BY MARILYN AAEN WOLCOTT

MAGINE! HE SAID HE'D BE here shortly before sundown. It'll be wonderful to see Him, if I can be ready.

I still need to sort through that mountain of books and papers on the desk and get my project paraphernalia in the kitchen put away somewhere—and that pile of mending. Where can I hide it? My mind races, adding more and more to the mental list that already overwhelms me as I try to make short work of the meatballs for Sabbath dinner.

The phone rings. I almost get one hand clean before I answer.

"Mommy, Eddie's bothering me. Make him leave me alone," demands Tommy as he tugs on my dress.

I clench my teeth, draw a deep breath, and try to sound far more patient than I feel. And I must get Tommy's quilt in the dryer or he won't have covers on his bed tonight.

Ding-dong! Have you ever wondered why the neighbors always stop to chat on Friday afternoon? I try not to be too noticeable every time I check the clock, because I really do care about Jane's problem. I'd like to wash these dishes or dust my living room while I listen, but . . .

The afternoon moves steadily onward. Sabbath dinner preparations are almost done, but what about supper tonight? He will surely need to eat. I need to dust, pick up things. My mind is constantly adding more to be done.

Oh, oh. The baby's waking. No mother, even a harried one, can resist the half-awake little one begging to be rocked. Squeak, creak. It feels so good to sit down. Squeak. Babies need to be rocked and cuddled, and I love to do it. But the clock ticks on with each squeak and creak. Guilt disrupts the spell. The mess in the kitchen, the desk, the living room—oh, and I think I forgot to wash the bathroom mirror.

Fifteen minutes until sundown.

The doorbell rings. My movements are definitely slower. Two children are still in the tub, and the bathroom is strewn with dirty clothes, shoes, wet towels. The dishes aren't all washed. I never did get to the living room. Anxiously hurrying to the front door, I can't ignore the books and papers piled carelessly.

"Blessed Sabbath, My child." His peaceful tones are a jolt to my frayed nerves.

"Oh, Master! It can't be You. We're not ready yet. I've dishes to wash and dusting to finish and . . ." I fall in awe before Him, tears of shame flowing down my haggard cheeks.

That kind voice speaks to me again. "My child, it does not matter." His child! Fighting to become an adult, I am finally involved in living the role. Yet the words sound so good. How wonderful to be a child again. No responsibility, carefree, secure, safe. Yes, I like the thought. He sounds just like a loving parent. I want to be His child.

Still not completely comfortable in His presence, I'm painfully aware of the thick layer of dust on the furniture as the unkempt books and papers shout to the world. A bitterness wells up inside me. I hate this day. It was so impossible. I want my house to be clean. I want my Sabbath menu to be complete. I want to have my hair washed and a fresh dress on. I want to enjoy Sabbath. I want to spend time with my Master, but it's just too hard.

I hate Fridays. And because I can never make it in time for Sabbath, I am even beginning to dislike Sabbath. The hassle is too great, the checklist too long.

"I have come to see you. The dust—the dishes—they don't matter. I've been lonely for you. I had to come and be with you. I've missed you so much. The house doesn't matter. It is you I care about."

Overcome with the immensity of what He is saying, I'm suddenly aware of how I look and how tired I am and how much I would like to just forget about all those things that scream to be done.

"Come unto Me, and I will give you rest. The Sabbath is My gift to humanity. Come, let us worship together." He beckons for me to relax.

In awe and humility I join my family in worship. He seems so glad to be with us. The children observe me carefully.

"Man looks on the outward appearance, but God looks into your heart, My child." His voice, so full of love and patience.

"My heart is ugly. I try to be ready for Sabbath. I really do. But the neighbors don't understand. The phone always rings. The children take so much time. I need to rock the baby, and . . ."

"Inasmuch as you have done it unto the least of these, you have done it unto Me." Every word offers love. My heart melts. Who could resist Him—the love He shares?

"I have come to share these Sabbath hours with you, My child, because I love you. I enjoy your company. Forget about your house and fancy meals. Let us share and worship together. That is all I want."

I have heard His voice. The dusty furniture fades. For this moment I am content. Jesus came to my home. He loves me and needs me. Yes, it shall truly be a blessed Sabbath with my Master.

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Marilyn Aaen Wolcott lived in Auburn, Washington, when she wrote this article.