Sanctuary

I needed a place to rest.  The last few nights showcased a deluge of insomnia and worry; I needed a sanctuary for my mind.  I sought it first in bed, not moving until far too late to make it to church on time.  No shower.  No made bed.  No curled hair.  No breakfast.  In a far too quick 15 minutes, I lugged myself out the door with a poorly considered outfit and an ounce of espresso graciously brought to me with a “You seemed to be running behind” look of concern.  It was Palm Sunday and I needed a rest, but it was not in my bed.

I looked for rest among the Chreasters and regulars, the families and friends of performers, and the general hullabaloo of the Easter pageant at church.  Drama and costumes.  Well-planned light cues.  The play was full of orchestra and choir, jolly off-beats, and solemn ad libitum.  Full of now, but lacking yesterday and tomorrow.  Flagged on the sturdy pole of a good star-crossed love story, was a muted banner of “Jesus Is The Way.”  Quiet Jesus.  Loud Romans.  Loud wishing things were different.  It was Palm Sunday and I needed rest in the mystery of heaven, not the turmoil of a human heart.

When I returned home and released myself from my old, worn out tights and uncomfortable shoes, I wearily made my way to the kitchen to work out my own salvation with disappointment and cleaning.  But I was tired.  I had no work-ful spirit left in me.  I stood lonely in front of the stove with a hymnal:

There is a fountain filled with blood drawn from Emmanuel’s veins;
And sinners plunged beneath that flood lose all their guilty stains.
Lose all their guilty stains, lose all their guilty stains;
And sinners plunged beneath that flood lose all their guilty stains.

The dying thief rejoiced to see that fountain in his day;
And there have I, though vile as he, washed all my sins away.
Washed all my sins away, washed all my sins away;
And there have I, though vile as he, washed all my sins away.

Dear dying Lamb, Thy precious blood shall never lose its power
Till all the ransomed church of God be saved, to sin no more.
Be saved, to sin no more, be saved, to sin no more;
Till all the ransomed church of God be saved, to sin no more.

E’er since, by faith, I saw the stream Thy flowing wounds supply,
Redeeming love has been my theme, and shall be till I die.
And shall be till I die, and shall be till I die;
Redeeming love has been my theme, and shall be till I die.

Then in a nobler, sweeter song, I’ll sing Thy power to save,
When this poor lisping, stammering tongue lies silent in the grave.
Lies silent in the grave, lies silent in the grave;
When this poor lisping, stammering tongue lies silent in the grave.

Lord, I believe Thou hast prepared, unworthy though I be,
For me a blood bought free reward, a golden harp for me!
’Tis strung and tuned for endless years, and formed by power divine,
To sound in God the Father’s ears no other name but Thine.

My voice grew louder and I felt every sound wave vibrate inside.  The song–the words, the melody–shook my stomach, my knees, my toes, my eyes, my heart.  I was ALL IN–all in reconnecting peace.  It was Palm Sunday and I needed rest and there it was in the middle of the kitchen mess.  Not working, but being with the Lord.  Sanctuary.