Third Monday of Advent: Come Near
Will you not revive us again,
that your people may rejoice in you?
Show us your unfailing love, Lord,
and grant us your salvation.
I will listen to what God the Lord says;
he promises peace to his people, his faithful servants—
but let them not turn to folly.
Surely his salvation is near those who fear him,
that his glory may dwell in our land.
—Psalm 85:6-9 (Read Psalm 85)
Let me tell you about one of my dad’s favorite things: the Springfield Mile.
The Springfield Mile is an annual motorcycle flat track race that happens at the end of the summer in Springfield, Illinois. Imagine full-sized motorcycles careening around a mile-long dirt track at speeds of 140 miles per hour. The competitors lean precariously into each turn with their strongly booted inside foot dragging across the track.
Motorcycle and racing enthusiasts from all over the country revel in saddling up their hogs and making their way to Springfield for a well-earned sunburn and a few dings in their sunglasses from pebbles flying off the racers’ tires directly into the stands.
Once he retired, my dad spent a lot of time planning and booking trips to take on his custom Heritage Springer Softail Harley Davidson. And the only thing he loved more than logging hundreds of miles of scenic open roads across the country was doing so with his much taller teenaged son riding on the back.
I love my dad, and I found flat track racing enjoyable. But riding 600 miles each way on the tiny passenger seat of a motorcycle with no entertainment but the wind whirling through my helmet and the occasional whiff of roadkill? This was the scenario that led to one of my first real conversations with God.
After my first year of college, I wanted a summer to myself. I planned to visit college friends and spend time with high school friends who were home for the summer. And I had to work to make cash for books and other fun college activities.
My dad would understand if I bailed on him this one summer, right?
I was so torn about this upcoming trip that it was on my mind almost every day. In high school, I had looked forward to these rides. My dad worked hard his whole life, and now I got to spend so much more time with him—sharing experiences that we could remember and laugh about forever.
But my priorities had changed. We were approaching the deadline to cancel or change reservations, and I was leaning towards hitting the eject button.
Still a relatively new Christian, I had a sense that I should pray about this.
One day I was at the gym pedaling on a recumbent bike—a slightly different feeling than the Harley—and I focused my mind as hard as I could, asking God for an answer. Sweat cascading down the wrinkles on my forehead, I just kept repeating, “God, what should I do? What should I do?”
And then my mind shifted from myself to my dad, and I experienced overwhelming peace and calm. The words came flooding in: “You will regret it if you don’t go.”
It was like a switch flipped. What was I thinking? Spend time with your dad.
So we went. And as the final race ended and my clothes were soaked from a day in the sun, through a cloud of dust and debris from the track, all I could see was the massive smile peeking through my dad’s bushy beard. He was having the time of his life—and so was I.
That was our last flat track race together.
My dad was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer in June of 2006 and would leave us in August of that same summer—just before the Springfield Mile would take place 600 miles away.
I was not very practiced in praying when I decided to join my dad that summer, and even now, sometimes I wish my conversations with God were as clear as when Elizabeth and Mary heard directly from angels in Luke 1—or as rich in humility as the sons of Korah when they wrote in Psalm 85, “Let me hear what God the Lord will speak, for he will speak peace to his people, to his saints; but let them not turn back to folly.”
I don’t— or at least haven’t yet—heard the audible voice of God. But the Springfield Mile changed the way I thought about hearing from the Lord.
Hearing from the Lord isn’t like adjusting the rabbit ear antenna of an old TV. If I can just get into the perfect position and get the right angle, the reception will be clear, right? But if we humble ourselves before the Lord and offer our pleas and petitions, we are tapping into the truth that God wants to be with us. God wants to hear us. God wants to speak to us. Because God loves us and is faithful to that love.
Psalm 85 ends this way:
“Steadfast love and faithfulness meet; righteousness and peace kiss each other. Faithfulness springs up from the ground, and righteousness looks down from the sky. Yes, the Lord will give what is good, and our land will yield its increase. Righteousness will go before him and make his footsteps a way.”
May we know that God wants to converse with us. May God meet us in our waiting, in our questions, and in our worries. And may we hear God’s voice in the place where steadfast love and faithfulness meet.
—Ivan Strong Moore serves the CCO as Director of Internal Communications.
that your people may rejoice in you?
Show us your unfailing love, Lord,
and grant us your salvation.
I will listen to what God the Lord says;
he promises peace to his people, his faithful servants—
but let them not turn to folly.
Surely his salvation is near those who fear him,
that his glory may dwell in our land.
—Psalm 85:6-9 (Read Psalm 85)
Let me tell you about one of my dad’s favorite things: the Springfield Mile.
The Springfield Mile is an annual motorcycle flat track race that happens at the end of the summer in Springfield, Illinois. Imagine full-sized motorcycles careening around a mile-long dirt track at speeds of 140 miles per hour. The competitors lean precariously into each turn with their strongly booted inside foot dragging across the track.
Motorcycle and racing enthusiasts from all over the country revel in saddling up their hogs and making their way to Springfield for a well-earned sunburn and a few dings in their sunglasses from pebbles flying off the racers’ tires directly into the stands.
Once he retired, my dad spent a lot of time planning and booking trips to take on his custom Heritage Springer Softail Harley Davidson. And the only thing he loved more than logging hundreds of miles of scenic open roads across the country was doing so with his much taller teenaged son riding on the back.
I love my dad, and I found flat track racing enjoyable. But riding 600 miles each way on the tiny passenger seat of a motorcycle with no entertainment but the wind whirling through my helmet and the occasional whiff of roadkill? This was the scenario that led to one of my first real conversations with God.
After my first year of college, I wanted a summer to myself. I planned to visit college friends and spend time with high school friends who were home for the summer. And I had to work to make cash for books and other fun college activities.
My dad would understand if I bailed on him this one summer, right?
I was so torn about this upcoming trip that it was on my mind almost every day. In high school, I had looked forward to these rides. My dad worked hard his whole life, and now I got to spend so much more time with him—sharing experiences that we could remember and laugh about forever.
But my priorities had changed. We were approaching the deadline to cancel or change reservations, and I was leaning towards hitting the eject button.
Still a relatively new Christian, I had a sense that I should pray about this.
One day I was at the gym pedaling on a recumbent bike—a slightly different feeling than the Harley—and I focused my mind as hard as I could, asking God for an answer. Sweat cascading down the wrinkles on my forehead, I just kept repeating, “God, what should I do? What should I do?”
And then my mind shifted from myself to my dad, and I experienced overwhelming peace and calm. The words came flooding in: “You will regret it if you don’t go.”
It was like a switch flipped. What was I thinking? Spend time with your dad.
So we went. And as the final race ended and my clothes were soaked from a day in the sun, through a cloud of dust and debris from the track, all I could see was the massive smile peeking through my dad’s bushy beard. He was having the time of his life—and so was I.
That was our last flat track race together.
My dad was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer in June of 2006 and would leave us in August of that same summer—just before the Springfield Mile would take place 600 miles away.
I was not very practiced in praying when I decided to join my dad that summer, and even now, sometimes I wish my conversations with God were as clear as when Elizabeth and Mary heard directly from angels in Luke 1—or as rich in humility as the sons of Korah when they wrote in Psalm 85, “Let me hear what God the Lord will speak, for he will speak peace to his people, to his saints; but let them not turn back to folly.”
I don’t— or at least haven’t yet—heard the audible voice of God. But the Springfield Mile changed the way I thought about hearing from the Lord.
Hearing from the Lord isn’t like adjusting the rabbit ear antenna of an old TV. If I can just get into the perfect position and get the right angle, the reception will be clear, right? But if we humble ourselves before the Lord and offer our pleas and petitions, we are tapping into the truth that God wants to be with us. God wants to hear us. God wants to speak to us. Because God loves us and is faithful to that love.
Psalm 85 ends this way:
“Steadfast love and faithfulness meet; righteousness and peace kiss each other. Faithfulness springs up from the ground, and righteousness looks down from the sky. Yes, the Lord will give what is good, and our land will yield its increase. Righteousness will go before him and make his footsteps a way.”
May we know that God wants to converse with us. May God meet us in our waiting, in our questions, and in our worries. And may we hear God’s voice in the place where steadfast love and faithfulness meet.
—Ivan Strong Moore serves the CCO as Director of Internal Communications.