looking through me

I’m sitting with the word still.

Still. Still. Be still. Still.

As the word repeats in my mind an image appears of En Gedi: the view from the pool at the base of the falls, in the shade of a tree looking across the small stream of living water to the caves David may have used to hide from Saul (and in which he later spared Saul’s life).

It’s an interesting image to accompany the word still. A scene both serene and fraught with tension. But, yet, maybe perfect. A refuge beside sweet, pure water. An oasis surrounded by brutal terrain. A stronghold supplied with sustenance. One of the only places in the desert to be safe . . . and still.

I am not fleeing a king who wants me dead. I am not fighting to survive. I am not concerned with where my next drink of water will come from or where I can close my eyes to rest without fear I’ll never open them again. I can’t relate to David’s reality. Or can I?

I am not still. Sedentary, yes. But not still. There is a current of agitation coursing through me. It churns within me. Always. It pumps through me as effortlessly as the blood in my veins.

I, too, need a refuge. An oasis from my own internal processing and the 24-hour news cycle. Sustaining my spirit requires more than I can provide. In the harshness of humanity I need a place to be safe . . . and still.

Right here. Right now. Just as I am.

Be still. Cease striving. “Be still, and know that I am God” (Ps. 46:10).

There is no scarcity. Striving for God’s love and grace will bring no more of them than is already available. They are inexhaustible commodities. Gifts given as freely as the water springing forth in En Gedi, as real as the refuge hollowed out of the rock.

Still. Be still. Still. Still.

I’m sitting with the word still.