Last year when we stepped through the door, the late November sun was streaming gold through the huge windows, lighting a path across the little table and straight-backed chairs in the kitchen nook. No one had been there for a week and the rooms were cold; still, there was a warmth about the place, a welcoming, as though an unseen host waited. As though, knowing we were coming, he had built a fire and was calling to us after a long, unproductive night in the boat, “Come and have breakfast.” I sat at the table and let the sun warm my tight shoulders.
I’d gone with my Bible and journal and plans for how I’d spend the time. I felt instead like someone was feeding me, resting me, opening his arms and gathering me into his lap. I wanted nothing but to snuggle in and be still.
As you read this, I'll be there again. This time though, if the forecast is right, we’ll have climbed down slippery stone steps and, instead of a sunlit kitchen nook, the wind will be whipping rain against the windows. I don’t know whether I’ll feel the same warm hug. I do know that the same unseen host will be waiting, the One who—whether or not I can see or feel or hear him over the winds—is always calling “Come.”
“Are you tired? Worn out? Burned out on religion? Come to me. Get away with me and you’ll recover your life. I’ll show you how to take a real rest. Walk with me and work with me—watch how I do it. Learn the unforced rhythms of grace. I won’t lay anything heavy or ill-fitting on you. Keep company with me and you’ll learn to live freely and lightly.” (Matthew 11:28-30, The Message)