Not Home. Come Home.
2025 Lenten Reflections
Spy Wednesday
Home, Coming
"You have been a refuge for the poor,
a refuge for the needy in their distress,
a shelter from the storm
and a shade from the heat."
Isaiah 25:4
Illustration by Eunice Sunmie Derksen
Beams are the unseen heroes of daily life — the humble structures that stretch out like arms overhead to provide safety and shelter. Beams hold up the roof, and for the vulnerable a roof can mean the difference between stability and collapse, between life and loss.
A roof is more than architecture. It is survival.
The physically disabled living in a group home, the chronically ill needing a place to rest, the single parent working two jobs, the young person couch-surfing after being rejected by their family, the asylum seeker sleeping in makeshift tents, the rural elder living alone in a collapsing house, the families seeking shelter after losing everything to floods or fires — all know that the beams that hold up homes are essential to thriving.
For them, a roof is not assumed. It is longed for. A roof means protection from the cold, the heat, the rain, the noise. It means dignity when bathing, privacy when changing, quiet when sleeping, and sanctuary when grieving. It is a shield from danger and exposure — from stray bullets, from predation, from shame.
Beams are the bones of belonging. They lift the weight so the body can rest. Without them, nothing holds.
In disaster zones, the first relief to be offered is a tarp. A roof. A covering. In refugee camps, it’s the thin plastic stretched over poles that becomes a family’s only sense of place. In homeless encampments, the hunt is always for something to hold off the sky — a pallet, a board, a box, a beam. In overcrowded housing, a roof still grants one thing: the possibility of not being outside.
And while food and water are critical, no human being can thrive without shelter. No one can think clearly, recover from trauma, sleep deeply, or make a plan for tomorrow when there is nothing to shield them from today’s raw exposure.
Roofs give people the strength to rebuild the rest of life.
So when we speak of a roof, we speak of something profoundly sacred:
The ability to close your eyes without fear.
The chance to let down your guard.
The right to stay dry, to stay warm, to stay still.
Roofs matter.
Beams matter.
Because people matter.
Let us never take for granted what it means to be covered. And let us work to extend that covering to those who need it most.
A House is Made with Walls and BEAMS;
A Home is Built with Love and Dreams.
If beams and roofs are what make a structure sheltering — what lifts the weight and shields from above — then God is the ultimate covering and support for those who are vulnerable, exposed, and weary. He is not only a firm foundation but also a strong canopy of care, a divine architecture of refuge.
Psalm 61:3-4 says:
"For you have been my refuge, a strong tower against the foe. I long to dwell in your tent forever and take refuge in the shelter of your wings."
This is the voice of one who understands both fear and safety. God is not distant but close — a tower, a tent, a roof of wings. He is both structure and softness, beam and covering. A God who shelters.
In the desert, God covered His people with cloud by day and fire by night (Exodus 13:21–22), a protective presence that traveled with them — a moving roof for a migrant people. Not just shade from heat and light in darkness, but also a visible sign of “I am with you.”
And when Jesus wept over Jerusalem, He cried:
“How often I have longed to gather your children together, as a hen gathers her chicks under her wings...” (Matthew 23:37).
A mother's wing. A roof of mercy. A protective beam of love — offered, even when rejected.
God as Roof and Beam: Shelter Above, Strength Beneath
Arran View by William Ireland
The Church as Beam and Covering
The Church — Christ’s body — is invited to live out this divine architecture: to become a network of shelter, a sanctuary not just of spirit but of place and presence.
The early church practiced this in tangible ways. In Acts 2:46 we learn “They broke bread in their homes and ate together with glad and sincere hearts.” Their homes became coverings for one another — spaces of rest and nourishment. When Paul writes, “Carry each other’s burdens, and in this way you will fulfill the law of Christ.” (Galatians 6:2), he’s calling the Church to act as beams: lift the weight someone else cannot carry. Span the gap. Hold steady when others are falling apart.
The Church, when it lives like Christ, becomes a place of refuge for the traumatized, a roof of peace for the displaced, and a beam of support for the weary. It holds the sacred call to provide shelter in an exposed world.
To be like Christ is to become both beam and roof:
The beam that holds the weight of another.
The roof that shields others from the storms they didn’t ask for.
The canopy of compassion that allows someone to finally rest.
God is our shelter.
The Church is called to be His sheltering hands.
May we be structures of peace in a world of collapse.
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