Standing, because there's no room to sit.
I am surrounded by stacks and piles. Boxes and folders rise as towers behind me; at my feet sit milk crates filled haphazardly with thoughts equally as random.
Light seeps through cracks, and Wind whistles through even the smallest of crevices.
This room did not use to be full.
It was not so long ago when it was all but empty.
The emptiness had not satisfied. The emptiness had caused my passion and desire to echo off vaulted ceilings. Light had cast its way through paned windows and revealed only dust. Empty was not fulfilling.
It was not so long ago when someone was sent to my door. Knocking, a boy with a beard had appeared at the threshold. Boxes in hand he introduced himself, slowly handing me the parcels wrapped in recycled, brown paper.
The reality of grace, the concept of redistribution, the art of simplicity, and a demeanor of selflessness were wrapped in the boxes he brought. He helped me unwrap them, explaining each as we tore away the paper together.
Soon he left. Leaving the gifts with me. The harsh echo in my room was softened and shadows were cast as the Light found something to make contact with.
Occasionally I would walk to the door of my room and open the door -- just a crack. Just beyond my room there was a lot of noise. So much color. Heavy weight and deep texture. Light shone in the world outside my door. And I was lured. Beckoned.
It was not long until I threw the door wide open. Propped its heaviness open with one of the boxes I'd been given. I spent my days sitting on the threshold. Listening. Reaching, with such a short arm span, to touch what lay beyond.
My heart inside my chest swelled each day. The edges of my mind grew -- adapting. Others came to my door, handing me bags and boxes and crates. Wind caressed my face, I recognized Light, and was overwhelmed by Truth, which was handed to me in the form of Resurrection. Salvation.
Sometimes I would venture outside my room. A collector, I never came back empty-handed.
Coping skills. Conflict management. Verbal deescalation. Ethics. Leadership. Discernment. Healing. Prayer. Motivation.
Each parcel found its way into my room. I was accumulating beauty. I was handed a bowl filled to the brim with learning and the heart in my chest continued to grow.
Light had a voice. Wind had a face. And I became familiar with both. Light called my name and one day, Wind swept me to the other side of the world.
Back to my room I brought bigness and drums. I painted a mural of a white dove across my wall and was introduced to Fire. I was re-introduced to holy. I became reacquainted with spirit.
It was not long before my room was filled with the same color, weight, texture, and noise as the world beyond. The spirit inside of me knew this was how it was meant to be. The lines, the boundaries, between my room and the world were blurred. Bigness was edging in.
My favorite sound was one I learned to call laughter. And though it was very rarely my own, my room was filled with its sound.
There were days when I didn't see Light, however. Nights when Wind didn't come. Fire seemed elusive, but I learned if I sat long enough Holy would come.
At my feet lay bags full of humility. I had shouldered a pack filled with with intervention. Someone had given me a hat of perspective. And a heavy necklace of loneliness.
The best days I spent in the world were the ones when Light beckoned me out. As I rose in the mornings, and the wind would urge me out the door, I encountered newness and the very bigness which was edging into my own space.
It was not so long ago when I folded a few things into a shoulder bag and walked out of my room.
All because I had stumbled on a notebook in my room. It had the appearance of being old. As if, perhaps, it had been there from the beginning. From the days of emptiness and dust.
Mission was scrawled across the front. In writing, which was not my own.
At the top of the first page was written a small word: calling.
But before reading the rest, I left the room.
The Light of the world was calling me. Surely. To leave the room behind. All the things I had accumulated and gained over the past few years were not important, were they? Surely not. My mission was to go. To walk away. My calling was to leave the room.
I stepped out. And my every sense was overwhelmed. My nose was filled with the spices of Cambodia. My ears, the drums of Africa. My feet were covered with the dust of Romania. My chest couldn't withstand the swelling of my heart.
It wasn't long before the self I was began to pour out. Scattered like seeds on the wind. Like water, cast from the sprinkler. My feet were heavy, my eyes fixed on Light -- which, unlike I had imagined, was everywhere. There was not a place I turned, not a corner I searched, which did not contain It. Wind rushed under my feet and through my hair so I could not even know from which way It came or to where It was going.
I had left the door to my room propped open. As I looked over my shoulder I saw Light pouring out of the perimeters of my space. Wind caused the curtains I had hung on the window to flutter. And from the depths of the room I could hear the echoes of laughter.
The voice of Light was what called me back.
The familiar face of Wind waited by the door, hovering over my box of prayer, which I had used as a doorstop.
I dropped the heavily weighted bag of intentions I was carrying and I ran. My legs pumped and lungs filled with Light and Wind as I drew closer and closer to the place glory was dwelling.
I fell to my knees just inside my room.
The hum of the world still tickled my ears. My hands were dirty and my back was tired. Slowly I raised my head. Oh so faintly, then, Light came.
In the quietest of hushing sounds.
Come to Me.
I breathed deeply and stood up cautiously.
It was not long before I realized I could barely even enter my own room. For all that I had gathered. For all that I had accumulated.
Shhh.
I am standing in a room.
Standing, because there's no room to sit.
I am surrounded by stacks and piles. Boxes and folders rise as towers behind me; at my feet sit milk crates filled haphazardly with thoughts equally as random.
Light seeps through cracks, and wind whistles through even the smallest of crevices.
This room did not use to be full.
It was not so long ago when it was all but empty.
The emptiness had not satisfied. The emptiness had caused my passion and desire to echo off vaulted ceilings. Light had cast its way through paned windows and revealed only dust. Empty was not fulfilling.
The hushing sound finds its way to me again.
What I know as spirit begins to whisper. About my real mission. About love. About rest and quietness. About a new gift. About preparation.
Make room.
What fills my room are gifts. Skills. Abilities. Faults and flaws of humanity.
My arms are aching to stretch now. To open wide and be absorbed by Wind. To soak in Light. I am ready to receive this gift, which is being sung over me in the quietest of songs.
I know then this room is mine -- this room is my sanctuary.
Again I am filled with a hushing sound.
Consumed by a well of deepest Truth: what fills my room is meant to be there. Indeed, Holiness has created space for it, purpose for it.
I have given you what you need. Do not walk away from My gifts.
The hushing sound pulls me to my knees again.
Come. Let's make room.
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