks, and a whole lot of arrogance.

It's always bothered me--a group of defiant men and women told to be fruitful and multiply and fill the earth. But with hands rough from making brick and slapping tar between them, they chose otherwise, desiring to reach God in the heavens on their own terms and by their own means.

And yet tonight, I see myself in this rebellious lot. My husband and I have been living an up-and-down roller coaster since his career took a permanent detour in 2005. Although I don't want to admit it, sometimes late at night I have "What were you thinking, God!?" thoughts. I have played out so many scenarios in my mind, all which cast me, not God, in the primary role.

I build my own tower, stack however many bricks it takes to be something, climb the steps upward to make a name for myself and to make what I consider to be a significant difference for God.

But in the silence, He speaks of trusting His heart. Of taking comfort that He knows my name and listens to my every word and thought. Of walking the level path of the valley He's set before me in this season. Of ceasing to strive to find ways to make a difference for Him--but to just obey in what He's given me to do. Teach. Mother. Blog. Love.

No more brick-making for this woman.