There is a place where I kneel before my Lord in the stillness of the morning. It’s at the end of our couch where the leather arm forms a short barrier to rest my arms and head as I bow and lift the day up to God.
I wasn’t raised in a church with an altar, that short fence that separates the congregation from where the priest or pastor teaches. I wasn’t taught to come to the front of the church and kneel, resting my clasped hands on this barrier, as I confessed and rested in the mighty power of God’s forgiveness. But I read the Old Testament as a young girl and grew up familiar with that other altar, the Jewish one, where the lambs were slaughtered and blood paid for the sins of mankind, until the Messiah came to stand in for all who were willing.
My altar is more like the small fence in a church though. A simple barrier, a place to bow and reflect. It is humble. The crowded coffee table is at my right, a stack of laundry baskets boiling over with clean cloths is at my left, and my writing chair is just behind me. Sometimes the dog creeps into it and I have to shoo her away before I write. Nonetheless, in the quiet darkness of the early morning, after I study God’s word but before I open my computer to write, I kneel. Resting against the arm of my couch, looking out the window into the dawn-bright forest, I know that because of Christ the barrier between God and man is gone, more flimsy than this simple bit of a sofa, for the price was paid, the chasm bridged, the way made clear, for me to belong to God.
I want to remind myself each morning whose I am and to commit the day to my Lord. So I kneel, at my couch, amidst the laundry, my writing tools, and the scattered bits of everyday life, looking out at the sun as it rises. I can kneel before Him, because He came and rescued me. It is a truth worth remembering each day.