David and his men swoop down upon the enemy like hawks on rats. Every Israelite woman and child is rescued. Every Amalekite either bites the dust or hits the trail, leaving precious plunder behind. David goes from scapegoat to hero, and the whooping and hollering begin.
The punch line, however, is yet to be read. To feel the full force of it, imagine the thoughts of some of the players in this story.
The rescued wives. You’ve just been snatched from your home and dragged through the desert. You’ve feared for your life and clutched your kids. Then, one great day, the good guys raid the camp. Strong arms sweep you up and set you in front of a camel hump. You thank God for the SWAT team who snatched you and begin searching the soldiers’ faces for your husband.
“Honey!” you yell. “Honey! Where are you?”
Your rescuer reins the camel to a halt. “Uh,” he begins, “uh . . . your honey stayed at the camp.”
“He did what?”
“He hung with the guys at Brook Besor.”
I don’t know if Hebrew women had rolling pins, but if they did, they might begin slapping them about this moment. “Besor, eh? I’ll tell you who’ll be sore.”
The rescue squad. When David called, you risked your life. Now, victory in hand, you gallop back to Brook Besor. You crest the ridge overlooking the camp and see the two hundred men below.
“You leeches.”
While you fought, they slept. You went to battle; they went to matinees and massage therapists. They shot eighteen holes and stayed up late playing poker.
You might feel the way some of David’s men felt: “Because they did not go with us, we will not give them any of the spoil that we have recovered, except for every man’s wife and children” (30:22).
Rescued wives: angry.
Rescuers: resentful.
And what about the two hundred men who had rested? Worms have higher self-esteem. They feel as manly as a lace doily.
A Molotov cocktail of emotions is stirred, lit, and handed to David. Here’s how he defuses it:
Don’t do that after what the Lord has given us. He has protected us and given us the enemy who attacked us. Who will listen to what you say? The share will be the same for the one who stayed with the supplies as for the one who went into battle. All will share alike. (30:23–24 ncv)
Note David’s words: they “stayed with the supplies,” as if this had been their job. They hadn’t asked to guard supplies; they wanted to rest. But David dignifies their decision to stay.
David did many mighty deeds in his life. He did many foolish deeds in his life. But perhaps the noblest was this rarely discussed deed: he honored the tired soldiers at Brook Besor.
* * *
It’s okay to rest.
Jesus fights when you cannot.
* * *
Someday somebody will read what David did and name their church the Congregation at Brook Besor. Isn’t that what the church is intended to be? A place for soldiers to recover their strength?
In his great book about David, Leap Over a Wall, Eugene Peterson tells of a friend who sometimes signs her letters “Yours at the Brook Besor.”1 I wonder how many could do the same. Too tired to fight. Too ashamed to complain. While others claim victories, the weary sit in silence. How many sit at the Brook Besor?
If you are listed among them, here is what you need to know: it’s okay to rest. Jesus is your David. He fights when you cannot. He
* * *
Are you weary? Catch your breath. Are you strong?
Reserve passing judgment on the tired.
* * *
goes where you cannot. He’s not angry if you sit. Did he not invite, “Come off by yourselves; let’s take a break and get a little rest” (Mark 6:31 MSG)?
Brook Besor blesses rest.
Brook Besor also cautions against arrogance. David knew the victory was a gift. Let’s remember the same. Salvation comes like the Egyptian in the desert, a delightful surprise on the path. Unearned. Undeserved. Who are the strong to criticize the tired?
Are you weary? Catch your breath. We need your strength.
Are you strong? Reserve passing judgment on the tired. Odds are, you’ll need to plop down yourself. And when you do, Brook Besor is a good story to know.
10
UNSPEAKABLE GRIEF
YOU MIGHT HEAR the news from a policeman: “I’m sorry. He didn’t survive the accident.”
You might return a friend’s call, only to be told, “The surgeon brought bad news.”
Too many spouses have heard these words from grim-faced sol-diers: “We regret to inform you . . .”
In such moments, spring becomes winter, blue turns to gray, birds go silent, and the chill of sorrow settles in. It’s cold in the valley of the shadow of death.
David’s messenger isn’t a policeman, friend, or soldier. He is a breathless Amalekite with torn clothing and hair full of dirt who stumbles into Camp Ziklag with the news: “The people have fled from the battle, many of the people are fallen and dead, and Saul and Jonathan his son are dead also” (2 Sam. 1:4).
David knows the Hebrews are fighting the Philistines. He knows Saul and Jonathan are in for the battle of their lives. He’s been awaiting the outcome. When the messenger presents David with Saul’s crown and bracelet, David has undeniable proof—Saul and Jonathan are dead.
Jonathan. Closer than a brother. He had saved David’s life and sworn to protect his children.
Saul. God’s chosen. God’s anointed. Yes, he had hounded David. He had badgered David. But he was still God’s anointed.
God’s chosen king—dead.
David’s best friend—dead.
Leaving David to face yet another giant—the giant of grief.
We’ve felt his heavy hand on our shoulders. Not in Ziklag, but in emergency rooms, in children’s hospitals, at car wrecks, and on battlefields. And we, like David, have two choices: flee or face the giant.
Many opt to flee grief. Captain Woodrow Call urged young Newt to do so. In the movie Lonesome Dove, Call and Newt are part of an 1880s Texas-to-Montana cattle drive. When a swimming swarm of water moccasins end the life of Newt’s best friend, Call offers
* * *
We, like David, have two choices:
flee or face the giant.
* * *
bereavement counsel, western style. At the burial, in the shade of elms and the presence of cowboys, he advises, “Walk away from it, son. That’s the only way to handle death. Walk away from it.”
What else can you do? The grave stirs such unspeakable hurt and unanswerable questions, we’re tempted to turn and walk. Change the subject, avoid the issue. Work hard. Drink harder. Stay busy. Stay distant. Head north to Montana and don’t look back.
Yet we pay a high price when we do. Bereavement comes from the word reave. Look up reave in the dictionary, and you’ll read “to take away by force, plunder, rob.” Death robs you. The grave plunders moments and memories not yet shared: birthdays, vacations, lazy walks, talks over tea. You are bereaved because you’ve been robbed.
Normal is no more and never will be again. After the wife of C. S. Lewis died of cancer, he wrote, “Her absence is like the sky, spread over everything.”1
Just when you think the beast of grief is gone, you hear a song she loved or smell the cologne he wore or pass a restaurant where the two of you used to eat. The giant keeps showing up.
And the giant of grief keeps stirring up. Stirring up . . .
Anxiety. “Am I next?”
Guilt. “Why did I tell him . . .” “Why didn’t I say to her . . .”
Wistfulness. You see intact couples and long for your mate. You see parents with kids and yearn for your child.
The giant stirs up insomnia, loss of appetite, forgetfulness, thoughts of suicide. Grief is not a mental illness, but it sure feels like one sometimes.
Captain Call didn’t understand this.
Your friends may not understand this.
You may not understand t
his. But please try. Understand the gravity of your loss. You didn’t lose at Monopoly or misplace your keys. You can’t walk away from this. At some point, within minutes or months, you need to do what David did. Face your grief.
Upon hearing of the deaths of Saul and Jonathan, “David lamented” (2 Sam. 1:17). The warrior wept. The commander buried a bearded face in callous hands and cried. He “ripped his clothes to ribbons. All the men with him did the same. They wept and fasted the rest of the day, grieving the death of Saul and his son Jonathan, and also the army of God and the nation Israel, victims in a failed battle” (1:11–12 MSG).
Wailing warriors covered the hills, a herd of men walking, moaning, weeping, and mourning. They tore clothing, pounded the ground, and exhaled hurt.
You need to do the same. Flush the hurt out of your heart, and when the hurt returns, flush it again. Go ahead, cry a Mississippi.
Jesus did. Next to the tomb of his dear friend, “Jesus wept” ( John 11:35). Why would he do such a thing? Does he not know of Lazarus’s impending resurrection? He’s one declaration from seeing his friend exit the grave. He’ll see Lazarus before dinner. Why the tears?
* * *
Death amputates a limb of your life.
* * *
Amid the answers we think we know and the many we don’t is this one: death stinks.
Death amputates a limb of your life. So Jesus wept. And in his tears we find permission to shed our own. F. B. Meyer wrote:
Jesus wept. Peter wept. The Ephesian converts wept on the neck of the Apostle whose face they were never to see again. Christ stands by each mourner, saying, “Weep, my child; weep, for I have wept.”
Tears relieve the burning brain, as a shower in the electric clouds. Tears discharge the insupportable agony of the heart, as an overflow lessens the pressure of the flood against the dam. Tears are the material out of which heaven weaves its brightest rainbow.2
We don’t know how long Jesus wept. We don’t know how long David wept. But we know how long we weep, and the time seems
* * *
Tears are the material out of which heaven weaves
its brightest rainbow. —F. B. Meyer
* * *
so truncated. Egyptians dress in black for six months. Some Muslims wear mourning clothes for a year. Orthodox Jews offer prayers for a deceased parent every day for eleven months. Just fifty years ago rural Americans wore black armbands for a period of several weeks.3 And today? Am I the only one who senses that we hurry our hurts?
Grief takes time. Give yourself some. “Sages invest themselves in hurt and grieving” (Eccles. 7:4 MSG). Lament may be a foreign verb in our world but not in Scripture’s. Seventy percent of the psalms are poems of sorrow. Why, the Old Testament includes a book of lamentations. The son of David wrote, “Sorrow is better than laughter, for sadness has a refining influence on us” (Eccles. 7:3 NLT).
We spelunk life’s deepest issues in the cave of sorrow. Why am I here? Where am I headed? Cemetery strolls stir hard yet vital questions. David indulged the full force of his remorse: “I am worn out
* * *
We spelunk life’s deepest issues in the cave of sorrow.
Why am I here? Where am I headed?
* * *
from sobbing. Every night tears drench my bed; my pillow is wet from weeping” (Ps. 6:6 NLT).
And then later: “I am dying from grief; my years are shortened by sadness. Misery has drained my strength; I am wasting away from within” (Ps. 31:10 NLT).
Are you angry with God? Tell him. Disgusted with God? Let him know. Weary of telling people you feel fine when you don’t? Tell the truth. My friends Thomas and Andrea Davidson did. A stray bullet snatched their fourteen-year-old son, Tyler, out of their lives. Tom writes:
We were bombarded by the question, “How are you doing?” . . . What I really wanted to tell everyone was, “How do you think we are doing? Our son is dead, our life is miserable, and I wish the world would end.”4
David might have used different language. Then again, maybe not. One thing for sure, he refused to ignore his grief.
The mighty warriors—fallen, fallen!
Women of Israel, weep for Saul. . . .
O my dear brother Jonathan,
I’m crushed by your death.
Your friendship was a miracle-wonder,
love far exceeding anything I’ve known—
or ever hope to know.
The mighty warriors—fallen, fallen. (2 Sam. 1:19, 24, 26–27 MSG)
David wept as creatively as he worshiped, and—underline this—“David sang this lament over Saul and his son Jonathan, and gave orders that everyone in Judah learn it by heart” (1:17.18 MSG).
David called the nation to mourning. He rendered weeping a public policy. He refused to gloss over or soft-pedal death. He faced it, fought it, challenged it. But he didn’t deny it. As his son Solomon explained, “There is . . . a time to mourn” (Eccles. 3:1, 4 NIV).
Give yourself some. Face your grief with tears, time, and—one more—face your grief with truth. Paul urged the Thessalonians to grieve, but he didn’t want the Christians to “carry on over them like people who have nothing to look forward to, as if the grave were the last word” (1 Thess. 4:13 MSG).
God has the last word on death. And, if you listen, he will tell you the truth about your loved ones. They’ve been dismissed from the hospital called Earth. You and I still roam the halls, smell the medicines, and eat green beans and Jell-O off plastic trays. They, meanwhile, enjoy picnics, inhale springtime, and run through knee-high flowers. You miss them like crazy, but can you deny the truth? They have no pain, doubt, or struggle. They really are happier in heaven.
And won’t you see them soon? Life blisters by at mach speed. “You have made my days a mere hand-breadth; the span of my years is as nothing before you. Each man’s life is but a breath” (Ps. 39:5 NIV).
When you drop your kids off at school, do you weep as though you’ll never see them again? When you drop your spouse at the
* * *
God knows the sorrow of a grave. He buried his son. But he also
knows the joy of resurrection. And, by his power, you will too.
* * *
store and park the car, do you bid a final forever farewell? No. When you say, “I’ll see you soon,” you mean it. When you stand in the cemetery and stare down at the soft, freshly turned earth and promise, I’ll see you soon, you speak truth. Reunion is a splinter of an eternal moment away.
There is no need for you to “to grieve like the rest of men, who have no hope” (1 Thess. 4:13 NIV).
So go ahead, face your grief. Give yourself time. Permit yourself tears. God understands. He knows the sorrow of a grave. He buried his son. But he also knows the joy of resurrection. And, by his power, you will too.
11
BLIND INTERSECTIONS
I CAN GET LOST anywhere. Seriously. Anywhere. The simplest map confuses me; the clearest trail bewilders me. I couldn’t track I an elephant through four feet of snow. I can misread instructions to the bathroom down the hall. Indeed, once I did and embarrassed several women in a fast-food restaurant in Fort Worth.
My list of mishaps reads like comedy ideas for the Pink Panther.
• I once got lost in my hotel. I told the receptionist my key wasn’t working, only to realize I’d been on the wrong floor trying to open the wrong door.
• Several years ago I was convinced my car had been stolen from the airport parking garage. It hadn’t; I was in the wrong garage.
• I once boarded the wrong flight and awoke in the wrong city.
• While driving from Houston to San Antonio, I exited the freeway to gas up. I reentered the freeway and drove for thir-ty minutes before I realized I was heading back to Houston.
• While in Seattle, I left my hotel room in plenty of time for my speaking engagement, but when I saw highway signs advertising the Canadian border, I knew I’d be late.
• I once went for a morning
jog, returned to the hotel, and ate. I’d eaten two portions of the free buffet before I remembered my hotel had no breakfast bar. I was in the wrong place.
If geese had my sense of direction, they’d spend winters in Alaska. I can relate to Columbus, who, as they say, didn’t know where he was going when he left, didn’t know where he was when he got there, and didn’t know where he had been when he got back.
Can you relate? Of course you can. We’ve all scratched our heads a time or two, if not at highway intersections, at least at the cross-roads of life. The best of navigators have wondered, do I . . .
• take the job or leave it?
• accept the marriage proposal or pass?
• leave home or remain home?
• build or buy?
One of life’s giant-size questions is How can I know what God wants me to do? and David asks it. He’s just learned of the deaths of Saul and Jonathan. Suddenly the throne is empty, and David’s options are open. But before he steps out, he looks up:
It happened after this that David inquired of the Lord, saying, “Shall I go up to any of the cities of Judah?” And the Lord said to him, “Go up.” David said, “Where shall I go up?” And He said, “To Hebron.” (2 Sam. 2:1)
David makes a habit of running his options past God. And he does so with a fascinating tool. The ephod. Trace its appearance to David’s initial escape from Saul. David seeks comfort from the priests of Nob. Saul accuses the priests of harboring the fugitive, and, consistent with Saul’s paranoia, he murders them. One priest by the name of Abiathar, however, flees. He escapes with more than just his life; he escapes with the ephod.
After Abiathar took refuge with David, he joined David in the raid on Keilah, bringing the Ephod with him.