Finding God in the House 2

This is a continuation of the story in “Finding God in the House.” Reading that post first will provide more meaning for this post.

I had the idea, like a sudden flash of a picture, to revisit the image of the house with the sitting room (See Finding God in the House). In this flash, I saw the old man come out of the house, excited to tell others about the note that he had found. I had followed him out and watched while he shared with a group of people. While he was sharing, the girl came out of the house and approached us. She also seemed quite excited. How interesting it would be to hear the words of both people who had come from the house.

So the next morning during my quiet time, I centered myself and then imagined myself back into the story. I intended to pick up the story where it left off last time and follow the man out of the house. Entering the house, I found the sitting room on the left as before. Feeling a quiet reverence in the room, I entered gently. It was as before, with framed pictures on the fireplace mantel, walls, and table, all adorned with sticky notes. I noticed a note stuck to a picture sitting on the table near me. Drawn to it, I plucked the small paper from the frame and raised it to my eyes. There were only two hand-written words on it. I read them to myself, in a whisper: Trust me.

I looked again at the picture from which I had taken the note. It was blurry and indistinct, so I peered at it more intently, expecting to see some biblical scene to help explain the note. As I continued to stare, the picture came into focus. And there was my surprise. It was my wife and me, taking a selfie in front of our Sprinter van.

I looked at the note again stuck to my finger. Trust me. Then looked again at the picture.

I had been having some questions in my soul of late about how long our life in the van would continue, when we would find our church community, when we would be “planted” somewhere.

Trust me the note said, held between my finger and thumb. Then came the thought: he knew I’d come back and left this here for me to find. He is here in this house. I felt his invitation, tugging at me.

As I stepped out into the foyer, the old man passed me on the right and was exiting by the front door. I had not noticed him in the room, and his quick exit forced a quick decision—follow him out as I had intended, or find the One who had written this note? This was no contest for the heart, and so I turned away from the front door and began slowly making my way down the hall, deeper into the house. There on the left was another room, a warm light coming from its open door. As I stepped around the corner and into the glowing light, a bright fireplace revealed a comfortable-looking study. Two overstuffed wingback chairs faced each other in front of the fire, as if for intimate conversation between friends.

There, sitting in one of the chairs was Jesus. He seemed quite excited to see me, and waved me into the room, beckoning me to sit in the chair across from him.

I hesitated. The intimacy of sitting face to face with Jesus—it seemed too much. I knew things would come to this, but I wasn’t ready. So I withdrew myself from the story. What in me wasn’t ready? Did I feel that I needed to prepare somehow? To have a list of questions at the ready? To make myself more presentable? And yet I know that all such anxieties are self-imposed excuses to avoid his invitation to come closer.