There’s a small corner in my house that I consider my sacred space. It holds a dark wood antique desk, a black wooden chair draped with a lap blanket, and a tall dark bookshelf that holds my favorite books and meaningful gifts. On the desk is my Bible and current sacred reading, as well as a few symbolic ornaments. Right in my line of sight as I sit at the desk is a small area I call my “wall of grace”: hanging upon it are several symbolic and sacred pieces of artwork that remind me of my heart with God.
This is the place where I meet God. It is the place where, each morning, I take my mug of coffee and sit for an extended period of time in the quiet. I open the white curtains to reveal the foliage and brick-lined street just outside my window, and I breathe a small prayer for God to meet me as I open the pages of Scripture to read.
It is the place where, after having read, I sit and reflect and pray. It is where I type my prayers and thoughts onto pages that I feed through my vintage typewriter and then place into a manila folder that holds all my thoughts and prayers for that particular season of life.
And yet, for the last month or so, I have not spent much time sitting in this sacred corner.
At the beginning of May, I took a 5-day silent retreat on Captiva Island that was profound and formative, but when I returned home I plunged into a season of intense activity and transition.
I researched and wrote the final capstone project for my graduate degree, and I traveled north to Michigan to participate in my graduation festivities. I was offered the opportunity to work on a meaningful project with my church, which led to transitioning out of another work assignment elsewhere. Along the way, my husband received an exciting and fulfilling promotion at work, which has led to a bit of adjustment in our schedules and life at home.
It’s been a season of busyness. Of transition. Of movement. And so my sacred little corner has sat lonely and unused.
This morning, though, I sat down in this sacred corner once again.
I brought my mug of coffee with me and breathed a small prayer for God to meet me here. I opened the curtains and looked out the window as my little girl kitty sat on my lap and let me rub her ears.
Then I opened to the fourth meditation of With Burning Hearts by Henri Nouwen and read about the ever-giving love of our Christ in these words:
Jesus is God-for-us, God-with-us, God-within-us. Jesus is God giving himself completely, pouring himself out for us without reserve. Jesus doesn’t hold back or cling to his own possessions. He gives all there is to give.
— With Burning Hearts, p. 83
As I stand on the cusp of a new season in my own life, I find such hope in these words.
My spirit is a bit tired from the previous season of activity and all the endings and transitions it has held. My heart aches from a lack of time spent here in this quiet corner with God over these past several weeks. My mind races with all there is to do in the weeks and months ahead of this new season before me.
I sit and wonder how I am to behold this new season. I wonder what kind of wisdom and guidance from God will be needed.
I read these words above from Henri Nouwen, and I remember:
Jesus gives himself to us completely.
All we need to receive, he will give. All we need to know, he will teach. What can he give to us? All we need to do is ask. He freely gives to us his whole self. In what he gives, there is never any lack.
And so I ask you to consider:
How might you need to receive what Jesus has to give to you this day? What does receiving from God look like for you right now? If you take just a moment to consider, what is it God can give to you?