at His feet

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There are times where my God’s the storyteller, the teacher, the Dad with stories of old sure to fascinate me and draw me in. I have a spot at His table, an open chair with my name all over it. There I listen to and learn from and try to keep up with the Rabbi. I’m hungry for fuel, for fill, to just be fed already. I scribble out His Word for-word, my mind brewing with curiosity, my elbows tabled up and spirit wide open and teachable.

But there are also times when I can’t quite make it to the table. Times where I wake up yet another sunrise morning and my heart doesn’t ache for wisdom or story or textbook. Times when my Old Testament kick’s subsided and my brain’s run too-tired and timeless words don’t just jump off the page. En route to my table spot, there are times I fall down heavy-laden and hungry for Jesus Himself. Times like right now, in this very season.

He knows my need, He knows my heart. He’d heard its weary little beat all day and shows up quick to my welcome mat. He steps willingly into the world of my mess. Though I expect Him to take His spot head of our table, He chooses a different seat. He instead steps over what’s unfinished and unkept to the living-room middle of my heart. I follow, and drop an impossible agenda and all shame and the load I’ve been carrying and fall right at His feet. There’s a spot for me there—He’s just happy I chose to take it.

At His feet my heart leaps from back corners to my sleeve to His own trusty hands. At His feet He tells me Layne-tailored love stories—I’m all eyes and all ears, no note-taking necessary. At His feet I exhale and re-encounter first-Love Jesus as He holds me tight against His own heart of hearts. Affection’s relentless there, I’m understood there, Love’s like gravity there—it doesn’t let me stay standing, pulls me down low to His feet. I taste a love that tells stone hearts they’re lovable, a Love that makes even my heart race.

I’ll forever be a seeker, a studier—quick to dissect and reread and retell Scripture. But when my brain’s so nestled in the pages of His word, my heart can miss right out on Jesus Himself—the living, breathing risen Christ who swings wide the front door and comes on in. He calls me a good student, a good disciple, but says I’ve forgotten to be a good bride, a good daughter. A good bride basks in her belovedness, a good daughter sees Dad come home and races to greet Him. She sits at His feet, wide-eyed, spirit sprawled out and satisfied by a company that echoes of her Someday. She chooses what’s better. She’s fixed on first-Love Jesus—He won’t be cut short or interrupted or taken away today. He’s her One Thing.


You’re my One Thing, J. I’m sure of it! Forgive me for forgetting. Forgive me for trying to corral You, contain You, figure You out and textbook-define You. Forgive me for placing discipleship over daughtership and studying You over just plain sitting with You. Thanks for days of solitude that stir my heart to slow down and take a seat at Your feet. I will not resist You, holding me against Your heart, whispering over and over again who and Whose I am. I’m loved by You, J. Today I start letting You love me—here in the chaos and clutter of my little world—and I can study up and frequent Your table some other day. Today I’ll love You right back.

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