Returning to Rest - Part 1

 Good morning!

Fall is coming. It's been cooler in the mornings. Sometimes downright chilly. Some days are lovely but others are still warm. It has been dry and we could really use some rain.

I've been staying busy trying to get a lot of different things done. Things like the Christmas Play for church written, formatted, and parts to people, starting to teach my new writing students, writing, working on blog posts, figuring out how Instagram works and what to post there, yard work, and more. Life just doesn't slow down.

 Today's story is one I wrote last fall maybe? I shared it at KDWC, but thought I'd share it here now. Hope you enjoy this first part.

 

Returning to Rest - Part 1

    Francis shivered in his wet jacket as he crouched among the trees. He heard another motor and watched as a red pickup rattled down the rough road to join the other trucks and cars before the small, white church nestled against the scarlet trees. The autumn day had been wet and dreary. Even the bright colored trees had failed to lift Francis’s spirits.
    Why should they be lifted? He was alone, sick, hungry, out of work, and did he mention friendless and discouraged? If only he could find some place where he was needed! He’d walked for miles and miles with nothing to show for it except worn shoes and a cold.
    He coughed and hugged his jacket closer.
    A beam of light caught his eye, and he watched as the clouds broke, letting through a shaft of light that seemed to fall on the old church and make the trees glow.
    Music drifted from the open doors of the white structure.

“Shall we gather at the river,
Where bright angel feet have trod;
With its crystal tide forever
Flowing by the throne of God?”

    “Mama used to sing that song,” Francis whispered to himself.

“Yes, we’ll gather at the river,
The beautiful, the beautiful river;
Gather with the saints at the river
That flows by the throne of God.”

    “Oh, if only I could!” The young man wiped away a tear. “If only I could gather with someone who believes, and be welcomed, I could be sure that– But no. Who would welcome someone like me? God has forgiven me and will take me home at the end, but until then–”
    The chorus rang out again in the clear evening air.

“Yes, we’ll gather at the river,
The beautiful, the beautiful river;
Gather with the saints at the river
That flows by the throne of God.”

    “Yeah, well,” Francis sighed, moving into the open clearing in an attempt to catch what little warmth he could from the sun, “I ain’t no saint. They only gather with each other. But their singing sure is nice. Maybe they wouldn’t mind if I just stand nearby and listen.”
    Leaning on his walking stick and limping down the road, Francis listened to the singing coming from the white church.

“Ere we reach the shining river,
Lay we ev’ry burden down;
Grace our spirits will deliver,
And provide a robe and crown.”

    A smile, too rarely seen on Francis’s face these last few years, turned up the corner of his lips. “I’d be happy with just a pair of warm socks, a dry jacket, and a place to warm up. Don’t need a crown.”
    He limped his slow way closer to the church where the sunlight seemed to be the strongest. Perhaps he could just sit in the sunshine and listen to the music. A cough made him stop and lean on his walking stick a minute just as the song ended. He hoped he wasn’t bothering anyone.
    The organ started another song as he found a seat on the rocky hillside next to the flag pole. He closed his eyes and sighed.
    “Why don’t you come in my friend?”
    Startled, Francis looked up. A young man around his own age stood before him. His smile was warm and friendly. “No, that’s okay,” Francis gasped out with a cough. “I ain’t deserving of being in there with . . .” He coughed again. “With nice folks like you. It’s just nice to hear songs about my Lord.”
    “Has the Lord saved you, my brother?”
    Francis nodded. “He did, and I’m mighty grateful, but well–” He cleared his throat. “I walked away from Him, and now–”
    The young man held out his hand. “Come on. The Lord is merciful and ready to forgive.”
    “But–”
    “Hear that song?”
    Francis listened to the words pouring from the simple church.

“Come and dine,” the Master calleth, “Come and dine”;
You may feast at Jesus’ table all the time;
He Who fed the multitude, turned the water into wine,
To the hungry calleth now, “Come and dine.”

    “It’s not for me,” Francis began, wishing it was for him. “I’ve strayed and am not worthy–
    “Listen,” the voice interrupted.

“The disciples came to land,
Thus obeying Christ’s command,
for the Master called unto them, “Come and dine”;”

    “Do you know when Jesus called those men to come and dine?” the young man asked, looking at Francis.
    He shook his head. It must have been nice to have been called by the Master to come and dine.
    “He called them all after they had forsaken Him before the cross. Peter had denied the Lord, and yet, there was forgiveness and compassion in the Master, my friend. He knew they were weary and sad, and He prepared food for them. Come inside, brother.”
    Was it true? Had this call to come and dine been given after some falling away from the Lord? Without even fully realizing what he was doing, Francis allowed the stranger to help him up and guide him into the warm church building.
    
“Come and dine,” the Master calleth, “Come and dine.”

    The words rang out from the small congregation gathered in the brightly lit church.

“To the hungry calleth now, “Come and dine.”

    Francis sat in the back pew beside the young man who had invited him in. He shivered a little.
    Before Francis quite understood what was happening, the young man had shucked off his own jacket and had tugged off the wet one Francis was wearing.
    “Here, put this one on,” he whispered.
    Francis shook his head, but the dry, warm jacket was put about his shoulders anyway.
    The congregation sang a few more songs, and then a white-haired man stepped up to the pulpit. “That was some fine singing, folks! Let’s gather and dine with our Master this evening.” He bowed his head and prayed.
    Francis, with a feeling that he hadn’t felt in a long time, bowed his head. Perhaps there was hope even for him.
    The passage for the sermon was from the book of Psalms. “Return unto thy rest, o my soul, for the Lord hath dealt bountifully with thee.” The minister’s voice reached to the back of the small church. “Return unto thy rest. Return? What is this about returning? If the Lord has dealt bountifully with us, why have we need of returning to our rest? Oh, my friends, how often do we stray? How often do we wander? We allow worry or fear to drive us away from the rest our Lord has given us. Return? Yes! Perhaps you don’t feel worthy to return. You reason that it has been too long, you’ve gone too far, rest won’t happen until we cross that shining river.”
    Francis swallowed. He had been thinking that.
    “You know,” the minister went on. “I was thinking of Peter this evening as we sang about dining with our Master. He didn’t just have doubts or worries. He didn’t just run away like the other disciples when his Master was betrayed. No, Peter denied that he even knew his Lord! Oh, Peter! How miserable he must have felt! How worthless and hopeless. How ashamed. And yet our Lord called him to come and dine. The Lord prepared fish for Peter too. Return! Did Peter return? You better believe he did! Return unto the rest that the Master has given you!”
    Leaning forward, Francis shielded his face with his hand and sat still. 

Have you wandered and need to return?

Do you have fall weather?

Come back next Friday for the rest of the story.