Devo 6
10/6/99
"I Stand at the Door and Knock"
A little different format today. Instead of the usual 'essay' I've written a story instead. It is a bit longer than the other devos, but I hope you enjoy nonetheless.
The day I was born, there was but one living inside my heart. His presence was not intrusive, in fact, it was almost as if he belonged there; as if this were his home, and I only the tenant. And during those early years I learned much from this person. There was little I could teach him, he seemed to know every detail about me, much the same way in which an artist knows all the secrets and nuances of his masterpiece. I learned how to live. I learned how to perceive the world; to take nothing for granted and to believe nothing impossible. He taught me to love my parents, who he also knew, and to trust them for my well-being. I learned that only in trusting and obeying my parents could I truly be free to live. But most importantly, I learned that I did not know everything, nor would I ever. Many things I would understand, but as long as some things remained a mystery, I would never have a reason to stray from my first best friend. Then came another.
For years it had been only myself and my teacher, and in truth, I didn't even know others existed within this realm of the heart. A curiosity overcame me that was so strong I did not notice the heaviness and sadness that had descended upon my teacher. The appearance of the stranger was not threatening, and rather appealing. There was a presence about him which attracted my attention like nothing ever had. Suddenly, a new desire arose in me; I wanted to be able to be like this stranger, to have all eyes upon myself. The stranger, as if reading my thoughts, broke into a wide smile, and his eyes looked past me to my teacher. No fight, no complaint, no nothing. My teacher simply left, but not dejectedly, with a purpose. This was when I was nearly four years old.
Over the next decade, I all but forgot the teacher of my youth. And along with his memory went all the lessons he had taught me. My new teacher had a totally different view on life which was, frankly, much more appealing. He pointed out to me that like any other mortal, I too will die—something which is both inevitable, and unpredictable. Therefore, I could not spend my days looking after the needs of others before my own, that would lead to a life of dull drudgery where I sit at home and stare at the walls while everyone else is out having a good time. Each moment, rather, must be seized, and capitalized upon—no tomorrow was assured. I also learned that I could not depend on anyone else for my happiness. If I were to be happy, it would be because of my own efforts and strivings. In fact, this was true for everyone, and therefore, no one else could be trusted. The emphasis here was in short-term pleasures, the very idea of looking towards the long-term benefits was ridiculous. It wasn't until I had turned fifteen that I heard the knock on the door of my heart.
Of course, my new teacher was the one who went to the door to answer, not I. This slightly troubled me, because as he stood, some distant memory of my old teacher was stirred. I said before that it seemed as if my old teacher had belonged here in my heart; as if he had always been there. For that reason, it had never bothered me one bit to see him taking charge—that was simply the way it was meant to be. But when my new teacher rose to get the door, I got the distinct impression that here was a man who had no business here. However, eleven years of tutelage under him drove away any misgivings I had about his character.
Because of where my teacher stood when the door had been opened, I couldn't tell who the visitor was. But seeing my teacher suddenly grow tense, and his grip on the door grow stronger, I could tell that he was not pleased with who he saw. No words passed between them before the door slammed shut. As my teacher turned around, I caught a fleeting glimpse of—anger? despair? I couldn't tell. Whatever it was, it was quickly gone and after asking who it was, he assured me that it was nothing I need worry about. He had just turned me around so as to resume our lessons in another room when the knock was heard again. My teacher stiffened, but continued moving. The knock came again, harder this time, then a voice.
"Belial, let my child go!"
It was unmistakably the voice of my old teacher. I wanted to turn and go open the door for him, but my teacher held me firmly and told me there were things we needed to discuss. Confused, I obeyed and allowed myself to be led to the back room where the incessant knocking was now barely audible. I was bursting with questions and could not think which to ask first. But before I could ask, my teacher held a finger to my lips, and in a calm, even voice, began explaining things to me. "That man outside is a liar," he explained. "Nothing—NOTHING—he says is the truth." He went on to explain that the man outside only desires me for a life of slavery, of endlessly doing his work with no benefits. With him there was to be no pleasure; personal gain was secondary, the needs of others were primary—and where was the sense in that? If this life was all that we got, shouldn't we be spending our time on our happiness? Let the others worry about themselves. And, with a swiftly fading sense of guilt, I was soon able to nearly completely ignore the constant knocking.
I could hear the knocking the day two years later when the house I lived in burned to the ground. I had been out late at a party. My curfew had been midnight, but as was often the case, time was flowing as freely as the beer, and it wasn't until close to three that I made my way home…there is nothing that will sober a guy up as fast as seeing two body bags being pulled out of a pile ashes standing where your home once did. Suddenly, everything that was mine had been reduced to the ashes which now drifted lazily in the wind. My parents had been pronounced dead at the scene, and with them also died any hope of future comfort for myself. They weren't extremely wealthy, but they had always prided themselves on being able to provide for me whatever I needed which was not only good for me, but good for my friends. Not knowing what to do, or where to go, I silently roamed the streets until sunrise. When I looked up to see where I was, I found myself only a block away from my grandmother's house.
In my heart the knocking had grown louder, and my teacher more agitated. Rather than try and comfort me, he railed on about how unfair things were and swearing his revenge on the man outside. He did speak to me some; to tell me that the fire and deaths of my parents had been the doing of the man outside. I was too hurt to even care. For the next year and a half I lived with my grandmother suffering from clinical depression. My teacher tried to convince me to get back out and start having fun again, and I tried. But the parties just weren't the same. I knew now that the daily pleasures that I had been seeking for the last thirteen or so years would all fade within a few hours—nothing was permanent. And rather than continue living for another fifty or so years with this utter lack of hope for any kind of happiness, I decided there was no use in trying any longer. I had my chance at life, and I failed. As the last of the sleeping pills slid down my throat, I lay down in my bed and closed my eyes. I could hear the dull thumping of my heart as I slowly drifted out of consciousness. The last thing I saw was my teacher standing over me—not concerned, or saddened—but laughing, the way a con-artist does after a successful scam. In that moment I knew I had been tricked and the last thing I heard was the hideous laughing of the man I had trusted for so long…and the knocking on the door of my heart.
My eyes opened again to the face of my grandmother. The surroundings were strange, but the tubes snaking across my arms and face led me to believe I was in a hospital. The gnawing emptiness in my stomach told me that my stomach had been pumped, and consequently, death averted. Grandma never left the side of my bed as I recovered in the hospital. She had always been somewhat of a mystery to me; an eighty year old woman reduced to walking with a cane through arthritis, but no less full of life than a child. Her days had been spent in various activities with a group of ladies from her church. They did things like making quilts and stockings for the local city mission, or spending time with young ladies in needy situations. But most of all, their time was spent around a book they called The Bible. It was this book she brought with her to the hospital every day. For hours she would read to me of miraculous things that happened so many years ago, and of a guy named Jesus. It was his words she was reading one day when something she said caught my attention. When I asked her to read the last part over, this is what she read, "Here I am! I stand at the door and knock. If anyone hears my voice and opens the door, I will come in and eat with him, and he with me."
In my heart I knew what I had to do. In the distance I could still hear the door knocking. Not wanting to wait another moment lest the knocking cease, I took off running for the door. My teacher, of course, tried to stop me, but the fear in his eyes told me that he no longer had any power over me. I shoved him aside and flung the door open. There he stood. At once I felt again the love and compassion that I knew as a child. Here was the man that cared for me so much that for so many years, he would stand and knock, always hoping, and never doubting, that one day I would open the door. When he came in, I saw before me a table filled with more food than I had ever before. The smells and sights were overwhelming and I realized that it had been years since I had eaten anything. I looked expectantly at my teacher and saw a smile spread across his face as he said, "Taste, and see that the Lord is good."
The…beginning!