So, before I write write, here’s a little entree. I’ve got “rooms” in my life that have, quite frankly, been filled up with rubbish, toot, baggage, hurt, etc etc. Slowly but surely, I’ve been de-cluttering these “rooms”, not by myself, but with 2 very dear, patient prayer warriors; through our meetings, God is at the heart of my healing. As painful and battling as it has been, it has also been remarkable and pretty wonderful not to have such messy “rooms”. The windows are finally open, the carpets have been cleaned, and the fresh air of God is in the building…
New Rooms
I’ve been doing some decorating.
Some stuff has been ok and not too messy to deal with- only having to take 3 layers of wallpaper off instead of 10.
Then there’s the rooms where I couldn’t even turn the handle- bolted and secured with so many locks that it’s taken crowbars, hammers and a good deal of power to get in.
A dark room, with curtains thick with dust; a glimmer of sunlight drips in the haze. Floor to ceiling junk , boxes, suitcases, manky, unpleasant. Imagine the programmes you see where the owner has filled it with books/paper/stuff they don’t want to get rid of/stuff they hoard. Paper archways, with just enough head height to get under. There’s always the feat that it could give way at any moment.
Could you live like that?
Could you live with the possibility that all this junk could, one day, more than possibly, crash, with you underneath?
So, the cleaning had to commence.
Painful is a word that springs to mind when you are faced with the utter crap, the rubbish that you’ve let build up, clogging up your veins, making it hard to function, getting by by living on the edge of fear and irrationality.
Life is life when you’re teetering, when all you do is smile, I’m ok, I can cope, no, I don’t need any help/it’s all in the past/time to let bygones be bygones.
Easy? No.
And the wretchedness oozes from every pore; shortness of breath, legs that won’t, can’t stop shaking.
The anger that wells up, the indignation, the bruises, just walk away, walk away. But if I walk away then this room will stay just as murky, as horrid, as tiresome.
So, I breathe and muster all my strength against the part of me that wants to run, to hit out, to break the chairs, and I start to move the furniture, cleaning the walls, shaking the curtains, wrenching the old pictures off the wall. This stuff isn’t needed anymore.
Pulling the barbs, the stings out, and letting my Healer replace with love, with His furniture, His way of living. I owe the ruins of my life nothing. I owe My Redeemer everything.
Every breath, every cleansed room, every burst of sun, every open window. Every stripped back wall now painted in radiance. His radiance.
By Reason Of Sanity 