Most Sunday mornings I find myself extremely rushed with my hair half-combed and my stomach fully empty. Yet there lies a Peace that latches onto me that forewarns a day of spiritual contemplation, reflection and praise. The usual talkative, witty and charismatic (what’s low self-esteem?) Tracy succumbs to a spirit of retreat, of breath. I take my sabbath seriously and such seriousness has managed to dictate my agenda faithfully which leaves a lot of room for thankfulness and more importantly, stillness.
I am still and I’m sitting at Starbucks feeling extremely lonely, but the kind of lonely that is required of me to really hear God. Not that people or conversation take me further from God, but solitude positions me right before Him. This loneliness I’m learning is a form of worship, rather than an indication of depression. This relieves me greatly (and certainly my closest friends and family).
Though my sabbath isn’t as fully formulaic as I would hope for it to be, it’s inevitable, which settles well with me considering the plethora of infirmities I carry and bury Monday-Saturday 11:59 pm. And a time of rest I’m experiencing, involves more than surrender but acknowledgement that what we do surrender is carried and cared for, wholly.
To go from heavy to light, cluttered to clear, and restless to rested requires the sabbath.
Though the routes we take to get on the road to rest will look quite differently for everyone, for me it’s this: just like being alone helps amplify my hearing of His voice, my complete and undivided surrender amplifies my trust that He does better with my stuff than I do.
I suppose that’s a formula.