on his chest

 

Ada Rose loves many things at ten weeks old: ceiling fans, bubble baths, and, her very favorite, being held. The girl loves to be held. She tolerates her swing. She allows to be laid on her back or given tummy time, but her very favorite spot is snuggled up.

This morning, as she laid on the bed and I folded itty bitty clothes and itty bitty socks, she wiggled and squirmed. Letting out peeps of discontentment. Tears began to form and I placed her on me in the carrier so I could finish up the chores. Immediately, she quieted. Her body relaxed. She went about the house with me, looking around, content upon the chest of her mama. 

And isn't this how we are? We are restless until we find our rest in him. Peace only comes in his presence. 

As I go about my day I am always squirming, perpetually discontent. I see the things as they ought to be and the hardship of life blurs my vision. And then. I come to my Father. I lay my head on his chest. I ask him to carry me. He's always willing and he's always able. The path before me seems impossible until I come to his arms to rest. This is where I am meant to be and this is where I find my peace.

My mind slows down a bit and I listen for his heartbeat. The dizzying racing thoughts quiet. With him there is a peace we don't understand. A peace even in the midst of external chaos. Or heartache. Or disappointment. Or longing. Or the ache of things not as they ought to be.  

This isn't to say there isn't sorrow or heartache. Peace doesn't mean a lack of emotions. But it does mean we can rest. The striving and the working and the burden becomes lighter. With him we are where we were meant to be.

May we rest on the chest of our Father, letting him carry us as we go about our day. May we listen for his heartache and look for his face. May we have a peace we don't understand.