The House of Both
My feet fall into the cadence of the music I have playing while I go for my morning run. The lilting voice declares she will boldly go into the house of grief. The words of this song have been playing on repeat in my mind for several days now. I’ve needed them. This week the world’s brokenness seems louder, sharper, and closer. Many of those near and dear to me are suffering deeply. Unfortunately, this house of grief isn’t an unfamiliar place. Today, as I imagine it, I find myself wondering if I can actually approach it with boldness akin to what the song declares.
I hesitate at the door, far from courageous. To be honest, I want to turn and run. Before I do, my mind flashes to the countless times I have stood in this very place the past few years, all the grief I have had to embrace within those walls and I remember that Jesus has been with me every single time as I crossed the threshold into that space. But even armed with the weight of His faithfulness, I feel weak and cowardly, not bold. I do not want to be here… again. Can I sit with others in their sorrow? Can I allow others to sit in sorrow with me?
Forget boldly. Today I have to decide, am I willing to enter at all?
The song ends and the very next one tells me I am safe to hope. What a joyful sentiment. You’d think since I desire to flee from the house of grief, entering into the house of hope would be easy. But it is not. Less than an hour ago I was lying in bed, chatting quietly with my dear husband. Our innocent exchange turned frustratingly dark as his words began to betray the fact he was stuck in a loop of anxiety instigated by an OCD trigger from the night before. I grew silent, knowing logic is futile and reassurances only feed the disorder. I feel as though I have so little to offer in these moments. A few tears slipped out as I recognized I didn’t even know who I had been comforting: my husband or this intruder, OCD? After a long pause he whispered, “I’m sorry my mind is sick. I didn’t want this for you.”
Now I stand before the house of hope. I have been here before as well. Is it safe to hope as the voice suggests?Am I willing to open this door? I realize the singer is only echoing another voice, one much closer and familiar, one who knows my name. Yet, fear, loss, doubt, trauma: they make walking into the house of hope feel like I am walking into the house of grief. Today, both doors feel equally dangerous.
I’m beginning to wonder if they’re the same place.
The house of both.
