A week spent in a region of mountain walls and towering stones has given me a fresh look at what it means that the Lord is my rock.
The tiny village where I stayed was built between two rocks. Whether I looked to the left or to the right, I was never out of sight of a large rock wall facing me. The rocks rose up and stood guard over me. Solid, immovable, they gave protection from the elements. I felt secure, nestled in their shadow. At sunrise, I would go outside, and the rocks were there, having kept watch all night.
I traveled down into the valley, and walked in the fields. But when I returned, the rocks were always waiting for me.
Looking down at the citadel which has stood firm for centuries of wind and war, I thought of Jesus’ wisdom about building our house on a rock.
Everyone then who hears these words of mine and does them
will be like a wise man who built his house on the rock.
And the rain fell, and the floods came, and the winds blew and beat on that house,
but it did not fall, because it had been founded on the rock.