I trek upstairs and while things look a bit more lived in up here, they are still pleasant, comfortable, clean, and not pretentious. But if I travel around the curve that leads from the master bedroom, I enter into chaos. I enter into The Room That Is Not Yet Done.
It is the place where household management, art, and my husband's music collide and the collision is not pretty. Someday, we will have enough money to turn the room into what we want, and because that day is not today, I choose to ignore it. I ignore the cluttered, confused room that is not suitable for eyes other than mine.
As I finish up my mental tour, God asks me to tour the confines of my heart. He leads me by the hand and we travel through all those public places, the rooms where people regularly reside and enter in with welcome. We travel into the rooms where I only let in a few trusted people, but I feel as though God is satisfied with the state of these dwelling places. And then, then, we get to The Room That Is Not Yet Done.
We stand outside the door, the door that is covered in "caution" tape, whose handle is hot to the touch, whose lock is big and to which I only hold the key. And He asks me the unthinkable.
Will you let me into this space, this Room That Is Not Yet Done?
And I stand there silently, I shake my head, a defiant "No!" for this is the uncomfortable place where chaos and confusion run rampant and I like to think that my life is order and chaos and peace.
He doesn't open the door, but somehow, He shows me what I look like when I operate inside this room, this Room That Is Not Yet Done, and I see myself small and cowering in a corner, the darkness threatening to overcome me. I am tied up in rope, but there is no one else in the room that is my captor, no one tightening the noose. But, oh yes, there is myself. I am the one who keeps the ropes tight out of self-protection, out of fear, out of comfort because this pain is known.
But somehow, all I can imagine is the pain that will come with the unleashing, my sore arms so taught, so tight, so unused to being able to bend and flex and lengthen. I think of my tight runner's body before I knew yoga. I think of the handcuffs around the accused and how he rubs his wrists after the release. There is still pain, but it is the pain of the body stretching for freedom. A pain born out of yearning and reaching. Quite different from the pain of being encased in rope.
And so the question still hangs in the air. Will you let me into this space, this Room That Is Not Yet Done? Will you let Me cut the rope that binds you? Will you let me unwind you, carry you through this pain of release? Will you trust me to bring wholeness to your heart?
I see that small girl rise. I see the glint of the scissors raised. I see a small hand reaching for the door. I breathe in and slowly turn the handle.
Will you turn the handle, too?