One of my most cherished home activities is waxing our dining table.  It needs a good coat of beeswax every few weeks to keep the sycamore wood from drying out.  As I was rubbing the wax across the table, I thought of the reservations we had just weeks before in New York.  A long-planned trip met a quick end when the day before our departure, Pappa said simply, “Stay.”  All preparation paused and His Presence arrested us.  Rested with us.

That whisper of stay stirred me to sweet and still.  Our reservations weren’t cancelled after all.  They were moved, from tabletops abroad to our sycamore slab that abounds when we abide.

Every morning since, I scoot silent and smooth up to the cool wood with streams of light beginning to warm its width.  I lay my hands upon and pour my heart across it for a bit as Pappa shares what He has reserved for us.  And I am navigated to all my appointments with Him.  To the cool of the day and the heat of His heart.  Each dawn to dusk is full of His best invitations, scrolled and sealed,  awaiting my RSVP. In Hebrew, the word reservation means “an invitation or official request.”  Oh, but in the Everlasting there is ever more.  Reservation unfolds and unfurls to mean “to learn, to memorize, to hammer, to sharpen and to indent.”�...
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Cessor Journals | April 6, 2020