Something stirred her.
As she was dragged back into reality once again, the sunlight that streamed through the semi-closed curtains was blinding.
The temptation to roll over and bury her head in the cushioned pillow was overwhelming but she knew she had woken for a particular reason. Something had woken her.
With the little strength she had left running through her, she gently eased herself to a sitting position. Head throbbing, she surveyed her surroundings.
Grimly noting the fact that all were empty, she counts the line of glass bottles on the dresser.
Eleven.
Her gaze is then drawn to the seven flattened cans, tossed in a pile in the centre of the room.
She does her best to avoid the putrescent circle of the previous night’s contents in the corner of the room but the aroma has other ideas.
Head still pounding, she stands and decides to fetch a glass of water. But then she sees it.
The table.
The table that is littered with bills, bank statements, an eviction notice and The Letter that she can’t bring herself to open because she already knows exactly what it says.
Gaze transfixed on The Letter, falling prey to the constant stabs of pain in her head, empty glass bottles and cans flooding her mind as the memories drown her, she lifts her arms and stares blankly at the coloured contusions running up and down.
In that moment she accepts defeat. She welcomes the consistent knocking at the door from Despair and invites him in.
Her legs buckle and she shatters on the floor. The sobs soon fade to silence; a reflection of the empty, crushing ache within. Silent screams deafen her. Her eyes close. Darkness overcomes.
Knock knock knock…
She flinches.
Knock knock knock…
She opens her eyes in bewilderment. It’s been weeks since she’d had a visitor at the door.
Knock knock knock…
A strengthened curiosity permeates through her as she picks herself up from the floor. She brushes herself down and promptly exits the room.
A light bounce now in her step creates a rhythmic melody as she heads to the door, takes a deep breath, and swings it open.
A man is standing there, only he’s no man she’s ever seen before.
He radiates a glowing warmth that melts away the ice in her heart, so recently chilled by loss.
He smiles at her. An affectionate, genuine, loving smile.
Inside, her walls are crumbling.
Then, he speaks.
“Hello.”
The moment he whispers her name, she falls at his feet and weeps. She can’t help it. She’s been strong for so long, clinging on to a weakening thread.
She’s baffled. She’d spent her whole life building these walls around her to ensure that no-one could climb them and see her for who she really was. But now this man – this unfamiliar yet slightly familiar, stranger – has brought them crashing down with just the gentle whisper of his voice.
He reaches down to her level, to where she’s at, and embraces her. He holds her in his arms as the tears fall. The deep pain and anguish that have been hiding in the depths of her resonate through each sob. Every tear released flows from the ocean of pain deep within.
She clings to him as he begins to whisper how much he loves her. Once the tears have resided, she leans back, embarrassed about what happened.
But he only smiles adoringly at her.
Eyes twinkling, he glances at the outside of the house and admires the delicately created handiwork. She had only recently finished giving the house an extra coat of pain to make it look that little bit more appealing.
The windows were washed and cleaned, the porch and driveway swept clean of gathering leaves and the wild plants and shrubbery had been neatly pruned. Even the cracks in the path demonstrated an afternoon of weeding having taken place.
“I have to say,” he says, casting his gaze at the freshly painted house, “I’m impressed with what you’ve done with the place.”
She absently wipes her nose with her arm and panics when she sees the colours that scream to be noticed. Quickly, she moves her arms behind her back but she can’t tell if he saw or not.
Suddenly, he holds her gaze. “I’ve been knocking on your door for a while now. Are you going to let me in?”
He says her name again and she shivers as a wave of awe sweeps over her. But then she remembers the state of the house inside. She thinks back to the events of the previous night. And the night before that. She can feel the weight of the broken and shattered shards of her life behind her, pressed against the door.
That’s why she put so much effort into fixing up the outside of the house – so that no-one would catch a glimpse of what it was really like beyond the door.
She can’t let him see how filthy and muddled she is. She hesitates and takes her eyes away from his, thinking purely about those eleven bottles and seven cans.
All of a sudden he holds out his hand to her. His kind eyes are kind. Loving. Knowing.
He knows what’s on the other side of the door. She can see it written clearly across his face. And yet his hand is still there; still open; still waiting for hers.
He knows what’s inside but he still wants to come in anyway.
“How about we go in together?” he suggests. A lump forms in her throat. She swallows.
Teary eyed, she looks at him through the curtain of tears that she tries to draw shut. She looks at his hand, so open and inviting. She turns around and looks through the door to the memories on the other side.
So broken and raw.
Mind already made up, she places her hand – her broken life – in his and they go inside together.
Revelation 3:20
As she was dragged back into reality once again, the sunlight that streamed through the semi-closed curtains was blinding.
The temptation to roll over and bury her head in the cushioned pillow was overwhelming but she knew she had woken for a particular reason. Something had woken her.
With the little strength she had left running through her, she gently eased herself to a sitting position. Head throbbing, she surveyed her surroundings.
Grimly noting the fact that all were empty, she counts the line of glass bottles on the dresser.
Eleven.
Her gaze is then drawn to the seven flattened cans, tossed in a pile in the centre of the room.
She does her best to avoid the putrescent circle of the previous night’s contents in the corner of the room but the aroma has other ideas.
Head still pounding, she stands and decides to fetch a glass of water. But then she sees it.
The table.
The table that is littered with bills, bank statements, an eviction notice and The Letter that she can’t bring herself to open because she already knows exactly what it says.
Gaze transfixed on The Letter, falling prey to the constant stabs of pain in her head, empty glass bottles and cans flooding her mind as the memories drown her, she lifts her arms and stares blankly at the coloured contusions running up and down.
In that moment she accepts defeat. She welcomes the consistent knocking at the door from Despair and invites him in.
Her legs buckle and she shatters on the floor. The sobs soon fade to silence; a reflection of the empty, crushing ache within. Silent screams deafen her. Her eyes close. Darkness overcomes.
Knock knock knock…
She flinches.
Knock knock knock…
She opens her eyes in bewilderment. It’s been weeks since she’d had a visitor at the door.
Knock knock knock…
A strengthened curiosity permeates through her as she picks herself up from the floor. She brushes herself down and promptly exits the room.
A light bounce now in her step creates a rhythmic melody as she heads to the door, takes a deep breath, and swings it open.
A man is standing there, only he’s no man she’s ever seen before.
He radiates a glowing warmth that melts away the ice in her heart, so recently chilled by loss.
He smiles at her. An affectionate, genuine, loving smile.
Inside, her walls are crumbling.
Then, he speaks.
“Hello.”
The moment he whispers her name, she falls at his feet and weeps. She can’t help it. She’s been strong for so long, clinging on to a weakening thread.
She’s baffled. She’d spent her whole life building these walls around her to ensure that no-one could climb them and see her for who she really was. But now this man – this unfamiliar yet slightly familiar, stranger – has brought them crashing down with just the gentle whisper of his voice.
He reaches down to her level, to where she’s at, and embraces her. He holds her in his arms as the tears fall. The deep pain and anguish that have been hiding in the depths of her resonate through each sob. Every tear released flows from the ocean of pain deep within.
She clings to him as he begins to whisper how much he loves her. Once the tears have resided, she leans back, embarrassed about what happened.
But he only smiles adoringly at her.
Eyes twinkling, he glances at the outside of the house and admires the delicately created handiwork. She had only recently finished giving the house an extra coat of pain to make it look that little bit more appealing.
The windows were washed and cleaned, the porch and driveway swept clean of gathering leaves and the wild plants and shrubbery had been neatly pruned. Even the cracks in the path demonstrated an afternoon of weeding having taken place.
“I have to say,” he says, casting his gaze at the freshly painted house, “I’m impressed with what you’ve done with the place.”
She absently wipes her nose with her arm and panics when she sees the colours that scream to be noticed. Quickly, she moves her arms behind her back but she can’t tell if he saw or not.
Suddenly, he holds her gaze. “I’ve been knocking on your door for a while now. Are you going to let me in?”
He says her name again and she shivers as a wave of awe sweeps over her. But then she remembers the state of the house inside. She thinks back to the events of the previous night. And the night before that. She can feel the weight of the broken and shattered shards of her life behind her, pressed against the door.
That’s why she put so much effort into fixing up the outside of the house – so that no-one would catch a glimpse of what it was really like beyond the door.
She can’t let him see how filthy and muddled she is. She hesitates and takes her eyes away from his, thinking purely about those eleven bottles and seven cans.
All of a sudden he holds out his hand to her. His kind eyes are kind. Loving. Knowing.
He knows what’s on the other side of the door. She can see it written clearly across his face. And yet his hand is still there; still open; still waiting for hers.
He knows what’s inside but he still wants to come in anyway.
“How about we go in together?” he suggests. A lump forms in her throat. She swallows.
Teary eyed, she looks at him through the curtain of tears that she tries to draw shut. She looks at his hand, so open and inviting. She turns around and looks through the door to the memories on the other side.
So broken and raw.
Mind already made up, she places her hand – her broken life – in his and they go inside together.
Revelation 3:20
