I have a spot on the futon (read: poor girls' couch) that has a table at the elbow to put a cup of cocoa on. I prop my feet on the coffee table and read. It's a lovely way to pass a Saturday morning or any afternoon, as evidenced by the fact that it is six thirty now and I have moved for the first time in a couple hours. I do love to read.
Now, while I love the apartment I live in, I hold no illusions about the quality of craftsmanship involved in its construction. When you get within six inches of the windowpanes, you feel the air temperature drop by at least ten degrees, same with the door. So, it takes some work for our shoddy heater to raise the temperature to seventy. Today I had to nudge it up several times until it reached seventy six to make that happen. This is not a big deal, other than I had to set down my book, painfully wrenching my mind and imagination from the story that entwined them.
This would not have been the case if I'd gone to my room, instead of the thermostat, and retrieved my down blanket when I first grew cold. There is NOTHING like a down blanket. The way it is infinitely soft, and almost instantly warms you. The way its soft weight seems not just to trap warmth but to generate it. More than once I have stayed curled up for longer than I meant to just to avoid leaving the nest of a down. I envy ducks, they must be so comfortable with down against their skin.
It gives a whole new meaning to Psalm 61, I long to dwell in your tent forever and take refuge in the shelter of your wings. If just a blanket can feel so nice, what of the gentle embrace of my God? I long to curl up in the downy safety of shelter of His wing, nestled close by His side, warm, dry, safe.