I’ve been thinking about that strange paradox between living and grieving. We’re forced to do one but we need to do another. The one doesn’t leave much room for the other. The one often overshadows the other.
Responsibilities don’t allow me room to do much reflecting. There are three rascals to feed, to hold, to dress, to bathe, to raise. There is a home to clean, to fix, to build. There is a day to start, to survive, to finish. And then the next one begins.
Quality of the one diminishes, though, if space is not made for the other.
I’ve been considering the gospel of Mark lately. It reads like a young adult adventure novel. Mark uses the word “and” an awful lot to begin his sentences. There is an enthusiasm about this style, though, as if you can hear him retelling the stories of Jesus with such a fervency that he has no time for polish or revision. A scholar of higher standards would say this text is accessible, and they would say that with disdain.
I love it.
Mark’s love for Jesus weaves in and out of these stories he tells, stories in which a perfect man loves imperfect people. Scalawags, ragamuffins, rascals, heathens. Jesus has compassion on them, these sheep without a shepherd.
Today I got to the part where Jesus tells his twelve, “Come away by yourselves to a desolate place and rest a while” (6:31). This is after they return from having been sent out by the same man now telling them to rest.
Come away by yourselves to a desolate place and rest awhile.
He knows the job is big. He knows the tasks at hand are enough to wear a body down. He knows rest is important.
I ask Jesus to take care of me. I tell him it’s been a long road, and my body is beat. Is there any rest coming? How much farther can I go, Lord?
Come away by yourselves to a desolate place and rest awhile.
a scribble of jo 