Your life is like a
house. But not just any old house. In my mind, it has two floors with an open
atrium at the front entrance. When you let
people in, they step under a twenty-foot ceiling with a humble chandelier
above them. Twin stairs wrap the opposing
walls that introduce themselves to the guest on either side, but only for show. They inform the guests that there’s more to
the house than meets the eye, but no one is really allowed upstairs. On the right and left of the vestibule are
matching living rooms that are decorated to the owner’s taste: some with many
books like a library, others with sports posters and factual statistics kept on
hand to compliment a conversation. Most
people keep the front part of the house immaculately clean and tidy,
accompanied by a well-practiced smile.
After all, almost anyone can come into the foyer.
The back rooms on
the first floor are a little more difficult to get to. A simple inquiry is usually all it takes to
gain access. One of the back corners is
reserved for the owner’s favorite kitchen style; mine is half-Italian,
half-Mexican. The mood is set with low
lights, appropriate restaurant décor, and a well-worn wooden table with many
marks and character. On the wall hang a
plethora of memories that are blurry at first, but come alive during the course
of a meal. For some, the best part is sharing
a cigar afterward and simply lingering with a full stomach. (I don’t smoke, but if I did, it would be a
cigar after a meal with close friends.)
The back hallway
is lined with pictures of friends.
Underneath each picture is a list of pertinent information like how we
met, family connections, interests and preferences, and the like. They always seem to be moving and rearranging
themselves in an unkept fashion, with no real rules to follow. But the ones closest to the kitchen are
always more familiar. The other back corner
room is another hang out place that is different for each owner. There’s nothing significant about it,
though. Sometimes it’s the catch-all
room.
Upstairs is where
all the important rooms are kept. No one
goes up here except the owner, who decorates each room according to what is most dear. For me, my three kids have separate rooms
filled with laughter, tears, facial expressions, and moments that look like a
bed, dresser/mirror, and night stand. Since my
guests can’t go into these rooms, I can sometimes bring an item down to the kitchen like show and tell, if I can get my words just
right. No one seems to appreciate those
unique antiques like I do, though. My kids’
rooms seem to be growing with more and more collectibles. (I collect things from my extended family and really close friends in other rooms too.)
At first, my wife had
her own room on the second floor. But
her room kept expanding disproportionately to the house until she became part of
the house itself. Now, she’s like a musical color that has invaded every room, on every wall. There is no space in my house where she isn’t
represented in some way. Even in the most
hidden room of all; the center room.
Imagine a ten-foot
by ten-foot square center of the house from top to bottom. It is enclosed; no doors, no windows, yet you
can see every part of the house from inside this center room. It’s almost like the walls are translucent,
but only one-way. (My center room is
red, because it’s the inside of my heart.)
There’s an old, cozy couch in here next to a stereo system that blares
random music on its own, and is often stuck on repeat for hours. I can detect the health of this room by the vibrancy and brightness
of it's red. Most of the time it pulses
vividly to the rhythm of whatever is playing through the dancing speakers. But other times it can get pretty dark. Not pitch black, but like a flicker every now
and again that could last an hour if I’m not paying attention.
Guests rarely get
a glimpse of what goes on in this room.
After forty years of managing this house, I’ve gotten pretty good at
keeping the front rooms clean and the back kitchen stocked with the necessary
items; like a healthy supply of honey-buttered biscuits. Everyone likes honey-buttered biscuits. Some people would rather show their guest out
of the house cordially if things got too close and personal, but I like it my
way better.
There isn’t a cure
for that dark flickering that happens in the center room. Well, there is, but it is extremely invasive and
can take over the whole house if you’re not careful. The trade-off is that your center room will
burn with the brightest red you’ve ever seen!
Of course, Jesus should know how to light a heart on fire because He’s
the one who built everyone’s center rooms.
But Jesus likes to mess with the other rooms in your house, which is why
He is seldom invited in. I’ll tell you
this though: Jesus is the key. Once you let
Him reorganize your house and set it straight, the sky is the limit on upgrades
and square footage. They don’t call Him
the carpenter’s son for nothing!
Still,
some people want Jesus in their house without access to a secret attic space
above. Pain is locked away in there, and
it drips into the other rooms occasionally.
I’m not sure who they think they’re fooling. I tell them, “Dude, Jesus already knows what’s
in that attic whether you hide it from me or not. You might as well give up and give God access
to every part of your heart!” I wonder why they seem fine without a healthy core, but then the music changes and it's somebody else's turn to come in the foyer.
Jesus is still
working on my house. I’ll let Him. I can’t wait to see how it turns out!
