My hand drifts to the mug next to me, fingers curling around the warm rough pottery. My third cup. Where else could I sit and muse over coffee all morning? This place- its quiet, isolation, lack of agenda but fulness of life- I could never have imagined it.

The cabin in its maturity feeds my woman’s soul as the rawness of its youth never did when I was a kid. Now it draws my gratitude to the surface, bubbling up through layers of weariness and cynicism. During the “crisis years,” when my boy was so ill and I was so afraid, this place gave us rest.

Respite is essential when a crisis grows and spreads from a moment to weeks, months, years. I found the slices of rest during that time to be grace from God. I came to recognize them as gifts He longed to give me. Rest for my disquieted mind and sore heart was His love.

Cabin life isn’t required, but vision is. Sitting on the porch in the woods with the sun sharing its glow makes me slow down and contemplate. Right perspective changes my attitude in the same way. Asking God to help me see His love unclenches the crisis response. I consider the hard work it takes to bring a life to fruitful maturity. Just like my dad could see how special our Vermont home would be decades later, I want live the truth that “He who began a good work in (me) will be faithful to complete it” (Philippians 1:6) and “then (I) shall be like Him, for (I) shall see Him just as He is” (I John 3:2).

I am thankful my parents had the vision for our family home. I am even more thankful that God lets me peek into His vision for my life. The view includes grace generously poured into this broken world, and rest in trusting Him for the Big Picture.

I reach up high , stretching my lazy body into the sunlight. Finally rising from my rocking chair, I gather my empty mug, journal, and Bible. I head inside to slip into the rhythm of the day- gentle housekeeping tasks, singing along with the radio, conversations trivial and deep, until the next lingering time on the porch.