As I look out across the landscape of today I see house chores, work chores, may be some writing and a yoga class. I can’t control it or predict it, but I can call upon the One who knows.
There’s this temptation to muscle through my days because I’m so good at it. I can charge through that to-do list when I make myself. I may be bitter, resentful and impatient with the “work” but, by golly, I can DO it. But I don’t enjoy it when I take the white-knuckle route.
Not by might, but by my spirit, says the Lord.
The temptation to muscle through is my flesh shouting at me, Just get something done Samantha! Who cares about HOW you do it. What matters is that you DO it. She is demanding and unforgiving, my flesh.
But I’ve been filled with His Spirit and the spirit in me cries out with His, gently whispering, You can find rest even in your work. And, for once, I believe her because I’ve experienced it.
In me, you find rest. I am rest.
The way of the flesh looks like this: a solitary me in a rusty metal canoe, an ill-fitting orange life jacket, stained and stale, strung around my neck, plodding along with a couple of wood-splintered and rotting oars.
The going is tough and the labor causes my shoulders to scream in protest. Sweat drips off my brow as the harsh-hot sun beats down, blinding me with its unrelenting fire and glare. I can’t see four feet in front of me because of the thick brush I must ford. I hear a quiet thunder and realize a storm is on the horizon.
In stark contrast, the way of His Spirit looks like this: me surrounded by a team of helpers. We’re clothed in the same loose-fitting garments, perfectly outfitted for all types of weather. The sun is bright and glorious, but it’s a morning sun that sheds light and warmth on our work, not a noon one, high in the sky, with angry rays and beating fists.
We skim the waves on a gleaming white sailboat, each member stationed in the position that suits her best for the journey. We’ve got the best technology and the advantage because our benefactor has delighted in preparing us and the tools at our disposal. He’s filled us with his knowledge and experience in the sport.
We raise up our sail and catch the wind as we hear a voice, above the commotion, telling us when and where to tack. We’re led by a master and WE BELONG, unlike the girl we spy in the canoe–floundering and flailing in the spray of our wake–we are not alone.
Let’s go sailing together…
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