The Way

Saturday

Isaiah 30:21: “And thine ears shall hear a word behind thee, saying, This is the way, walk ye in it, when ye turn to the right hand, and when ye turn to the left.”

I stand by the yellow strip on the platform where I once lay with an obviously broken leg. A work train honks and then, “Cling, cling, cling” as it pulls through the station. Slowly, other early Saturday morning commuters join me to wait for the R train. “This is the way” to my job at the farmer’s market. The quiet voice of the Spirit says, “These are the words to write.”

Some years ago, I stood alone and confused by the railing of an East River ferry, when I heard a Voice say clearly, “I want you here (in the city).” Most often quiet, but that time loud enough to get my attention, God always has direction.

(Looks like it’s a man’s working world on the train this morning. Backpacks are the order of the day. Heads nod in slumber. The six pairs of shoes across from me are white, brown loafers, black, yellow tennis shoes with blue shoestrings, black sandals, black and white Nikes.)

“This is Roosevelt Island. The elevator is at the front of the platform.” I complete this post while sitting on an old block wall by the East River across from the Manhattan skyline. Seagulls cry. Traffic roars. “This is the way,” today. I do not know about tomorrow. God has a good plan for me (Jeremiah 29:11). I will trust Him.

Sunday

Today’s Sunday school lesson is titled, “Obeying Magistrates.” Laurence provoked the thoughts for this post when he reminded me of my experience of being a caregiver in the home of a judge in NYC.

Though I was the “little maid” the judge would often come home from a day in court and share the case with me. (A murder that happened in a church a few blocks from our home.) Mr. Judge did not banter about the case but rather, he was deeply burdened. The responsibility of the sentencing weighed heavily on him. The trial ended. The jury cast their vote. The judge sentenced. He said to me, “I did what I had to do” – not what his flesh wanted.

I respected the judge. In serious discussions, we talked about my stand as to serving on jury duty. He told me that I could not be dismissed from serving except by a judge.

Some years later, I sat in a dimly lit courtroom as attorneys from opposing sides described a court case. I heard the questions for jury selection. When my time came to be in the box, I asked to be excused. “Why,” the judge wanted to know. He heard my answer. He’d heard it before in his house in a quiet part of Queens. When the judge excused me, his little maid walked free.

In the light of today’s lesson, I plead for respect for the authorities of our land. Someday, we may need to give an answer for our convictions.

Berniece

P.s. The rod in my leg rarely bothers me. Laurence and I hope to do some hiking in the next couple of weeks.