By Joyful Fox
I lay awake in the inky black thinking of today. Husband breathing softly, I reach under my pillow to turn off alarm...close to 5:00...I sigh softly...aware of the warmth of blankets and silent home. Wouldn't it be nice to burrow here awhile...a long while. These days have been hard.
I'd rather not begin today. I smile to myself and choose to slide out of bed. I take captive, erring thoughts...and remember muted yellows and blues of my journal...the crisp white page awaiting first thoughts of the new morn...afghan of burgundies, rust, and evergreen... beckons from soft leather sofa. The Father's love stirs a longing in my soul. I need this...the first meeting of the day.
Ready now, I scramble into clothes. Fingers fumble as I find the tag, slipping into athletic pants, silently snatching sweatshirt, ever mindful of all who slumber on...cautious now, I creep down the stairs. This time for seeking, listening, meditating, and exploring...far too precious to tarry long.
"Here I am, Lord..."I sound like Moses. Peace settles as His word speaks into anxiety in predawn dark. Sacred silence...hallowed hour...treasured time.
The bush burned yet it was not consumed. So Moses said,"I must turn aside now, and see this marvelous sight, why the bush is not burned up." Exodus 3:3
God called to Moses from the midst of the bush. Moses answered, "Here I am."
God said to Moses, "Do not come near here; remove your sandals from your feet, for the place on which you are standing is holy ground." Exodus 3:4-5.
The place on which Moses stood was Holy Ground. God was speaking to Moses. Present with him. I can't imagine how glorious that would be.
I contemplate a while. Christ has come. Immanuel, God with us. Spirit indwelling. I am standing on Holy ground. My Mount Sinai is here...in this home...in this hour...in every hour of every day.
My burning bush is His still small voice, the soft and gentle one...I often miss when I leave the sanctity of this holy hour.
Cleaning toilets, scrubbing floors, trimming tiny fingernails, peeling potatoes, changing diapers...this is Holy ground...the hallowed in the everyday.
I struggle so...to carry His sacred presence into the day.
His voice, soft and gentle...hard to hear when my own voice raises...harsh and severe, over bickering children, crying baby, and squeals echoing off in another direction. Stimulus overload?...Yes, yes.
I am still standing on Holy ground. Oh, me of unclean lips.
Blaze, spirit blaze...set my heart on fire...may it blaze like Moses' burning bush.
The place on which I stand is Holy Ground.