I have this little spot by our sunroom window that I love.
I pulled our outdoor table inside, covered it in my favorite red table cloth, and christened it a blessed place.
That’s what I’ve been thinking a lot about lately– place.
Place in life, place in seasons, physical places too– my home, the heart and effort that I choose to pour into it.
My friend Seth wrote this piece the other day— please read it, so you’ll understand.
This is not just Seth’s struggle.
We’re all muddled in our brains and hearts.
We’re all longing for the quiet, whether we know how to get there or not.
But what Seth and John Ray reminded me of was the simple and kind fact of the matter:
We’ve got to at least seek the quiet place if we ever hope to find it.
And when we do find it, we’re swept into a new current, an unbreached reality of grace and full living, and we wonder,
How could I have ever said no to this?
But we’re all so good at falling, at straying, at wandering.
We’re all so mesmerized by the noise, the great din of a world swirling with all that is semi-fulfilling.
So for now, I’m here at the table.
For now, I’m in it, and I see God, and I acknowledge that He sees me, and I am with Julian of Norwich in quietly breathing,
All is well, and all manner of thing shall be well.
That’s the place of peace, that’s this table, this candle, this kalanchoe flower blooming to remind me that I’m alive, right now.
And tomorrow is tomorrow, and I can trust that Jesus covers all tenses, and therefore, He covers me.
May our quiet places draw us back.
May the voices that call out for peace and real truth call us into uncharted waters of grace, of life,
so that we may say it in our deepest parts:
All is well.
All shall be well.