Within the Heart
I walked up to the door and entered without hesitation. It was my own heart, after all. Within, a fire crackled cozily in the hearth, in contrast to the frigid atmosphere on the outside. The warm, welcoming quarters had been swept clean and maintained spotlessly, far better than I could have done on my own. I did, however, remember what it had looked like when I had tried to be the master of my own heart.
There in the far corner, seated in front of a canvas on an easel, was Jesus. He wore a simple white t-shirt and jeans, no shoes. His large, beautiful hands, marred permanently by two scars, delicately wielded a paintbrush with eyelash-like bristles. When I slid the door shut behind me, He turned and smiled. That smile rivaled the sun in its brightness and warmth, and when it was directed toward me, the confidence and security He radiated made me feel nothing else mattered. And I now knew nothing other than Him, did.
When He stood to greet me, I caught a glimpse of what he had been painting. It was me, accurate to the last infinitesimal detail. I was portrayed in mid laughter. But to me, the painting of me looked much more beautiful than the girl I saw every morning in the mirror. Knowing what I was thinking, Jesus came to place His hands on my shoulders and gaze at me with the love of a Father.
“That’s how I see you,” He said, “from in here.” He pointed to my chest, “And I love it when you laugh.”
I smiled a little and He embraced me, and I felt consumed by His warmth, and love, and power.
“Now,” He said, pulling away, “we talk.”
We sat down at the table in the center of the room and I noticed the flowers that had been placed in a vase there. Indian Paintbrushes, my favorites as well He knew. Obviously He had anticipated my visit.
I sat there looking at my knees with the occasional glance to His face, drawing the silence out. He didn’t care though, with His eternity of patience.
“I…I…” I seemed to be having trouble getting the words out.
He took my hand and stroked the side of it with His thumb.
I took a deep breath. “I’m struggling. I keep messing up. I can’t seem to keep the old things out of my mind, “I rose from my seat, “Why can’t I be good enough? Why do I keep messing up? Why can’t I stop thinking about the things I used to do? Why am I so stupid!” I said that at almost a yell. I turned away from Him, embarrassed.
When I turned back, His face was still a mask of patience. He gestured to the seat I had just vacated and I sat down. He pulled His chair up closer to the edge of the table and rested His elbows on it, chin in His hands.
Again, a brief silence ensued while He looked at me before He leaned back in His chair and spoke.
“By whose standards,” He said, “are you not good enough? And,” He leaned forward, “who told you that you were stupid? And of course you’ll keep messing up,” He said casually, even though the words dismayed me, “You will never reach perfection until it’s time for you to come home. As for your thoughts,” He said, “I’m not done here. The first step was to remove the things previously occupying this space before you allowed me to move in and clean up. Now you must allow me time to replace them with things that are pleasing to me and beneficial to you. You must also be aware that Lucifer has not given up on tempting you.”
