I haven’t been able to shake off the thought of Psalm 84 since last night. I grew up around this chapter. I know it by heart. I’ve read it. It’s been read to me. I’ve circled its word and highlighted its verses and I’ve built thoughts and pictures and stories around it. But I don’t know… last night it kinda just knocked on my door like an old friend and I’ve been thinking about it differently.

I can picture the guys who wrote this… history tells us that they were gatekeepers. They stood and worked and dwelled by the gates, guarding and watching those that were able to enter in. And I picture them looking at high priests and looking at people of statue and virtue and positions, all being able to go inside the temple. And I picture them yearning, and longing for it to be them. And I picture them seeing the sparrows, and I picture them thinking about how those foolish birds don’t even have a clue where they’ve laid their nests. They have no idea where they’ve been spending their time. And I picture those guys writing down, “my heart and flesh cry out for the living God… even the sparrows have found a home.”

And I picture us… you and me… and our hearts, and all the undeserving things that have somehow found a home in there. All the things that dwell and build nests and freely enter without a clue of our value. All the people and words and moments that snuck in and lay at the brim and unworthily have found a place to stay. All the while there is a God and people and a present and forgiveness and an embarrassingly amount of good tomorrows and promises that are standing by the gate whispering, “how lovely is your dwelling place. my soul longs and even faints to enter in…”