I carelessly tossed the piece of trash on the ground, as I disparagingly made my way through the piles of garbage. What had I gotten myself into? Surely...surely, he wasn't really going to come...here. After all, what was the point of trying to clean up a pigsty like this anyways? I had to think. I slowly made my way to the couch in the center of the room--if you could call it that. The thing was older than time, covered in a pattern long outdated, and with the springs poking through the ripped and faded fabric. It was both an aesthetic disaster and highly uncomfortable, but it didn't matter. No one was here but me...and I was used to it.
I tried to ignore the reeking and rotting mounds of junk--boxes filled with random trinkets, meals that never got finished, trophies from preschool, yesterday's homework. Half of the room was enclosed in a curtain--well, a sheet, that is--to make it look like less of a chaotic mess. It was the same with the piles, they were covered in various colored sheets, so that you couldn't really see what was underneath. Nevertheless, each sheet was labeled, so that I had an idea of what was there. Yes, this was my junk room. The room no one EVER came in. At least, no one ever had.
As I sat in the middle of my disastrous--yet oddly comfortable--room, I thought about what I'd gotten myself into. It had started with a conversation I'd had earlier that day, a conversation with a very dear friend. My friend had asked about this room of mine, that I never let anyone enter. I'd talked about it many times before--often flippantly, as if it wasn't a big deal. But there were a few times that I'd mentioned it not so flippantly. And he'd noticed. He tends to notice stuff like that. So, he brought it up. He asked if he could come see it. And if I'd wanted, he could help me clean it.
"Oh no." I'd responded, "You wouldn't possibly want to go in there."
"I think I would," He'd responded.
"But it's a mess! I mean...believe me when I say, it's a disaster."
"Oh, I believe you. I still want to come." Then--teasing, "you'll still be my favorite." He's been saying that to me for as long as I can remember. He says it whenever he's talking about someone he really likes...and he makes a point to always say it to me. But if I let him into that room, things might change.
I tried to convince him to give up on the idea, but when he gets an idea in his head, it's really hard to get it out. And somehow--after a momentary lapse of reason--I'd agreed. I'd agreed to let him in. Feeling sick to my stomach, I got up and paced, and attempted to make clean. But it was useless. Even if I managed to get all the trash out, there was still the matter of the broken rafters, the sagging walls, and the boarded up windows...not to mention the bathroom. We're not even going there.
And then, the sound that I had been dreading.
Knock. Knock.
Maybe if I waited, he would change his mind. Maybe he'd think I wasn't here. Maybe...
Knock. Knock.
Reluctantly I moved towards the door. "What am I doing?" I think to myself, "Surely this isn't necessary. He'll never want to be with me once he sees this. He'll hate me. If I let him in, he's just going to leave. He'll..."
Knock. Knock.
Gulp.
I open the door.
And there...there he is. And he is smiling. Oh that smile. Now I remembered, that smile was the whole reason I'd agreed to let him come. When I see that smile, I go senseless. In one hand he was holding a large black sack. With the other, he reached out and grabbed my hand, as if to assure me that everything was going to be okay. Then, he entered. He looked at the catastrophe. I mean, really looked at it. He walked around, perusing the whole thing.
And then he did something that I really didn't expect him to do. He began uncovering the piles. He pulled off the sheet "Busyness" to reveal a pile of loneliness and an old dresser whose drawers were overflowing with dreams I'd tried to forget. He pulled off "False Confidence" to reveal box after box of insecurity. He stripped off the one labeled, "Happy." Underneath were all sorts of sorrows and unhealed hurts, along with mounds of dirty gauze and band-aids that I'd used to cover up old wounds. Problem is, most of those wounds never fully healed...so the pile of band-aids just keeps growing.
With each pile I grew increasingly uncomfortable. And then he went to the side of the room that I was hoping he wouldn't--the curtain.
"No...please." I thought, "Anything but that."
If he went in there, he would see the one thing that I would worked so long and hard to hide. I hated--nay despised--this part of the room with an intense passion. Nevertheless, I couldn't get away from it. Going in there was like this neurotic compulsion for me--it was the only part of the room that was at all neat. Probably, because this was where I had spent the most amount of time...and now...now he was going to see it.
He looked long at hard the curtain. This curtain was the prettiest of them all and gave some semblance of order and beauty to the room...or so I told myself. It was labeled, "Perfection." He slowly but surely pulled it back to reveal just one old cardboard box, bland and boring. No big deal, right? On this box was the label, "Failures." He opened it. I couldn't watch. Now, he would see. He would see every time I'd hurt someone, every time I'd cursed someone under my breath, every time I'd let down myself and others, every time I'd sinned in my heart and with my hands...every one was in that box. I know, because I'd been through them over and over and over again.
And now, he'd seen them. He'd seen my room. He'd seen everything. There was no way he was going to stay, now that he knew how much work it was going to be.
He beckoned for me to come next to him, to where he was now sitting. He pulled out a failure and showed it to me. I choked back tears...I remembered that one as if it was yesterday. In fact, the page on which it was written was tear-stained, crumpled, and covered in shame. I had tried to throw it away many times before, but never could. It always ended up back in my box. Every. Single. Time. Throwing it away was pointless. Forgetting, impossible.
He then opened the large black sack, that he had carried in with him. I had forgotten about it until now.
"May I?" he asked.
"Oh you don't understand. I've tried...it never works."
He just grinned, crumpled the page, and tossed it in there. He didn't get it, did he? I opened my box, to show him that it would still be there, but when I looked for it, I discovered it wasn't. Stunned, I then opened his sack, to pull it back it. It wasn't there either.
"What...what's going on? How did you do that?"
"Do you remember that conversation, when I asked if you'd trust me?"
I nodded.
"Well, then, trust me."
I choked back tears as he pulled out another. This memory was more painful, the failure more apparent. We read over it and once again, he crumpled it up and tossed into his sack. Once again, it simply disappeared. Memory after memory, failure after failure went into that sack, and disappeared into the abyss. With each one, I could feel myself getting lighter and growing freer. As we went through them, I noticed, that some of the other piles of things began growing smaller, too. My insecurity pile was no longer as towering, my unhealed hurts were no longer as overwhelming.
Before I knew it, we had been through the whole box. I was unsure how to feel...I felt both exhausted and energized; terrified and terrific; free and frightened. In some ways, I felt frightened by my freedom. I had grown so used to the contents of that box, that now that they were gone, I didn't know what to do or how to feel.
He then turned to me and looked into my eyes--in the serious, probing way that only he can. "It's done," he said, "they're gone. You won't be able to find them again. So, don't try looking, because they won't be there. Forget about them. It's done."
I nodded, unable to speak. I looked around at the room, which was still messy, but different. I could see that the sun was shining through the window, as it set on the horizon. Spring flowers were starting to spring up outside that I hadn't noticed before.
Then he spoke again, lightly this time, his face breaking into a huge grin. He leaned in close and whispered, "And guess what? You're still my favorite."
I tried to ignore the reeking and rotting mounds of junk--boxes filled with random trinkets, meals that never got finished, trophies from preschool, yesterday's homework. Half of the room was enclosed in a curtain--well, a sheet, that is--to make it look like less of a chaotic mess. It was the same with the piles, they were covered in various colored sheets, so that you couldn't really see what was underneath. Nevertheless, each sheet was labeled, so that I had an idea of what was there. Yes, this was my junk room. The room no one EVER came in. At least, no one ever had.
As I sat in the middle of my disastrous--yet oddly comfortable--room, I thought about what I'd gotten myself into. It had started with a conversation I'd had earlier that day, a conversation with a very dear friend. My friend had asked about this room of mine, that I never let anyone enter. I'd talked about it many times before--often flippantly, as if it wasn't a big deal. But there were a few times that I'd mentioned it not so flippantly. And he'd noticed. He tends to notice stuff like that. So, he brought it up. He asked if he could come see it. And if I'd wanted, he could help me clean it.
"Oh no." I'd responded, "You wouldn't possibly want to go in there."
"I think I would," He'd responded.
"But it's a mess! I mean...believe me when I say, it's a disaster."
"Oh, I believe you. I still want to come." Then--teasing, "you'll still be my favorite." He's been saying that to me for as long as I can remember. He says it whenever he's talking about someone he really likes...and he makes a point to always say it to me. But if I let him into that room, things might change.
I tried to convince him to give up on the idea, but when he gets an idea in his head, it's really hard to get it out. And somehow--after a momentary lapse of reason--I'd agreed. I'd agreed to let him in. Feeling sick to my stomach, I got up and paced, and attempted to make clean. But it was useless. Even if I managed to get all the trash out, there was still the matter of the broken rafters, the sagging walls, and the boarded up windows...not to mention the bathroom. We're not even going there.
And then, the sound that I had been dreading.
Knock. Knock.
Maybe if I waited, he would change his mind. Maybe he'd think I wasn't here. Maybe...
Knock. Knock.
Reluctantly I moved towards the door. "What am I doing?" I think to myself, "Surely this isn't necessary. He'll never want to be with me once he sees this. He'll hate me. If I let him in, he's just going to leave. He'll..."
Knock. Knock.
Gulp.
I open the door.
And there...there he is. And he is smiling. Oh that smile. Now I remembered, that smile was the whole reason I'd agreed to let him come. When I see that smile, I go senseless. In one hand he was holding a large black sack. With the other, he reached out and grabbed my hand, as if to assure me that everything was going to be okay. Then, he entered. He looked at the catastrophe. I mean, really looked at it. He walked around, perusing the whole thing.
And then he did something that I really didn't expect him to do. He began uncovering the piles. He pulled off the sheet "Busyness" to reveal a pile of loneliness and an old dresser whose drawers were overflowing with dreams I'd tried to forget. He pulled off "False Confidence" to reveal box after box of insecurity. He stripped off the one labeled, "Happy." Underneath were all sorts of sorrows and unhealed hurts, along with mounds of dirty gauze and band-aids that I'd used to cover up old wounds. Problem is, most of those wounds never fully healed...so the pile of band-aids just keeps growing.
With each pile I grew increasingly uncomfortable. And then he went to the side of the room that I was hoping he wouldn't--the curtain.
"No...please." I thought, "Anything but that."
If he went in there, he would see the one thing that I would worked so long and hard to hide. I hated--nay despised--this part of the room with an intense passion. Nevertheless, I couldn't get away from it. Going in there was like this neurotic compulsion for me--it was the only part of the room that was at all neat. Probably, because this was where I had spent the most amount of time...and now...now he was going to see it.
He looked long at hard the curtain. This curtain was the prettiest of them all and gave some semblance of order and beauty to the room...or so I told myself. It was labeled, "Perfection." He slowly but surely pulled it back to reveal just one old cardboard box, bland and boring. No big deal, right? On this box was the label, "Failures." He opened it. I couldn't watch. Now, he would see. He would see every time I'd hurt someone, every time I'd cursed someone under my breath, every time I'd let down myself and others, every time I'd sinned in my heart and with my hands...every one was in that box. I know, because I'd been through them over and over and over again.
And now, he'd seen them. He'd seen my room. He'd seen everything. There was no way he was going to stay, now that he knew how much work it was going to be.
He beckoned for me to come next to him, to where he was now sitting. He pulled out a failure and showed it to me. I choked back tears...I remembered that one as if it was yesterday. In fact, the page on which it was written was tear-stained, crumpled, and covered in shame. I had tried to throw it away many times before, but never could. It always ended up back in my box. Every. Single. Time. Throwing it away was pointless. Forgetting, impossible.
He then opened the large black sack, that he had carried in with him. I had forgotten about it until now.
"May I?" he asked.
"Oh you don't understand. I've tried...it never works."
He just grinned, crumpled the page, and tossed it in there. He didn't get it, did he? I opened my box, to show him that it would still be there, but when I looked for it, I discovered it wasn't. Stunned, I then opened his sack, to pull it back it. It wasn't there either.
"What...what's going on? How did you do that?"
"Do you remember that conversation, when I asked if you'd trust me?"
I nodded.
"Well, then, trust me."
I choked back tears as he pulled out another. This memory was more painful, the failure more apparent. We read over it and once again, he crumpled it up and tossed into his sack. Once again, it simply disappeared. Memory after memory, failure after failure went into that sack, and disappeared into the abyss. With each one, I could feel myself getting lighter and growing freer. As we went through them, I noticed, that some of the other piles of things began growing smaller, too. My insecurity pile was no longer as towering, my unhealed hurts were no longer as overwhelming.
Before I knew it, we had been through the whole box. I was unsure how to feel...I felt both exhausted and energized; terrified and terrific; free and frightened. In some ways, I felt frightened by my freedom. I had grown so used to the contents of that box, that now that they were gone, I didn't know what to do or how to feel.
He then turned to me and looked into my eyes--in the serious, probing way that only he can. "It's done," he said, "they're gone. You won't be able to find them again. So, don't try looking, because they won't be there. Forget about them. It's done."
I nodded, unable to speak. I looked around at the room, which was still messy, but different. I could see that the sun was shining through the window, as it set on the horizon. Spring flowers were starting to spring up outside that I hadn't noticed before.
Then he spoke again, lightly this time, his face breaking into a huge grin. He leaned in close and whispered, "And guess what? You're still my favorite."
Isaiah 43:18
Forget the former things; do not dwell on the past. Behold, I am doing a new thing. Now it springs up, do you not perceive it?
Psalm 103:12
As far as the east is from the west, so far has he removed our transgressions from us.
2 comments:
Beautifully written! Let's all invite Him in for that kind of cleansing.
Love this Katelyn- totally goes with everything we've been talking, praying about. :) I'm glad I'm still His favorite too. :)
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