There’s something inside all of us that craves safety. We want a place to land when life gets loud—a space to breathe, to feel known, to reset. As kids, it was forts made of blankets and couch cushions. Tucked under those homemade roofs, the world felt smaller, more manageable. The distractions faded, and we could pretend—if only for a moment—that we were secure.

But what about now?

As adults, we don’t stop building forts. We just trade cardboard boxes for calendars, comfort food, checklists, or control. We find ways to feel safe—ways to cope, perform, or push through. And without realizing it, those ways become our structures. Our makeshift shelters. Our own little castles where we try to outrun fear, stress, or the ache of uncertainty.

Sabbatical rest has a way of quieting the noise—and in that stillness, one thing becomes clear: God says, “No more running away.”

Not running from Him, but running from stillness. From the invitation to stop building and just be. That kind of invitation disrupts our patterns. It unsettles what we think we need. But in the space it creates, something better can begin to grow—a reorientation. A clearer way of seeing. A freer way of living.

Psalm 23 says, “True to your word, you let me catch my breath and send me in the right direction.” That’s the heartbeat of rest—learning to stop striving, to breathe again, and to follow Jesus at his pace. And when we look at the life of Jesus, we don’t see someone rushing. We see someone fully present. He walks. He celebrates with friends. He slips away to pray. Even with the weight of the world on his shoulders, he moves through life unhurried.

Jesus didn’t build programs or power structures. He built relationship. He was never in a hurry, but always on time. And somehow, in that simplicity, in that deep connection to his Father, he accomplished everything.

So why do we try to do it any other way?

We build. We strive. We find safety in our own strength, our productivity, our ability to push through. But what if those things aren’t really safe at all?

What if our structures—however impressive or comforting—are more like forts made of sticks and leaves? Temporary shelters that eventually collapse?

It’s a hard truth God continues to uncover in us: we all have places of refuge that aren’t really refuge at all. The need to always appear strong. The habit of tying our value to how much we accomplish. These things aren’t necessarily bad, but they easily become hiding places—ways of coping instead of truly abiding. And in the process, they quietly divide the heart.

God’s not interested in punishing us for the places we’ve hidden. He’s far more interested in drawing us out. Inviting us in. Whispering, “There’s more. There’s better. Come dwell with me.”

Scripture doesn’t just invite us to believe in God—it invites us to abide in Him. “Live in me. Make your home in me.” (John 15) That’s the offer. A real place. A refuge that doesn’t crumble when life shakes. A covering that doesn’t shift with the winds.

It’s tempting to want to build our own version of this, even spiritually. Like Peter on the mountaintop during the transfiguration, we try to make something of the moment. “Let’s build a shelter here!” But God’s response is clear: Listen to my Son.

Before we construct anything, He invites us to listen.

And what does Jesus say? Come. Rest. Abide. Live in me. Make your home in me. Not just visit. Not just believe. Come dwell.

The truth is, we were made for a certain kind of habitat—like fish were made for water or trees for soil. We flourish when we’re rooted in God’s presence. In union with Him. And when we stray from that habitat, we start to feel it. Restlessness. Weariness. Disconnection. A need to build something just to feel okay again.

But God says: I am your safe place. Your strong tower. Your shelter.

So maybe the question today is this: Where are you taking refuge?

Is it in your schedule? Your strength? Your certainty? Your systems?

Or is it in the One who longs to be your home?

Come dwell. Not just when everything is calm, but especially when it’s not. Especially in the wilderness. Especially when life feels disorienting. Because the wilderness has always been a place God speaks tenderly, a place of preparation, a place of deepening trust.

This is about becoming more rooted. About making space for communion over control, presence over performance. It’s the quiet invitation to let God build the house—rather than striving to live in something we’ve pieced together on our own.

Let Him be your refuge. Not just in theory, but in your Monday morning, in your overwhelm, in the quiet corners of your heart.

He’s already knocking. The table’s already set.

All that’s left is to open the door and dwell.