I
took one last look inside the room, locked the
door securely, and slowly walked away.
I
was a young Christian. I had all the earmarks
of spiritual immaturity and I knew it. I was
still living on the milk of the Word but
longed for its meat. The old adage, “You
can’t expect new Christians to act like
seasoned Christians” gave me minimal comfort
at best.
Inside the locked room of my heart was
something I had held precious for years. It
comforted me, sustained me, thrilled me, gave
me undiluted pleasure. But I shared its
secrets with no one.
To
me it represented something so ethereal yet so
enduring that I framed poetry around it, set
it to music and replayed it in the chords of
my mind during long nights of restless sleep.
For
years I had visited this room, lingering as
long as I could, inhaling the familiar
fragrance, touching the fraying fabric,
polishing the lovely patina. After satisfying
myself that this part of my past was secure
and still sacred, I would slowly let myself
out, look back with longing, and leave the
door ajar for easy reentrance.
It
was the one place where no one was invited
because no one would understand. But I knew
that as a follower of Christ. I would one day
need to surrender its ownership to my Lord.
I
tried visiting the room less frequently. I
tried making excuses to myself for not going
in. I tried imagining the room had diminished
in importance to me. But I still visited the
room of my heart almost daily and basked in
its familiar pleasure.
One
night, with my husband beside me and my sons
asleep in the next room, I heard the gentle
voice of the Spirit: “It’s time now to
lock the room, to put it behind you, to make
it a thing of your forever past.”
I
argued. I begged and reasoned. “But, Lord,
there is nothing wrong with that room. It
isn’t hurting anyone because no one knows
it’s there. It represents a time in my life
that was beautiful and fulfilling, that held
promise. I’ve loved that small, private room
for many years. To ask me to close the door
and lock it is to blot out a sacred and
beautiful part of my past.”
“My
child,” He said, “To everything there is a
season. There is a time to let go. This is
your time.”
In
obedience, I walked through the recesses of my
heart, entered the familiar room, took one
last lingering look, and quietly closed the
door behind me. Turning the key, I felt the
hand of God on mine. Together, we locked the
door. Forever.
