psalm 119:54

54 - Thy statutes have been 

my songs 

in the house of my pilgrimage.

I guess it is just those who live in my house.  We just don't have it together.  The ones who find refuge at The Homeplace when night falls must be cut from a different cloth.  We probably need fixing in the worst sort of way.

"They" (the ones who live in other houses, other parsonages) have it all together.

They eat regularly at normal meal-time hours, They go to bed at a decent hour and sleep through the night, They have down time every day in which They read books, watch a dvd, do crafts, look through magazines, work in their yard, play games with friends and family, clean out closets and drawers and refrigerators, they help untangle the conglomeration of distraught humanity and emerge with peaceful, orderly solutions, and look great.

They are sad at times, yes, but They always manage to emerge from their trials a better person.

Those who inhabit my house do not seem to have those characteristics.  Mornings usually begin before the sun arrives, the minutes/hours that we set aside for God and coffee are usually fraught with interruptions and many times what is supposed to be sweet communion turns into dogged determination--I will spend time with Him even though bombs are exploding around me.

Then people--other people--They--enter our day.  And piles form and lists trail off and this and that becomes did. not. happen. and molehills become mountains and the smiles become fixed and the tasks become deep mud and the day starts coming to a close long after They have relaxed and connected with family and have had "me" time and are beginning to start the bedtime rituals. And those who inhabit my house are just beginning to walk through the door and attempt to shake off--just for a few hours--the smelly load of unpleasant and heavy that never seems to really go away.

And sometimes, a mournful wail begins deep in the soul that is bigger than us and the still, small Voice is lost in the background noise.

This life--this crazy life that we are so privileged to live--could destroy us.  Taking ownership of the solutions to diabolical messes which humanity expects us to fix could overwhelm us to the point of self-destruction.  The heavy, the smelly, the unpleasant could re-direct our goals, our steps, our direction toward the wide path with side roads of bitterness and anger and frustration and discouragement and depression.

BUT...

the faint whisper of a lilting melody drifts through the chimney..."thou art my dwelling place..." and we feel our soul lift a bit.

"Because thou has made the Lord, which is my refuge, even the Most High, thy habitation; There shall no evil befall thee..."

We are humming.  We catch a faint whiff of joy coming from the kitchen.

"...the Lord is my defense; and my God is the rock of my refuge..." The sound of laughter rings from the hall.

"Blessed is the people that know the joyful sound: they shall walk, O Lord, in the light of thy countenance..."

A hug, a smile, preparation for the morning ahead...

"My mercy will I keep for him for evermore, and my covenant shall stand fast with him..."

"Night, Mom!  Love you!"  Sweet peace, sweet serenity, sweet melodies...

This world is not my home, this house--The Homeplace--is not my final dwelling place.  This life is His, this day is His.  The air is filled with joy unspeakable and full of glory.

"Thy statutes have been my songs in the house of my pilgrimage."

All is well.

© 2012 by Melani Brady Shock