I was walking through a quiet suburban neighborhood, and I reached a cul-de-sac. At the far end of the the street was a one-story light blue house with a wrap-around porch and cream shutters. The lawn is cared for, but plain; the house is lined with hydrangeas; several sturdy maples stand guard at regular intervals around the house.
I climbed up the front porch steps and arrived at the front door. The glass door was shut, but the solid wooden door was already open – as if the owner was expecting company. Through the glass door, I saw to the left a cozy family room filled with art, to the right a plain wooden door, and straight ahead a dining area with a large bay window overlooking a sprawling lawn. It’s quite easy to see a good portion of the house in vivid detail. It didn’t appear that the owner cared much if people saw what’s inside the house. It was even a little cluttered – there were a few shoes in a heap at the door, blankets tossed haphazardly on the sofa, and a pile of papers on the dining room table.
I opened the door and stepped through, leaving my shoes next to the welcome mat. As I made my way toward the family room, I was drawn to the owner’s art display. It’s charming and eclectic, and named after virtues and disciplines: humilty, peace, community, grace, prayer. But wait a moment…there’s a crack in the wall behind ‘prayer’. I lifted the painting off the wall. It was mostly covering a crack which had a jagged hole in the middle, marked with a date. I reached out to touch it – it appeared new. The photograph next to it, called ‘humility’, was larger, and hanging crookedly. As I straightened it, it fell, revealing a much bigger hole. I went around to each work – there were several in this room alone – and each one was covering some sort of hole. Some seemed quite old, and had been partially patched. None of them had been fully restored. I brushed my hand over the flawed plaster, and wondered that the owner never asked someone to fix the holes in their wall. But as it was not my house, I replaced the art, and turned my attention instead to the door to the right of the entryway.
The door was plain, but sturdy. It shut completely – it was hung perfectly and with care. There was a plain round knob with a small lock, the key inserted. I infered the owner didn’t much care for what’s behind this door. The rest of the house was open and bright, full of natural light. This was the only door that’s shut, much less locked. I decided to turn the key and fling open the door. It led to the basement.
Natural light filled the corridor, but didn’t reach as far as the bottom of the staircase. About halfway down the stairs was a lightswitch. I flipped it, and a bare bulb illuminated a finished but plain room filled with boxes – on shelves, in corners, and some just open in the middle of the room. It looked like the owner had been going through some of them. Much like the holes in the family room, the boxes varied in size and age. And much like the art display, the boxes were labeled. There was a large box in the corner marked ‘bitterness’. The cardboard was old, but unlike other old boxes, it must have been opened frequently; there were small tears at the corners, and there was a noticeable lack of dust and cobwebs.
I pulled the box toward the center of the room. At the top of the box were some photographs of several people captioned, “Old Friends”. Below was a teddy bear and a man’s sweatshirt. I reached in a little further and found a 3-ring binder labeled “Awards” – it’s empty. Below were more photos, some tapes, a few scrapbooks, and at the bottom, two birth certificates – siblings.
As I sifted through the contents of the box, I shook my head as I realized this box was filled with everything that had made the owner to feel bitter. I looked up from the box and took notice of the labels on the other boxes: lust, pride, envy, greed, resentment, people-pleasing and judgement were written in bold black capitals. I replaced the flaps on the box and brought it up into the family room. I laid every article in the box on the floor as tears started to form in my eyes. My heart was breaking.
The owner of this box had lived with a lifetime of bitterness, collecting evidence from the time she was born.
She joined me on the floor as I marveled at the collection.
I pulled her into my arms as I gazed at the box’s contents dispersed on the rug. She started to cry.
“We can deal with this, you know. I have so much more for you, Marah.”
“Take it, Lord,” she said through tears. “I don’t want it anymore. I never wanted it. Take the box and everything in it. I don’t want any of it.”
I gave her a squeeze and slowly exhaled. “I tell you what. I’m not going to take the box.”
She looked up at me in confusion, hurt filling her eyes.
“I’m going to work it into something new. We’ll call it sweetness, and we’ll keep it up here on display. Deal?”
She wiped the tears from her eyes with her sleeve as she nodded her head. A small smile began to form.
“Deal,” she agreed.
“And Marah?”
“Hmm?”
“I didn’t give you this collection to hide the cracks,” as I gestured to the art. “You’ve got to patch these up, and you’ve got to let someone help you. These are not simply decorations, you know. They can’t be applied like a band-aid to the bad days. You need to embrace the beauty and the brokenness, my dear.
She exhaled. “Okay, Lord. Whatever you say.”
I let the moment settle before starting again.
“I see you’ve been working on some of the boxes in your basement. I know it’s hard, but I am SO proud of you. And I see the work you’re doing. The work isn’t over yet, but I’m with you in it. I just need you to trust me, and sit in this mess for a while. I’m going to make something beautiful to add to your collection – to you. Do you believe me?”
She nodded her head again before confirming in a small voice, “Yes, Papa. I believe you.”
