both ends churning
trying to find solstice in the center of the chaos
but it seldom comes
I’m learning, though, to find the ancient rhythms of sabbath. Shabbat, as it’s called in the Jewish tradition.
Mine, newly created, profoundly instigated, starts Friday eve and lasts through Monday morning.
I turn off my computer. Turn off connections to the endless rows of virtual tasks and thin air duties to focus on the real.
And the now.
After fighting with myself to turn it on turn it off turn it on turn it off again, the urge to overextend melts away from the roar of the rows, germinating into the realization of the singleness of a flower or a field of honey.
I can see once again the flecks of gold in the eyes of my three sons.
The momentary fragrance of fresh-cut peonies.
The flit of a hummingbird past my kitchen window.
When you’re hurt and broken, trying to keep up with the masses as they march along single file heads down in their proud undignified stance puts you last in line every time.
I can see My Master.
And He wants more for me.
More from me.
Not as a soldier, hand pressed hard into my brow.
But as a listener.
At His feet.
Funny how He finds me there–or rather, I find Him there–every time.
“I don’t think the way you think.
The way you work isn’t the way I work.”
“For as the sky soars high above earth,
so the way I work surpasses the way you work,
and the way I think is beyond the way you think.
Just as rain and snow descend from the skies
and don’t go back until they’ve watered the earth,
Doing their work of making things grow and blossom,
producing seed for farmers and food for the hungry,
So will the words that come out of my mouth
not come back empty-handed.
They’ll do the work I sent them to do,
they’ll complete the assignment I gave them.
“So you’ll go out in joy,
you’ll be led into a whole and complete life.
The mountains and hills will lead the parade,
bursting with song.
All the trees of the forest will join the procession,
exuberant with applause.
No more thistles, but giant sequoias,
no more thornbushes, but stately pines—
Monuments to me, to God,
living and lasting evidence of God.”
Isaiah 55: 8-13
“But there is something, in the Jewish Sabbath that is absent from most Christian Sundays: a true cessation from the rhythms of work and world, a time wholly set apart, and, perhaps above all, a sense that the point of Shabbat, the orientation of Shabbat, is toward God.”
~Lauren Winner, Mudhouse Sabbath