This Old House

This is the tale of brokenness made whole.

We are rooms in a mansion;

each one, a chamber of the heart.

Our innermost beings house great halls and vast parlors,
splendorous bedrooms and towering balconies;

convivial kitchens and tables for dining,

studies and gardens and sunrooms, for shining;

a host of stained glass and spiraling staircases;

all of our deep and beautiful places.

We waltz through our ballrooms

and in tea rooms, delight;

we glow near the windows that stream in sweet sunlight;

we wander the halls,

in wonder and awe -

all is lovely -

with each placement of the feet, each tip of the toe,

our skin feels no splinters; no pain our hearts know.

Without a doubt, worth and art

fill the heart of every house;

yet as you walk the wooden floor,

passing by each bolted door,

you keep them locked

and you don't go in -

in fact, you've never looked inside before.

So you move on, strolling pleasantly o'er cherry planks,

across sturdy oak and maple beams;

all solid, rich, and strong, it seems.

Until you reach a stretch of hall you oddly don't recall;

you stare at the cacophonous sight,

blink, double-take, rub unbelieving eyes,

and draw a quivering breath 'neath the flickering lights;

you see the gaping hole;

in place of proper hardwood, there a chasm stood,

descending in shadow, achingly empty, shrouded in dust;

the remains of the surrounding floor were faded, dull, and dim,

every plank dilapidated, worn rugged and thin.

Then, inching forward, you step on that place in your soul

and it groans, like creaking wood

old, hard, dry

and you know that someday that board will break

and as it crumbles,

you will cry. 

But gradually, painfully, beautifully,

tears, broken floors, healing hands and open doors

will wash the splinters from my spirit

as the storms rage and the rain beats upon this old house

and once again,

my heart will be whole.