Our Father’s House is alive!
Out side my house things are coming alive, spring has come again, rebirth; but my house is a dead thing in which I live.
Mother Nature is very big and very strong. She does not realize when she steps on us, like perhaps now. Outside my house are dangers of every kind, but also tremendous life, so much so we must be careful lest we fail to survive.
Man is a living being who builds his shelter from the dead, and lives within, but also must go out to drink in that great life of outside.
The Indian teepee made from fallen trees and dead skins. The Eskimo igloo, ice so cold to the touch. Shelters and houses of every kind, and yet they are dead in themselves. We are the life within. And there is life without, trees not yet fallen and animals not yet dead. Life so strong and bold we dare not be foolish in our adventures.
My house is such a comfort zone of death; made from dead lumber, drywall, nails, cement, glass, plastics, wires, and paints. This dead thing in which I live, so I can go out, and come in again.
But I must go out. Should this house cease to be a house and become a prison? Even at this moment a live bird, outside, manages to penetrate these dead walls with his song announcing the rising sun, and I hear it…outside…life…sun…wind…song. This bird confirming my every word.
But some are in prison at home. Do they even know? Their lack of adventure, lack for love of nature, fear of discomfort zones and hardships, bugs and dirt, sweat and strain. They stay inside… a lot!!! They run from box to box. Boxes of every kind. Dead boxes of every kind, even unto the coffin. Big boxes and small. Boxes on wheels and boxes in malls. Doctor boxes and money boxes but so little time in the simplicity of “no box”, just open sky.
But not I. Like the wolf, the bird, the tree, the flower… I need some wind, some sun, some green grass and blue sky, some wet leaves and rain, a mountain stream and quiet lake. I need some sweat and strain, a bug or two, a sudden view that touches my soul, perhaps even a little cold to make me whole. Only then can I go back inside and be the life of the dead thing I live within.
But God is different. He does not live in the dead. My Father has a living House. I am that House. Easter cometh. Selah.
Sitting under the Willow Tree 