And it is a good thing that the threshold of this sacred space can be breached wherever there is a glimmer of internet signal. Because Monday at one in the afternoon in this office needs the flow of anointing. Hunkered down over hole-in-the-wall Chinese food on my lunch break, hiding behind the closed door -- I need Jesus.
I need direction, because this world can be so incredibly dark. Fathers abandoning sons and abused daughters confined to hospitals, and here I am in the middle of it all, givien the charge of trying to figure out what is best.
This morning as I watched the sun rise on my commute, with Meredith Andrews pouring through my speakers, I begged for a renewed sense of awe. She told me yesterday that the Lord is singing over me, but oh, how I fail to recognize the tune.
The secret? Rhythm is found hiding in the missed beats. Rhythm comes from the rest -- the silent trust that a crescendo of glory is still to come. Oh, little heart, He isn't finished with you.
Invariably, the answer is far more simple than my mind has made it out to be. He always uses that which is simple, that which seems foolish, to put our wisdom to shame. And He fed the Israelites on manna mystery.
Breathe, soul. It might really be that simple, that freeing. It might feel just like coming home.
Home, with all of its dirt and wine and chocolate and fingerprints on the walls, laundry pouring out of hampers. Home, where I am always welcomed in exactly as I am. Home, where all of my burdens can spill from my eyes, free from the slightest bit of shame, and I can rest. That is the promise, right? When I come wholeheartedly -- not just the parts that look nice and clean and confident and put together -- I can rest.