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I’ve been thinking about shelter, and about how blessed I am to have it. And about how temporary, really, it is.

Tornados and floods this spring and summer, and I know many whose shelters, whose homes, have been lost. Just like that.

Sometimes shelter is a house, wood or brick or something else, built up into a place defined by walls and roofs and inside of which life is protected. From danger. From the elements. From discomfort. Fancy, maybe, or practical or sometimes even falling apart. But shelter, still.

Taking shelter is an odd concept. Because what it seems to mean, really, is to find a space in which to hide or be covered. From the rain, from the dark, from the noise of children. Almost an escape. And an escape isn’t something you usually take. It’s something you find and crawl into, like a cave in the woods.

You can’t take a cave with you.

Sometimes, though, shelter is less tangible, less physical. More figurative than literal. Like, a family or a faith or a philosophy.

That’s the shelter you can take.

I pray you find shelter to take with you this weekend, friends. On your travels, whether around the world or around the kitchen, may you find the safety of shelter that can’t be destroyed.

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