Of Hand Hewn Wood

I am alone in a small, dimly lit room with stone walls. I sit with my back against the only door. One locked door. One huge, heavy, depressingly locked door. There are no windows... no glimpses of what lies beyond this room. I only see this place.

Slowly, I twist my body and press my shoulder and face against the smooth, solid door. The massive planks are perfectly hand hewn wood and held together with... well, I don’t know what holds them together, but I know what they hold in. Me. 

I long to run my fingers along the door... understand it... figure it out, but my hands are wrapped across my torso and held there by thick canvas sleeves and leather straps. I know I need this jacket, but I hate it! I pull and tug for a moment. Useless. 

Taking a deep breath, I press my face harder against the door. While I can’t see anything or hear anything, I can feel it. I know deep down that there is something there on the other side. Something good. Something perfect. Yet, I can’t imagine it.

As I lean my back against the door once again, I gaze around the room at the hard, cold stones that hold me in this place. All over the walls there hang parchments of paper. They all say different things. They change constantly. Everyday.

So many of the parchments say lovely things. It is as though they sing to my soul. They make me feel alive in this place. Yet, there are some that bring restlessness. They even seem to be written in my very own handwriting. Sadly, I am often drawn to these. 

I roll onto my knees and stagger as I stand to my feet. One of these parchments has caught my eye. One of those. It’s about 3 inches above my head and it reads, “Flip me over for a chance to move on.” I can’t reach it. I struggle and fight, because... because... 

I stare at the cruel words. I have no idea why I fight. I know it does me no good. It only makes me feel helpless. How can I not try, though? I know there is something beautiful on the other side of that door. I want to move on from this place... this hard place.

My eyes shift to another parchment that reads, “Fear not, for I am with you.” My soul says, "Yes." I relax.  Another one reads, “Wait for Me, be strong, and let your heart take courage; wait for Me!” My soul says, "Yes." I wait and I am encouraged. Peace. But then...

Taking a few needy steps to my left, I read another short set of words. “Find the loose stone.” Shallow hope and deep anxiety fill my heart. It’s here! Can I find it? I search intently. I prod at stones with my elbows until my bones and my heart are bruised. Useless.

Now, the tears come like they always do. Why did I let go of the peace? I sink onto the stone floor. My arms and chest fold onto my knees. Sobs wrench my frame. Breaths are harsh and staggered. This is where I end and He begins... again. 

One..... two, three.......... four. I count the tears as they drip off my nose and splat against the cool, grey stone. Light from the bulb above reflects off the small puddle they created, and it reminds me of something... the sun. Yes, the Son... I need His light. I need Him more.

I jerk my head up as I hear the door open. “Hi, Mommy! I got a smiley face today!” “Hey, Mom! Are we going anywhere other than home?” “Hey boys! How was your day? Bray, we are going home and You guys need to do your homework, because we have karate in a couple of hours.” I follow the car ahead of me and pull out of the school parking lot toward our house.

They have no clue. They don’t see the wooden door, the stone walls, the canvas sleeves and leather straps, or the parchments. No one really does. Well, just the one Carpenter who made that perfect, massive door. He knows. He sees.