sticks no stones (15)

…. This must be how a transplanted tree feels while locking its roots into land compatible to its needs. The days of drought and abundance could easily be statistically charted from the writings in my journals. I felt like a tree taking root, and like trees, did not have a plan.

Lunch on my 110th day in Kansas City was shared with two brothers. We ate at a Chinese buffet known for endless piles of cheap food and hair in the sushi sauces. These brothers had seen the recovery of my peace and were witnessing the healing of my body, specifically my face. We laughed over our references to each others’ strengths and quirks in a way only people who have lovingly studied each other can laugh. I realized l loved them unlike I am called to love everyone, but as brothers I share communion with.

Heart connections are funny since they open doors of vulnerability, and here in this moment, we decided to be vulnerable to one another.

I had been living by abiding in the secret places of The Father’s Heart, but now my roots were touching theirs. I voiced a new reality that had been forming, hidden even to me, “Hey, hey you guys, I made it, I’m going to survive, I have roots, I’m in, I made it behind the enemy’s lines!” The enemy being the enemy of uncertainty, the enemy found in the valley of the shadow of death, the enemy of hopelessness, whatever it was, I passed through. My brothers filled the unspoken definition of enemy with their own ideas of enemy, and we laughed together. Speaking life between us, we clinked our water glasses together, laughing some more.

This safe memory of fellowship among the living strengthened my soul as I looked at a small barricade of branches and leaves a couple feet high and wide that stretched across the Primrose House driveway.  I turned off the heat and opened the window to listen to the crunch of sticks that perhaps were placed there by someone else who wanted the Primrose House.

The plywood board covering the basement entrance was still in was the same location we had left it. I tugged until it was closer to the wall. The paint chips that lay in the moss and dirt became blurred through the tears that made my eyes itch. Was I having an allergic reaction to something or was I crying?

In winter, cement is colder to sit on than wood. At least that is how I perceived it through my jeans after deciding I wanted to cry. Maybe crying was making the cement feel colder.

I thought, “Maybe the recent rain caused this little barricade. Maybe the people in the neighborhood do not want me here. Maybe circumstances are just circumstances that don’t matter. Abba, You have to deal with this.”

I asked God to bless the people of the community, members of the three corner churches, and whoever may have placed the pile there.

There was no height left to the wood, but I could hear the crunch through my closed windows with the heat turned up high.

My roots would not budge once I was planted, wherever that might be.

….To be continued ….

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