And I guess, wherever you live, it makes sense: best to hammer some rafters, bake a paddy of bricks, wrap the corrugated cardboard close. Make an abode in which to abide. Life necessitates shelter.
Both of us, this man to whom I covenanted and I, our lives of breathing began down the same hospital hall. We birthed our children too, a few decades later, in those very same starch white rooms. My sister says we'll all likely die here.
We're content with here. Here where we went to school with our dental hygenist who attends the same church as my sister-in-law, the same church as my hairdresser, who's a sister to our family doctor's nurse. It's comfortable, this shelter of a place where you know and are known.
Like a roof that's grown moss. A long shelter.
I have heard it said, and, yes, fervently believe, that "The fear of the Lord is the beginning of wisdom." And so it is.
Get you a roof.
One Who has sheltered the expanse of space before the winding up of time. A long shelter, weathered and worn and still bearing strong. One you can intimately know and by Whom you are deeply known.
Move in and watch the moss grow.
Aged velvet absorbing millenia of rains pelting down.
Lord, storms beat. Pull me under Your trusses. Be my roof.
Related: Moving In
Glad Refugees
Photo: mossy roofs of Shannon Woodward's outbuildings... the plane took the farm girl far west
.JPG)
