Posted: July 29th, 2008 |
Filed under: God, life | Tags: faith, sin |
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As the rain turned into hail and the demons were on her tail, she saw the dimly lit light of an obscure little cabin. Not sure if it was friendly but positive it wasn’t worse than her oppressors, she let herself in and stood letting her personal storm drip on the hardwood floor.
No one came to greet her, but the candles, sandwiches and letter told her that the owner knew that someone was coming. Not just ‘someone’ she discovered, but specifically her. Her name was scrawled across the envelope as though written by someone who knew her well. The
‘how?’s weren’t as scary as the ‘who?’s, but both were outside of her mental capacity and she suddenly wished she had someone to lock eyes with at the realization that reality is no longer sitting firm.
A bit like Alice in a place she was sure wasn’t the quintessential wonderland, she opened the note and read it with one eye shut as though it meant that she wasn’t really reading it. ‘Serena,’ it read, ‘you can wait out the storm here. There are sandwiches on the table and a change of clothes on the bed. I’ll be in and out taking care of things. I’ll see you when I see you.’ It was signed, ‘Me,’ as though she should know. I say that for dramatic story telling effect, but the truth is, she did know, she just wasn’t sure she trusted what she thought she knew.
The warmth of the shower eased the knots in her shoulders. The soap in her hair washed out the stench of the oily asphalt that rewarded her wrong turn. How did she happen onto a wrong turn in the first place? And why did it seem that the wrong road was freshly paved, painted and planted just before her arrival as though it knew she was coming? And most confusing, why was this cabin glowing miles down the wrong road with her name written inside its’ walls?
She dressed herself in the clothes that lay waiting for her on the bed. Not a perfect fit and obviously used, they were cozy and clean and still did the trick. Dizzy with drowse, the last thought she had before she sunk in to sleep was that she would unravel the tangles in the morning.
The sun drifted in and fell on the lazy lump she had become. She eased out of bed, only to find that she could hardly move. Every muscle in her body winced in such protest that she knew venturing outside to find her way home would not be a possibility today.
Coffee steamed in a mug on the counter and warm biscuits sat on a plate. Clean clothes waited for her in the bedroom and books waited for her on the shelf.
Day one turned into day four and five and then into what felt like months. She had gained her strength back, but not her ability to trust her sense of direction. The keeper of the house moved in and out undetected whenever she was distracted or sleeping, always leaving her food or clothes or notes.
Simplicity turned into monotony and she began getting frustrated with the elusive keeper of the house who didn’t seem to consider the things that she actually wanted. She struggled with having the urge to be ungrateful when she ate her sandwiches, (always sandwiches!) and on white bread, no less. (Why can’t she have whole grain bread?) Before her wrong turn, she lived in an existence that moved with a bit more ease. Not extravagance, she was not materialistic. However, if she wanted expensive jeans, she could have them, and they would fit like they were made for her. Wheat bread, not white. And organic soaps and lotions, not the cheap stuff that turned up in abundance in the shower.
An ungrateful heart is something she fought against more often than she would like to admit, but, mostly, she fought against boredom and a lack of purpose in the small walls that confined her.