Thunder is grumbling in the distance, and though it is morning, there is twilight outside the windows.  Perhaps the clouds are feeling congested: low, lowering and full–ready to burst, wanting to break open, yet not a drop has fallen.  Just an expectant gloom.  Through the kitchen windows, I see birds flying to and from the steeple-roofed bird feeder of the house across the alley-way.  A squirrel twitches his away across our yard, hunting for nuts, I suppose. He sits back on hind feet, raising a morsel to his mouth, attacking with quick, precise nibbles as he rotates the nut in his paws.  Then again he scans the yard, tail twitching to a beat he alone knows.  The squirrel almost collides with a rabbit who is carefully tidying her fur. Her ablutions completed, the rabbit moves far enough away from the squirrel to quietly eat a breakfast of grass, free from the squirrel’s incessant movements. Given the lack of concern for the weather exhibited by these creatures, I gather the clouds will lower rainlessly for a while longer.

Inside, golden light shines all the brighter against the greyness visible through parted aqua curtains. The light emanates from electric lamps and a candle whose flame expands, stretches upward, and then, finding the limitations of its strength, trembles in the slight, imperceptible (to me), air currents. All is quiet here, save the hum of the refrigerator, the whirl of the laptop fan, and the odd creaking and popping noises of an old house.  I am content to simply sit cross-legged on our couch, hair still drying in untamed kinks, waves and attempts at curls.

Striving comes naturally to me–there is an almost unceasing drive within me to do, to accomplish.  It is, I must admit what keeps me productive: it is what unearthed a home from a sea of moving boxes two weeks ago.  It is also responsible for the first purchase of curtains in my married life, the pictures up on the walls, and the tan fabric overlaying formerly grey cushions on chairs.  All good things.  But today it rests. And I rest.  Though there is much yet to do, I am happy to rest in what has already been completed.

My soul rests as well. Housed within a resting body, it recalls a greater Rest. Though I look within and see so many boxes in need of unpacking, rooms with corners in need of cleansing, bare walls…the Father looks at me through Jesus’ great work and says, “It is good–rest in what has already been completed.”


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