"Yet to dwell with thee he deigneth"

“I will not come within the tabernacle of mine house, nor climb up into my bed; I will not suffer mine eyes to sleep, nor mine eyelids to slumber; neither the temples of my head to take any rest; Until I find out a place for the temple of the LORD; an habitation for the Mighty God of Jacob. Lo, we heard of the same at Ephratah, and found it in the wood. We will go into his tabernacle, and fall low on our knees before his footstool.” --Ps 132

I will not rest until my Lord has a place to rest. I will not come within the tabernacle of mine house until a tabernacle has been prepared for my Lord. “The darling of the world is come, and fit it is we find a room to welcome Him.” But where, O Lord? My mind is so cramped, I’m not even sure we can open the door. My feelings run endlessly away from me-- if I lead you there, I may turn on you in a moment without meaning to. I’m not sure my heart could bear it if I lashed out at you… my heart. There? No, surely not. Really? We’ll have to walk through all the other rooms before we reach that one… I think the journey is too far. And it gets terribly dark the farther we go. The wood is all tangled at its entrance, and if we were to reach it, the door is so overgrown. I’m not even sure we could get inside. Someone else sits on that throne in there… I do not know her these days. She might not notice you, however hard you knocked, however loud you called. Her eyes are fixated elsewhere, fixated on those mere annoyances, those inconveniences and discomforts that make her get up from her throne and lose control. She doesn’t like getting up from her throne. She prefers to stay distracted these days.

Jesus, who am I? What am I good for? Here, you’re coming towards my heart and I’ve already told you it’s hopeless. Lord, I am so weary and so worn. I cannot take another step. I am not fit to follow your commands-- I cannot even find a place for you! Lord Jesus, what are you doing?

And I remember, you looked at me as though you heard and understood my every word, but onward you went into the dark wood. And when you came to my heart’s door, you knocked, quietly. With each thump, the words I pray every Sunday came resounding from my mouth--or was it yours?-- as I stood from my throne. Lord, I am not worthy that Thou shouldst come under my roof, but speak the word only, and my soul shall be healed. I do not remember what happened next, but when I finally came to my senses, I was in your arms, weeping, the door torn from its hinges and my legs unable to stand. I still do not know what the word is, but the very fact that you’re here means you must have spoken it. The most beautiful word I know-- your name-- is the one word that heals me, shatters the darkness, and softens the gloom. Jesus.

What am I good for? I know now that I am good for love. Good for loving my siblings when, after growing up, sometimes it's hard to recognize them. Good for loving my husband when both of our nerves are unbelievably taut. Good for loving my children even when their noise wears me to the point of frustration. Good for loving you, dear Lord. “Arise, O LORD, into thy resting-place; thou, and the ark of thy strength. [...] For the LORD hath chosen Sion to be an habitation for himself; he hath longed for her. This shall be my rest for ever: here will I dwell, for I have a delight therein.”--Ps 132.

Who am I? Truly? I am one long looked for, one delighted over. I am the resting place of the Most High. No matter how sealed it’s become each week, he flings wide the door of my heart every Sunday when he comes down from heaven in the Eucharist. We stand from our pew, leaving our thrones. We come to kneel at his feet, opening our hands, opening the door of our hearts to him, and he fills us. And in that taste of heaven, in that touch from above, he comes to sit on the throne of our hearts. I will never get over my astonishment. The Creator of the world comes to me! Who am I? What defines me? Surely it is that moment at His feet each week where I taste of Heaven’s lips, that tremor of his murmurs resounding in me, the Word in heavenly language He speaks to heal me.

“Deck thyself, my soul, with gladness,

leave the gloomy haunts of sadness;

come into the daylight's splendour,

there with joy thy praises render

unto him whose grace unbounded

hath this wondrous banquet founded:

high o'er all the heavens he reigneth,

yet to dwell with thee he deigneth.

Now I sink before thee lowly,

filled with joy most deep and holy,

as with trembling awe and wonder

on thy mighty works I ponder:

how, by mystery surrounded,

depth no mortal ever sounded,

none may dare to pierce unbidden

secrets that with thee are hidden.

Sun, who all my life dost brighten,

light, who dost my soul enlighten,

joy, the sweetest heart e'er knoweth,

fount, whence all my being floweth,

at thy feet I cry, my Maker,

let me be a fit partaker

of this blessed food from heaven,

for our good, thy glory, given.

Jesus, Bread of Life, I pray thee,

let me gladly here obey thee;

never to my hurt invited,

be thy love with love requited:

from this banquet let me measure,

Lord, how vast and deep its treasure;

through the gifts thou here dost give me,

as thy guest in heaven receive me.”