I feel stuck at the entrance of His presence, stuck looking through the cracks in the doors as people come and go. I can only catch quick glimpses of the throne room, but man does it look amazing. I am always struck by how freely people come and go. Don’t they understand who’s throne room that is? The audacity of some people! And they bring their baggage with them, right up to His feet with no regard. Standing here at the door gives me hope though because most people get to leave without their baggage or at least with less pieces to drag along. It also makes me sad and bitter, if I am honest, because I can’t make it pass the foyer.
I am stuck at the entrance of His presence. I can hear the worship and I can’t even begin to describe the melody, it is beyond words. Sometimes I can feel a wave of peace pass through as the door swings open, but it doesn’t last. It’s an overwhelming feeling, but at the same time, it’s never enough. For a long time I’ve been pretty content here, I mean its comfortable. I have spent my life at the threshold of the throne room.
I am committed, but not necessarily passionate. I used to visualized what it would be like to burst in the doors and run to His feet. I could almost hear the rhythm of His heartbeat and feel the closeness of His breath against my skin. Oh, how He would take my blood-stained rags and replace them with a white robe. The same white robes I have seen on people over and over as they come back through the door. I am always complimenting how beautiful it is, but secretly I am jealous. I longed for that moment, my moment with the King of Kings.
But I couldn’t figure out what pocket my fear would fit into in the new robe. Where would my shame go? Each one of my failures are neatly packed away in pockets and bags and I just don’t think there’s enough room for them. I look around at the people coming and going so freely, it looks effortless. Their bags must have been light and their mistakes few, otherwise, why would they waltz in with such confidence. Meanwhile, I am a doorkeeper at best, trying to catch a wave of peace or a glimpse of hope while watching them parade around with their freedom.
I am determined now! I have pack and repack all of my baggage so I that I can go too, but there’s always too much stuff. I have noticed that the longer I am here the heavier my stuff gets. I don’t understand it, but I can feel the callous in my hands deepen as I grip tighter to my freshly repacked bags. Slowly, usually without notice, I grow detached and don’t really think about His presence very much. I always hold the door open for those around me though, perhaps strictly out of obligation. But nonetheless, I smile and rejoice with them for their freedom, but they have no idea I’ve only every stood here…at the door to HIs presence.
Perhaps it is not the baggage I carry, but the pride I clench to with both hands. I tell myself I am just trying to survive. You cannot fault me for surviving, right? All the while, the very giver of life is just beyond the door. His Word says that the train of His robe fills the temple. If I can’t find the means to run to His alter, maybe I can reach in just enough to grab a hold of His robe, like the woman in the bible. Maybe that will lighten my load just enough, maybe that will at least allow me to empty out my pockets. “The train of His robe fills the temple”, it reaches to the very depths of my soul even as I stand at the door of His presence.
Isaiah 6:1 Luke 8:43-48
Restorative Mercy 