I was not expecting Him at my door. But immediately, I say, “Come in! Come in!” There is a rush of cool air, as I open my front door wider to let Him in. It’s the middle of December. If I’d known He’d be stopping by, I would have tidied up, fixed my hair, and put on a fresh pot of coffee. (But, that’s silly. He probably doesn’t drink coffee.) He steps inside, and I push the door shut behind Him, and take a step back. I am in awe of Him. I watch as He brushes the snow off the toes of His boots. The snowflakes melt at His touch. He unties the laces. I won’t ask how He knows where I live. He knows everything. He pulls each boot off, and stands them next to the wall behind the door. He’s holding a knitted pair of mittens in His hands. They’re white with little candy canes stitched at the cuffs. I stare at them only for a moment, with curiosity, but not with any kind of judgement.
The candy canes remind me that Christmas is only a few weeks away. Well, of course, I already know that – but now I’m really aware. The REASON FOR THE SEASON is standing in my front foyer. I glance quickly around my living room. I look at the tree, the Christmas tree, that is. A crocheted angel sits atop the tree, below it are hanging a few modest glass ornaments. Nothing fancy, He’ll probably be OK with that. But I doubt that He’s come to my door to critique my Christmas decorations. Thankfully, I think to myself, I have the manger scene on my mantle. For that, He will know I have not forgotten the true meaning of Christmas.
His eyes twinkle. He says nothing, but His presence is calming, like nothing I’ve ever felt before. He is light. The corners of His lips curl up in the smallest smile. It’s like He’s saying, “Relax, I’m here”. But nothing else, and He’s really said nothing at all. The only sounds in the room are in my head. Do I always talk in my head to myself in the presence of company? Crazy, no. His face reassures me that there is nothing peculiar about being in His presence and saying nothing at all.
I encourage Him to make Himself comfortable and gesture with my hands to sit on the couch. I push the pile of blankets on the couch to the side. A stray sock falls on the floor. He leans down and picks it up. Smiling still, but He doesn’t sit down. He follows me into the kitchen, where I busy myself to start the kettle. I open the drawer and rummage around for a spoon, then move over to the pantry to retrieve my tea bags. He’s already holding two cups in His hands. This would startle me if He’d been anyone else, but He is who He is. And nothing He does, causes me to feel discomfort or mistrust in this most peculiar moment.
He likes just water. Boiled. We both sit at the table, with our hot cups of water. I add a spoon of honey to mine, and He raises His hand to decline an offering of bee-sweetness in his drink. Still nothing has been audibly spoken between us. But His presence has assured me, He wants me to rest. He wants me to take a moment and empty all my cares at His feet. Then, just rest. He takes my hand in His. It’s warm. It feels sort of rough, not calloused per SE, but strong, like a carpenters hand. Like that of a man who works with His hands all day. I feel clean. I suddenly don’t notice my disheveled hair, or the dishes piled up the sink. I’m unaware of anything except His presence. It’s pure. There’s not one ounce of pain, worry, or care in this moment. There’s indescribable music in this silence sitting alone at my kitchen table with Jesus. A heavenly chorus.
A tear trickles down my cheek. He wipes it away with His thumb. The scent of His hand is like freshly cut wood. A clean scent. I’m not at all sad. Just safe. In this moment, there is no terrorism. There is no shame in my past. There is no anxiety in my future. I am completely free in my mind of worldly cares. I have no to-do list. My heart beats steadily, peacefully. We have still not spoken to one another. His presence is enough. It transcends words.
There is a sound at the front door. I get up from the table, politely excusing myself, in thought only.
The front door is slightly ajar. I push it shut, this time locking the deadbolt. It pops opens sometimes, so this will fix it.
I return to the kitchen. He is gone. My Bible sits open on the table. His cup is in the sink. My cup still sits on the table, steaming. I walk over to the Bible, to see what page He has opened it to. Almost immediately, my eyes fixate on John 14:6, “Jesus answered, “I am the way and the truth and the life. No one comes to the Father except through me.”
I know this is true.
Even though He is not at my table any longer, I feel no distress. No anxiety to search for Him, or to call after Him down the street. He is here. In my heart. Beckoning me to empty myself each morning at His feet. To allow Him to fill me up with His goodness and grace. To take just take a moment, and submit all that I am and all that I carry, to Him.