The House Where I Used to Play

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.

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.