Softness of feather, heat of breast, turning of small bird
body. . . . These work on the mud, leaves, twigs, and
incidental matter to shape a nest for mother to sink into, for
eggs to emerge into, for babies to break into.
Human parents shape space to sink into, blanketing it
with comforting colors and textures; burrowing into the
heart of a watching, protective community as they prepare a
resting place for the expected young one. Similarly, spaces
of shelter and care are shaped for the elder at life’s end.
In good circumstances, humans shape a cushioning
nest place for their vulnerable and frail. Is that the truest
home or dwelling place? A place shaped around our most
defenseless and breakable (sometimes broken) pieces and
selves? When those pieces are held and honored, we can
sing our contentment like the swallow in a sheltered place.
We begin to learn from these how to shelter our souls
in the house, altar, hand, love of God. We begin to draw
around ourselves the things of God. We begin to dwell,
turn, burrow into the presence and person of God.
As we begin to dwell and sing, how do we remember
the unsheltered, the endangered in body and spirit—those
needing housing, community, companionship, or respite
from warfare? How do we dig, shape, turn out home places
with room enough for all, including those with brokenness
so close to the surface it frightens us?
Sometimes this means actually sinking our hands in
the mud and concrete of a building project or sinking our
hearts into the dark places of another’s story. Perhaps in the
sinking in, in the turning and dwelling, shelter is created.

By Regina M. LaRoche from The Upper Room: 60 Days of Prayer for General Conference 2016