I believe that my core, deep inside of me, is meant to be a large, cozy room where all of my needs are met. It is entirely private, and I am safe and content. From infancy to the end of my days, I will live here. I’ve designed the place and filled it with things that I love.
The walls are a sunny cream color, the trim bright white. Warmth radiates from a marble fireplace in the corner, where flames leap from a bed of coals. A crystal vase on the mantle is filled with fresh flowers, usually daisies, red roses, or daffodils. Their sweet fragrance fills the room. Photos of my loved ones decorate empty spaces. It’s a very happy place to be.
A small table is set with a cheery red and white checked tablecloth and silverware. My favorite meals are brought in with astonishing regularity, never too much or too little. The food and drink is mostly healthy—with a few delightful surprises.
When I am ready for bed, a pile of soft pillows is waiting for me. Then I cover myself up with a thick, soft comforter in my favorite color, robin’s egg blue. Every morning when I get up there are plenty of interesting things to do. Amusements reflecting my life stages fill shelves in the corner: blocks, dolls, mystery novels, half-finished craft projects, a book of easy-play songs for the guitar . . . the list continues.
There have always been books, dozens of books. One wall is covered with them. A roll top desk which used to hold my journals, then a typewriter, now holds a computer and all the attachments. A record player used to rest on a table nearby, then an 8 track stereo. Now it holds a speaker attached to my computer, where I can find almost any song ever sung. Right now I hum along to the song, “Blue Skies.”
There is beauty here, and contentment. There is no fear, no lack of safety, no violation. I am protected in the best possible ways. There are big, burly Angels guarding the door to the outside. They are fierce yet benevolent, answering to the Lord of Hosts alone. And best of all, sometimes I can see Jesus himself sitting in a huge, deep green easy chair by the fireplace, his stocking feet kicked up on a footstool, relaxing with me in quiet companionship. Sometimes I sit nearby and he’ll tell me a story. It doesn’t matter if it’s an adventure, a tragedy, a romance, a mystery—he’s a great storyteller. And it’s kind of unnerving, as he tells the stories with such precise detail, such depth, it’s as if he had been there in each place, event and time. I loved it when he would use different voices for each character, whether human or animal, and make me laugh. But sometimes I could not see Jesus in my room and I wondered if he was somewhere close by.
Yet what was meant to be, living in safety and peace, did not continue. Something went very wrong. What happened? Dear God, what happened?
When I look inside now, it is like a war zone. I sit, shell-shocked, in the middle of the ruins of my life. Gone is the structured assurance of happiness, safety, comfort and love. What happened?
It started when I was young. Unsafe people came to visit. They walked through the center of me, loud and unwelcome, saying things that were not true, hurting me, causing damage. It was my parents’ duty to insist that they leave. Yet sometimes they failed to do that. Sometimes they were the ones who hurt me.
I would ask Jesus to help me, to protect me when my parents did not. But he didn’t. Why did he let the abusive ones invade in the first place? Why didn’t he take control and block the door to the core of me? Why didn’t he hurt them and throw them out?
When I got to a certain age, perhaps I could have guarded the door myself. Sometimes I knew who could be trusted and who could not. But sometimes I was confused and made poor decisions. When I let Jake in, my first and only husband, when I let him set up home in my heart, I wonder what Jesus was thinking and feeling. Was there sorrow in His eyes? Were there tears running down his face? He knew the harsh and painful things that would happen in that place. He knew how many years I would allow Jake to stay inside me and hurt me. He knew the exact moment when I would tell my husband to leave.
But Jake did not stay away. Every moment of every day, when I look into my core, Jake is still there. In fact, he looms so large that I cannot see Jesus. Jake is still there, berating me, threatening me, never giving me a moment’s peace.
My core is still a war zone. There is no place of comfort. It is not beautiful anymore. Parts of the walls are missing. There is burnt and scarred wood under my feet, the mattress is ripped and soiled, shards of crystal are swept into the corner. The fire has gone out. I suppose that Jesus is here somewhere—he said that he would never leave me. But I cannot see him. He is certainly not in the deep green, easy chair anymore, relaxing with his feet up. The chair is torn and covered with dust.
Jake’s words are burned into my mind, and I repeat them to myself. I don’t know why I do that, as the words just keep hurting me, over and over. And there are others from my past who talked like him and acted like him. It’s as if they bring all their family and friends to torment me inside, and I hear a loud and overwhelming chorus of condemnation.
Where is Jesus? Where is he? Is he somewhere in my room?
I look around again. No, I do not see him. Yet I remember a scene from long ago. The two of us were sitting on the floor together. I was about seven years old. The light from flames in the fireplace danced on the walls. The glow from a lamp with a beaded shade illuminated the board game that we were playing. I leaned over the game, my hair falling over one shoulder, and considered my next move. Major cities of the world were represented and as we moved our pieces from place to place, Jesus would tell me something about the city and the people who lived there. I loved learning, and just being with him. He knew so much, and always spoke with kindness. But he wasn’t very good at the game; I always won.
In another memory, I was twelve and getting ready to go to an event at school. My light skin was smooth and flawless, but I borrowed some mascara and pink lipstick from my mother’s makeup kit. When I was done, I asked him if he liked my new dress. Its light blue shade brought out the blue in my eyes and it had tucks and ruffles—everything I considered lovely.
“Ah, Lily, you look beautiful,” he said.
I beamed, my cheeks blushing with pleasure. There were so many moments like this. Whenever I turned to him, he was there.
When did that change? When did we grow apart? In my high school years, I stopped valuing his companionship as much. There was a young man I met in my English class. He read sonnets to me and said that I had “fair eyes” and a “sweet mouth.” But he said mean things too, which I chose to ignore. I liked his attention. When I asked Jesus about him, he pointed out the problems and expressed concern. I got really angry and asked Jesus to leave.
That was the first time of many. To his credit, if I asked him to come back, he would, even though I was likely to attack him again. Over the years, as my knowledge of the world grew, I began calling him narrow minded, unloving, punitive, unfair. I even started preferring the intimate friendship of people who didn’t know him at all.
My subsequent unhappy marriage to Jake, such a religious and abusive man, just caused more confusion and anger towards Jesus. Yet Jesus was never very far from my mind; I thought about him and wondered if he still cared about me. It’s been so many years. Is it too late to ask Jesus to come back to me?
Do I truly want him to come back? How can I be sure that he loves me? I think about the ancient stories. What he said and did then was love. It couldn’t have been anything else. What would it hurt to believe that again, to believe that he is willing to meet my needs in a good way? After all, the alternative has been devastating.
Is he here somewhere? It would be nice to talk to him, to have his help . . . and I wonder if he still thinks that I am beautiful.
Jesus, where are you? Are you near? But I don’t hear his reply and feelings of rejection sweep through me again. But surely he must be here. Somewhere. I want him to come.
“Lily,” says a quiet voice. He is here! I turn around. He looks at me with deep sorrow. Tears are in his eyes; they slip down his cheek. He does not make a move towards me and I stand still as well. I do not know what to say or do. At one time, we would have hugged each other with easy familiarity. But it’s been so long since that time. I feel brittle inside—resistant, wary.
“Lily,” he says again. I make myself look into his eyes and he holds my gaze. “What do you want from me?” he asks softly.
Want from you? In spite of myself, bitterness and anger flare up inside of me, and I want to retort, “Does it matter? Why are you even asking me—you’re God, you should know. Where have you been?” It is as if I am young again, but the pain and the bitterness is so much deeper, so much worse.
I shudder from the burn of these acid thoughts and flush under his steady and thoughtful gaze. What do I want from you? Finally I reply, “There are many things.”
“Yes, I know.”
“What are you willing to do?” I ask.
“Whatever you need, Lily. I am here.”
I stand silently and consider his words. I’ve been so angry at him for so many years, so confused. When I was married, Jake would quote the Bible to justify the bad things that he did to me. Even though my mind told me that he was twisting the truth and taking advantage of me, my heart wasn’t sure.
Does Jesus truly love me? But if he doesn’t love me then why is he standing here, right in front of me, saying that he wants to help me?
“I just don’t know what I want…” I say. But then I realize that I do know. I know what I want the most. I want to live safely in my room again, to be whole, in one piece. I want to be sure and certain who I am. I want to feel loved.
“Lily, what do you need?” he asks kindly in a strong, yet very gentle voice.
So I tell him. I want him to restore the place of refuge inside of me. The place of love.
“OK,” he replies.
OK? I look at him, waiting for him to say more, but he does not.
“Will you excuse me for a moment?” he says.
I want to say “No! Don’t leave. You just got here.” But I can’t very well say that to God. So he leaves and I hope that he will come back.
In a moment, he returns. I laugh out loud and he grins at me. He is dressed in a black vest and trousers. A crisp, white shirt, bright red bow tie and shiny black shoes complete his outfit. A white linen towel is draped over his forearm. A huge white button with red letters is pinned to his chest. It says, I AIM TO SERVE. “What would you like me to do, my dear?” he says.
“I have many talents and plan to use every one of them to assist you.” He gets down on his knees and looks under the bed. “Ah, there it is,” he says, pulling out a tool belt. It is filled with a hammer, a level, screw drivers and other necessities. He stuffs the linen towel into his back pocket and fastens the tool belt around his waist. He looks ridiculous, yet doesn’t seem to mind. “My dear, you need someone with carpentry skills, and I just happen to be very good at that sort of thing. Where would you like me to start?”
Still not comprehending, I look at the burnt and scarred wood under my feet, the holes in the walls, the mattress that is ripped and soiled, the dusty, torn easy chair. What is Jesus offering to do? He speaks again.
“You know, Lily,” he says with tenderness. “I’m so glad that you’ve invited me to come back. He steps over to the chair near the fireplace. “I love this chair. It has always been one of my favorite places.”
“Really?” I reply.
“Yes it is. And do you know why?” He doesn’t wait for my answer. “It’s because it is in the center of you.” He releases the clasp on the tool belt and sets it on the floor. “May I sit down?”
“No!” I say. “Let me clean it first.”
“No need,” he replies. Instantly, the dust disappears, the tears mend and the chair is as good as new. He smiles. “May I sit down?” he asks again.
“Yes,” I say, smiling. So he sits.
“Lily, can you see me?”
“Yes,” I say, “I see you.” But in a moment, I cannot. Jake is back. He looms large and angry, and blocks the view. I cannot see Jesus any longer. Jake is wearing a rust colored shirt and khakis, the same outfit he wore the night he raped me. His auburn hair is tousled; his eyes are full of anger and lust. He starts to say something, but I have the sense to say “NO! Don’t speak!”
We face off in silence, my shattered being and his image of rage and betrayal. Normally I would shrink back in fear, but right now I feel more courage and resolve. So I reach out to push him away, but my hand goes right through him. I am shocked. So I reach out again to touch him—with the same results. And I realize, finally, this is not Jake. This is an apparition, a shadow on the wall of my heart. He seems real, but he is not.
“Jesus, are you still here?”
“Yes.”
“How can I get rid of Jake completely—and all the other ones? I want them to leave forever.”
“So do I, Lily.” I can hear the voice of Jesus, but still cannot see him. He continues, “Shadows cannot remain in a place where the light is bright,” he says, then pauses. “Do you want me to fix the light in here, Lily?”
“Yes!” I reply.
He walks past the image of Jake, exits through a hole in the wall and returns with a ladder, which he sets in the middle of the room. Then he disappears again, and returns with a lovely silver chandelier. He holds it up for me to see. There are three rows of lights, each row holding small light bulbs shaped like flames.
“Would you like this, my dear?” he asks.
“Yes! I exclaim with delight. “It’s lovely!” Within moments it is installed.
“Flip the switch,” he tells me, and so I do.
I am ablaze with pure white light. It is all I see and all I feel. It feels wonderful. The menacing image of Jake vanishes. Jesus is sitting in his easy chair again, leaning towards me, inviting further discussion.
I can see Jesus so clearly now. It is so good to see his face again, to look into his eyes. I am still standing.
“Lily?” he says.
“Yes?”
“I still think you’re beautiful.”
My eyes fill with tears. “Thank you,” I reply. Then I ask anxiously, “Will Jake ever come back? And the ones who talk like him and act like him?”
“Lily, sweetheart, that’s up to you. Do you want them to live here again?”
“NO!”
“Then don’t let them back in.”
“But all my walls have holes in them. They can come in any time they want.”
“Then let’s fix the holes,” says Jesus matter-of-factly, standing up and stretching. Then he looks into my eyes again. “Lily, if you let me stay here and work, and let me love you, this won’t take long.” He picks up his tool belt from the floor and straps it around his waist once more.
I look around at this familiar room, in the core of me. Perhaps it is my imagination, but I begin to feel warmth, the kind of warmth that one feels standing by a fireplace. And I think that I hear music playing. It is faint and familiar, echoing from a place deep within.
Jesus is measuring the mantle. Can he hear the music?
“Nice tune,” he says. He catches my eye and smiles at me. “Would you like to dance?”
I smile back, and enjoy the hope that billows up inside of me. But I shake my head no. It’s too soon for dancing. I’m just not ready.
“No thank you,” I reply.
“OK,” he says. “We’ll dance another day.”
All of a sudden I remember the Angels. Are they still outside my door? Surely they are. I don’t think that Jesus goes anywhere without them. But I want to be reassured, so I go and look. Yes, they are here! They are carefully guarding the doors to this sacred spot, the core of me, the place that Jesus loves.
