Life squeezes hard and chokes joy and rest.
This has been a long winter. It could get longer if I allow it. So, do I steep in the low places of bad news or listen to what the High King of Heaven has to say . . . about it?
But the voices, so many voices! Our head is overfed.
I look around my house, my workplace, my schedule, in the middle of the traffic jam embracing me tight.
Where can we go to be still and know that He is God?
Where can we go to be still?
Where can we go to be?
I have a place I often run to – on the edge of Hopelessness right before you get to Hope. Back home, a small church I’ve never visited on a Sunday, but a throne room to me on the weekdays.
Ordinarily, when I chase solitude it takes me straight up to Lancaster, the quiet place powered by mules. My Father’s voice can be heard in the cornfield. Yet, there are times spent chatting with the clouds when only the ears on the sheaves seem to be listening. Now winter naked.
I believe it was this way for our Savior, who visited wilderness cathedrals to get away from the multitudes. Busy work, loosing demons and disease, raising up dead from the grave. Things were crowding in on Him, betrayals, denials, a last supper. He needed to seek solitude and hear what His Father had to say about the cup of Gethsemane.
To hear the Voice above the voices.
And three times He asked Let this cup pass by. Don’t we ask the same thing?
He needed to know His Father’s will. So do we.
Concentrate . . . consecrate . . . be there . . . for a moment . . .
When He calls me out of the race for a timeout . . . to the closet in the cornfield, I go. Even in winter when fields are as leveled as I am. Where life waits idle, brought forth again, in a new season.
Do you have a secret chamber where you go . . . to be?
He is as near as our knee.