In returning and rest we are saved
In returning and rest we are saved
How a holy pause in the Sacred Heart can do wonders for ours
A holy pause
I hear the familiar quick steps running on the patio to the back door, hear the tell-tale wails. He slows down when he reaches the kitchen, his steps turning to a shuffle as he waits for me to take in the sight of him, to call out his name. I make myself dry my hands and turn toward him and put kindness in my voice as I bend down.
I see his head full of thick, wavy hair hanging down mournfully on his thin neck. I see his shoulders are slumped in defeat. I see that his heart is hurting. I see that his little-boy knee is hurting.
I see that he needs me to see him.
A holy pause.
“I’m so sorry this happened to you. It doesn’t look like it needs a bandaid, though. Thank you, God, for protecting this knee. Now, what do you think you need from me? A hug, a kiss, or maybe a sip of cold water?”
I’ve never counted the times that all my children need is a moment of presence and compassion to be (apparently) completely revived. Often, they are immediately sprinting off again within a few seconds—the dramatic limp or broken heart of a few seconds before forgotten.
Sometimes I chuckle and sometimes my heart aches a little with gratitude.
I am so glad that I still get to be little, too.
All of us children need the same things: we need to know that we are seen, that we are loved, and that we are worth someone’s presence.
So much of our anxiety - of mine - is tied to a nagging little voice in mind and heart whispering, “Suppose God won’t take care of me? Suppose I really am the only one here looking out for me?”
Self-reliance, and loneliness, and overwhelm - they all come from that part of us that still wonders. And maybe that little voice will be a thorn all my life, and maybe it won’t. And maybe it’s the blessed thorns He permits in our lives that keep us returning to his Sacred Heart, day in and day out, to rest and receive.
In returning and rest we are saved.
So often, I run hard to my gentle Savior, looking up to my Good Father, breathing in and out the presence of his Holy Spirit. A holy pause to curl up in his Heart and let Him calm my mind in his Truth.
And the Truth is that in this moment of rest, He sees all of me and my people and my struggles and my situation infinitely more clearly than I do. He sees all that is hurting and depleted in my body, mind and soul. He see what is legitimately difficult to bear, as well as the crosses I have made up for myself. He sees my holy fears and my prideful ones. He sees where I’ve overcommitted, where I’ve underdelivered, where I’ve received His will for me as best I could, valiantly but imperfectly. He sees His plans for me, and the straight paths He is making with crooked lines.
And the Truth is that He takes me as I am - with joy. He doesn’t turn away in disgust, or roll his eyes, or get tired of me, or pat my back consolingly while thinking to himself, “I keep trying to get her to stop falling into [this or that]; Maybe one day she’ll finally get it.”
The Truth is that it doesn’t really matter why I ran to Him in the first place. In that moment, He is not judging me. He is not weighing how much compassion to give me based on how much I might merit in that moment.
The Truth is that He rejoices - every time - in my soul turning toward him with all that I happen to be able to give Him in that moment. He accepts my few small coins, and it is more than enough for Him.
And I am able to rest in the Truth that He is more than enough for me.
“For thus said the Lord God, the Holy One of Israel,
“In returning and rest you shall be saved;
in quietness and in trust shall be your strength.”-Isaiah 30:15
