I have purchased two houses during my adult life. In both cases, I first entered through the back gate. Neither time did I suspect that the particular house I had entered would become my new residence. I didn’t see the glory that was to come.
In a similar way, I entered regular Sabbath observances through the back door of Lent. It was only supposed to be a two-week pre-Lenten trial. It has been seven years now. I’ve changed days half a dozen times. Rested well. Rested poorly. Worshipped. Fretted. Slept. Shopped. Cycled. Wept. Stared. Studied. And that was just last week.
I walk around this yard – the part through which I first entered – and see unexplored areas. What does God want me to do with that back patch full of sticker-burrs? So also, Sabbath seems like a sticky section I’ve only begun to explore.
I may have come in through the back door, but here I stay. I spent much of the past twenty-four hours debating whether to chuck the whole thing. Now, with six minutes left, I want to strengthen it. Beautify it. Build it.
I can’t stop now — my Sabbath House is not finished.
