Shelter From the Storm

I look out my window.
Frosted ice crystals falling down,

                                                    down,

                                                      down.

A whole other world behind that single pane of glass. Time slows. Quiets. Swells.

It holds more and it holds more fully.
Emotions heighten. Feelings follow suit.
Every second I’m seeking refuge. Not often do I enter that world to wander aimlessly, but I am purposeful. I have something I’m here for.

The flakes float, blanketing the ground in a layer of newness. It’s redemption, really.

See, but this snow—this gently falling, whispering snow—is powerful. Let us not forget to delight in its presence—the fresh life it brings, and also to stand in awe of its capacity to destroy. Let us not pick a side and forget the other.

It’s quiet. With each passing snowflake, I hear the whisper of my God’s “Be still and know that I am God.” Be still. But go with purpose. Seek refuge.

A homeless man rides his bike behind that pane of glass. He stops at our trash can. Our trash can. He’s seeking refuge from the storm. How often do I do this? Seek refuge in the trash of this world, while all the while my precious Jesus is saying, “No, look to me.” He lifts the lid and begins to dig, his eyes scanning for a glimmer of hope—something worth pulling out and holding dear. What makes me think that this single pane of glass is enough to hold back the Kingdom of God? I enter in. I reach out, a grocery bag of cans: a gift. He thanks me and as I walk away, I think “Oh, but there’s so much more. There is a refuge, and His name is Jesus.”

 

How precious is your steadfast love, O God! Both high and low among men find refuge in the shadow of your wings. Psalm 36:7

I come back in, leaving my boots at the door, slide back onto the warm couch. A shelter from the storm.

What right have I?

In Christ, you have the right to be loved, and the command to be love.

He says,
Look at the snow. It is slow. It quiets the chaos of the world, with a gentle “be still.” It is purposeful. It falls to renew. It covers the ground to usher in Spring. It points people toward refuge.

And then, I get it.

I do not have to BE the refuge, for it is not I who saves. I must point people TO the refuge: Jesus.
I must point, not with one finger or a head nod. Not with a couple words here and there. No, I must point with my whole body—my whole being. My everything. I must go. I must say. I must reach.
I must fall slowly, purposefully, to the ground, blanketing others with this newness Christ has birthed in me.

May my life be like this snowfall—always falling to my knees in humble adoration of Christ my King. May my life point to the One who is greater than I—the One who offers shelter from the storm.