A little bit of an intro into this one. This is a short story I wrote recently. It is filled with motifs, parallelism, quite a few cliff hangers, and layer upon layer of meaning. There are several small details of this story that mean something much deeper than is let on. Also, the house is not the house I wrote about in my previous post. I hope you are left asking questions. Thanks for reading!
I came to the house where I used to play. The door creaked
with age as I entered in, exposing the forgotten walls to the chilly outside
air. Crossing the threshold, my eyes flitted around the stale room as I took in my surroundings. The once
cheerful wallpaper now hung with an eerie disillusionment and abandonment. The
once polished wood chairs and tables were covered with dusty, yellowing sheets.
The portraits that once held wisdom, strength, and inspiration in their eyes
were now only ghosts and shadows of men once great, but now
forgotten. The magnitude of the house as it stood before me, now a home only
for the dead and creeping, swept over me with such a sorrow I had to brace
myself on the mantle place.
As I fought to keep my senses, the memories began to dance
before me and the room was filled again with laughter, color, and life. The
children ran past with ribbons flying behind them and I realized a game of tag
was at hand. I looked to the grimy window sill and saw the cat in the sill and the small rainbows reflected on the wall. The cat lay quietly napping
in the sun and I reached out my hand to touch the rainbows.
The tabby opened its eyes, made a halfhearted, content mewl, and stretched out
its paws before yawning and falling back into a doze.
I heard the call of a warm voice coming from down the hall and
followed after the children who had left their game of tag to answer the sweet
beckon. The voice, soothing like home, seemed to speak within me as if I had
heard it with my heart and responded with my soul. I came to the door of the
playroom where I had seen the children disappear into and stood just outside.
The warm glow of light shone through the crack and I listened curiously to the
hushed giggles coming from inside. Reaching up my hand, I gave the heavy door a
push and walked in.
The room was empty. A draft whispered through my hair,
chilling my face and creeping down the back of my collar. I shivered as I
walked slowly past the toys thrown haphazardly around the room. The stuffed
bears and elephants were remnants of treasured days filled with childlike
imaginations of pirates and mermaids, heroes and damsels, and tea parties in
tall castles. I came to the short, cluttered table where I used to spend hours
lost in the waxy magic of crayons and coloring pages. The yellowed pages lying
beneath scattered crayons were the Picasso's, van Gogh's, Monet's, and Dali's of my
childhood. I reached down and picked up a messy coloring of three lilies
scribbled over in light pink. The tickling aspiration of one day being a great
artist came to the forefront of my mind as the quiet admiration of the masterpiece
filled my heart.
I turned around to the warm, golden light shining forth from
the cracked door across the room. The voice called to the children who were now
at my feet clambering for crayons on the table. Their heads turned toward the
voice and they slowly left behind their creations to follow. I tucked the pink
lilies into my purse and walked through the door, hoping to catch up to the
warm voice and sleepy children.
I entered the room and saw them kneeling beside their beds
with their heads bowed and lips quietly speaking. Their innocent prayers seemed
to radiate up from them and fill the room with the sweet smell of myrrh and
cinnamon. I had the urge to step beside them and listen. I was drawn to the
gentle beauty of the kids, only wanting to hold them close to my heart. I felt
again the tickle of a dream come to memory as I clutched my purse strap in an
effort to keep from weeping. How I had imagined my faith being like theirs:
trusting, simple, carefree, and unrestrained. Faith was such a responsibility,
needing to be groomed regularly to keep from growing stale. I wiped a single
tear from my cheek and reached out to move near the children. But before I
could take the step towards their beds, I heard the voice sing to me from the
hallway. I turned my face towards the light for a moment before glancing back
at the empty bed frames in the gray, cold room.
The singing filled every room with a quiet intensity that
reached crescendo as I neared the kitchen. I stumbled over the tattered rug in
the doorway and caught myself on the center counter of the room. The smell of
baking bread immediately filled my nose, lifting my spirit and making me
realize how hungry I was. As I neared the dining room, an overpowering feeling
of love washed over me, making me excited and sad all at once. I paused, placing
my hand over my heart and felt tears trying to push themselves down my cheeks.
The memory that tickled at the back of my mind was so familiar, but remained in
elusive mystery. Forcing collection of my emotions, I entered the dining
room.
The singing continued as a soft hum that filled my ears with
delight. The voice was everywhere in the room coming from nowhere and having no
beginning or end. I looked to the table and saw a warm, steaming loaf of bread
laid in the center. There were two plates with napkins and two wine goblets
filled with glimmering, crimson liquid. Feeling only welcome, I ripped off a
piece of bread and sat at the table.
Dipping the bread in the dark liquid, I placed it on my
tongue. With a swooping force the elusive memory came back and the overwhelming
sense of loved created a lump in my throat. I saw myself as a child sitting
across the table with an immense peace glowing from her face. The voice so
tenderly whispered to her and with each word her face only became brighter as my thirst for understanding became greater.
The words! I could not hear the words! I so desperately
wanted to hear, but could not find any of my own words to ask. The voice was
there before me, but so completely out of my reach and growing more distant. An
anguished cry escaped my lips and I laid my head on my arms as the tears
streamed from my eyes. The room grew dark and cold again, the smell of bread
disappeared, the singing ceased, and for the first time since entering the
house I felt extremely alone. With my strength sapped and the cold settling
into my bones, it was all I could do to simply sit and cry bitter tears of
betrayal, longing, and homesickness.
Slowly my sobs subsided…
Wasted and empty, I stood up from my chair and got down on
my knees. Clasping my hands, I did the only thing I could: I prayed. With what
words, I cannot recall, but I found them deep within my soul in a dark corner
filled with hurt and brokenness. As I spoke, the taste of the wetted bread once
again danced on my tongue.
I wish I could say the room then grew bright and warm, that
the singing again reached a magnificent crescendo, and in that moment the voice
spoke to me the words I had wanted to hear…but I cannot. After tasting the
bread again, I rose from my humble position and left. I walked towards the
door, grasped onto the mantel place, and paused. I turned around to look one
last time at the house where I played and saw the ghostly portraits, the covered
furniture, and the grimy window.
But among these, in the middle of the floor, was a shiny,
satin, purple…ribbon.
It was in staring at this small piece of ribbon that my
heart knew the words the voice had spoken. Like an unsuspecting guest quietly
entering into a house, the promise and peace of these words entered my heart.
And so I turned and left the same way I had returned—through the
old creaking door.
The Meaning.
The Meaning.
To explain the meaning
behind this story:
The house is not
really a house at all. The house is my own childlike imagination from so long
ago. The house once colorful, now desolate is what growing up has done to many
of our imaginations. The portraits on the wall are saints who once held
inspiration and have grown old and dead in the process of becoming an adult as
well.
Each room represents a
different part of my/your/our childhood we have lost. The first room where the
children are running around playing tag represents the care free fun that has
been lost.
The second room represents
the dreams we have lost. As children we are not afraid to dream big, as I
believed I could be a great, world-renowned artist. Reality and
responsibilities have stopped us from holding on to those dreams we thought
were entirely possible.
The third room where
the children are getting ready for bed represents the childlike faith we have
lost touch with. Faith appears to be something we have to groom and keep alive,
when we are really called to approach the King as children.
The fourth room is more
personal to myself and is the climax of depth and mystery. The fourth room
represents love. This room is where people gather to eat, talk, serve one
another, and be nourished. The bread and crimson liquid are communion, as this
is also where we commune with God and understand His love better. In entering
this room and being reminded of the love Christ whispered to us as children,
the woman in this story is brought to a point of surrender. The only way we can
again hear this whisper is through prayer and humble surrender.
The woman also did not
experience any profound acts of God. This is because many of us have never
experience this type of intervention. More often than not we simply must get up
and walk away with no answers to our questions. However, she did have the taste
of communion on her tongue again, as she recalls the importance of this and
holds on to this small piece of faith.
Finally, the words she
sees being whispered are words that were recently spoken to my own heart as a
reminder. The little girl is being told of her worth. The voice is whispering
to her truths such as “you are worthy of being loved”, “you are precious”, “you
are beautiful”, “you are mine, beloved”, “you are not meant to settle”, “you
are worthy of being pursued passionately and purely”. These enter her heart
just as she entered the house—“Like an unsuspecting guest quietly entering”.
Notice there are never
any adults. Adults are a source of worry for children and do not exist in their
imagination. And the voice is God. He is always there, but never really seen.
He is the ultimate mystery, with no beginning or end.
So there you have it.
You can read this as a surface level ghost story. Or you can read this as a
testimony to yours and my childhood. Or you can read this as story of God’s
love. However you read it, I hope you walk away with questions that keep
nagging you.
