The Porch of His Presence

The Cabin That Waited

from the journal of Brother Callum

It began with the rain.

I had been walking without direction that morning, letting my feet speak what my prayers could not. A soft drizzle turned sudden and strong, and I found myself huddled beneath a rock ledge—one arm tucked inside my cloak, the other holding the fold of my hood low against the downpour.

And that’s when he came.

A black dog, wet and silent, stood just beyond the veil of falling rain. His eyes found mine with the ease of recognition, though we had never met. There was no bark, no circling. Just that stillness. That quiet, knowing look.

I called to him gently, and to my quiet amazement, he came. Not with wagging tail or leaping joy, but with the calm of someone who had already decided I was safe. He sat beside me under the shelter of the ledge. I placed my hand on his side. He did not flinch.

We sat like that for some time—two weary travelers with no words, just the rhythm of rain, and a presence I could not name.

When the rain softened, he moved first. He stepped out onto the wet path and paused. Then looked back at me.

It was not a glance for approval. It was invitation.

I stood.

We walked.

The woods were soaked and fragrant with that wild, green smell—the kind that only comes after rain. The leaves hung low, heavy with water. Puddles gathered like mirrors beneath them. My staff tapped rhythmically against the softened path. And always, a few steps ahead, he led. Not hurried. Not lost. Just forward.

More than once he turned back—just enough to see I was still coming. I always was.

I do not know what made me trust him. Only that I did. Perhaps it was not him alone I was trusting. There was something in the air, something in the silence between us that felt guided. Holy. As though I were not just following a dog—but something stronger, deeper, ancient.

Then… we broke through the trees.

And there it was.

A lake—still and wide—and near its edge, a cabin. Small, strong, built of logs and mercy. Its windows glowed gold against the twilight, and the door stood open as if it had been waiting all along.

Barnabas—yes, I believe that is his name now—climbed the porch steps. He paused, turned back, and looked at me.

That look again.

I stood frozen in the path, my feet wet with the day’s journey, my heart somehow dry and full at once.

This… was the cabin that waited.

I do not know what I will find inside. But I know this:
It is no longer time to wander.

It is time to dwell.