God's Room

At our last church, one of the blessings that arose phoenix-like amidst the ash heap was a women's/mom's group to which I belonged. I was happy to be a part of the group, having never done so before, and it proved to be a great calm during a terrible storm. Once a week, I would walk out of the back door of the rectory, feeling sad and terrified and hurt, trying (in vain) to hold back my tears, futilely scotch-taping my shredded heart back together, wrapped in a stifling blanket of darkness and fear. Once a week, I would enter the church and the feelings would escalate to an almost unbearable level, until I made my way to our meeting place. I walked in and instantly felt that sickly sodden blanket disintegrate as I was welcomed by those dear women with warm smiles, hugs, and understanding love. In those moments I would move between darkness into the presence of God. It was a a beautiful and much-needed thing.

During my brief period of belonging, we were studying a book entitled "Having a Mary Heart in a Martha World" (Joanna Weaver), and while the book primarily focused on transforming our "womanly" need to so often be a frantic Martha into the contemplative Mary -- finding "intimacy with God" in our busy lives, I found that the book spoke to me in many other ways, helping me through the trial that my life had become. There was one particular chapter which blew me away, and I believe this is an image that I will forever cherish and hold close -- an image of God, and more specifically, our relationship with Him. Since the book is packed away somewhere in the attic, I do not have it with me to serve as an accurate reference, but the recollected scenario goes something like this:

So often we feel that when we pray or meditate or search for God, He is simply not there. Silent, aloof, not hearing -- watching, yes, or possibly hearing but ignoring. We search for God but cannot find Him. But picture this: you are in your house, and God is in a particular room. God is always in that room. He sits and waits, watching you run about, grabbing your keys or scrubbing your toilets or rushing in and out the door. He sits and waits, as you run down the hall, rushing past the room without even looking in. He hears you crying out, "Where are you, Lord? Why aren't you listening?" But you see ... he never left. He has always been in that room, waiting for you. Finally, one day, you pause in your mad rushing and look into the room ... and there is God, waiting as He has always done. You enter the room and sit at His feet, or perhaps in a chair pulled up next to Him, or perhaps -- on a particularly bad day - you crawl into His lap. God has always been in that room; He never left. You did.

Those are my own thoughts, my paraphrase, my own recollection of that particular chapter. If I found the book in the attic and re-read it, I might be mortified to see how different it is, but the point is that this is what the chapter said to me. And this is the image -- of God never leaving that room -- that I will forever cherish. Indeed, on my car/prayer rides each day, I often picture God in a room, sitting in a chair, just waiting and forever loving me. Some days I sit at his feet, feeling far too small to be in the presence of my King and Lord. On other days I pull up a chair and sit next to Him, sometimes talking to my Friend or sometimes just being silent, knowing that He already knows what is on my heart. And on still other days -- the bad, dark, painful days -- I run into the room into His outstretched arms, sobbing, crawling into my Abba's lap.

I think it's OK to visualize these kinds of things -- to visualize our relationship with God on some level. And truly, I have come to love that room. My room. Our room.