I returned to what I’m going to call the Way again this evening. Those woods have become my escape over the last two years; a place where I don’t have to be or do anything for anyone else. I never know what I will encounter when I am there. I mean, I know that the path winds beneath a canopy of trees and I am familiar with the changing of aesthetics from season to season, but I can never predict what God will reveal when I am there.
At what I consider to be the top of the trail, there is a picnic table. On the rare occasion I bring my daughters to hike with me, we always stop there to rest halfway through our hike. When I am alone, I slow my pace to take in the wildflowers surrounding it, but I never stop. My mindset is fixed on pushing forth, on seeking what is ahead. Frequently when I am before that picnic table, the words of the twenty-third Psalm run through my head.
Today, the Psalm’s words echoed as I contemplated who Jesus, the Holy Spirit, and God are to me. As He often does, He wove His Word with my contemplation, eventually speaking the same thing to me three different times:
“I have prepared a table for us. Would you sit with me? Would you spend time with me there?”
Once, twice, I responded the same, not necessarily with words but with emotion. I felt giddy at the thought of sitting across from Jesus, my Ishi, to look and speak with Him. I was enthralled to simply consider what it would be like to spend time that way with the Spirit that lives inside of me.
Yet when God asked, I just couldn’t say yes.
My eyes were welled with tears, but not because of guilt, condemnation, or anger. I cried because I was overwhelmed with sadness that I could decline the invitation my Heavenly Father extended. I cried because I felt such elation about spending time with His Son and His Spirit, but merely considering sitting with God constructed a barrier I could quite literally feel in my soul. I cried because I knew the invitation included a journey to a new depth of healing–a depth that would require me to walk very difficult and painful things–and I just couldn’t bear the thought of walking through more difficult things, through more pain.
So I didn’t say yes. I said I was sorry. I said that I just couldn’t do it. I turned my eyes back to the trail and I pressed on, and He remained there, at the door of my heart, waiting patiently for me to welcome Him in.