Saturday, February 15, 2014


When you skip two "days of rest," what do you get in return? 

For me, it's a list of priorities that starts to read more like a web than a list, and a deafness in my ears that prevents me from hearing His voice: knowing what to do first, or just, in general, what to do. This morning, I kept hearing, Do what you think you shouldn't. 

Make juice.


Take a nap.

Boil an artichoke.

Watch a movie. 

Write a blog, slowly, peacefully, with your eyes looking past the computer screen at the leaves shaking under heavy rain, the washing that I've brought upon creation today, the weather I've made to keep you inside, soothed by the white noise of My power. 

I stayed in bed after waking, and I finished reading Exodus. The ending was hard for me, and I found myself detaching, skimming, wishing it was over, and skipping days. I was agitated by the instructions the Lord gave to Moses and His people because they felt too parallel to the work that I had to do this week: the on and ons of details and chores and busyness, busyness, busyness. 

Here I am, stuck to the web that is my commitments, desperate for God to turn it into a list of things that I can check off one by one, and I'm reading His voice on the page, His voice commanding every little detail of the work for the Tabernacle, and I'm jealous of His meticulous instruction given to this ancient people. I'm desperate for Him to tell me what to do, meticulously. All the while, I realize He told me chapters prior, to take a break, and I've been ignoring that. I've been starting each day with a naive sense of my own strength.

After a week of chewing on this, I can finally feel my heart ripping open, and I am ready to repent. For my obsession with success, and my concern with the opinion of others. My incessant pursuit for praise and my unwillingness to be still, for even a moment. I know I should concern myself with His approval alone, and this is something that I have never found to be easy. 

There I am again, stuck to the web of my commitments with my hands and feet unable to pull away. And I'm trapped and vulnerable, but I also feel light and suspended like laying in a hammock, swaying back and forth. 

So, I close my eyes. 

Rest a while. 

Trust in Him to fill me up and set me free, in time. To take away my shame. 

Because He told me once, as we were running along the beach and playing in the sand, that I could build the biggest, most fantastic sandcastle, but that He could not love me any more than He already does. There is less to work for in this world than I often times acknowledge, and there is so much more to enjoy. His presence. His beauty. Passing in front of me every second of the day. Too often, unnoticed. 

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