Come Home, Soul

Somewhere between the alarm and the first cup of coffee, your soul has already left the house. It is at the meeting that has not happened yet. It is in the argument from last night, rerunning it with better lines. It is at the bank, at the doctor, at the school pickup line three days from now. Your body is standing in the kitchen. The rest of you is anywhere but.

The psalmist does something strange: he talks to his soul like someone who wandered off. Return to your rest, my soul. He does not scold it. He calls it home, the way you would call a dog standing at the end of the street, panting, not sure how it got there. And the reason he gives is not a promise. It is a record. The LORD has been good to you. Has been. Past tense. Go look at what already happened.

That is how you get a soul to come back. Not by telling it to calm down, which never once worked. By reminding it of what is already true. He kept you last time. He was there the year everything fell apart. He has been good, specifically, in ways you could list if you sat still long enough.

So call it home this morning. Out loud, if the kitchen is empty. Come back. He has been good to you. Then let it lie down.