I'd like to share this special story with you.

When I wrote it, I was inspired by Brother Lawrence who said:
"Simply present yourself to God as if you were a poor man knocking on the door of a rich man, and fix your attention on His presence."
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Home​

I cower under a pile of bedraggled boxes, my makeshift home. The freezing sheets of rain pound the cold, hard ground around me. The wind cruelly whips the rags I wear across my body. My stomach groans, my soul aches. I haven't eaten in over three days, not even scraps from the trash. Weakness covers me like a heavy blanket and I start to nod off, but somehow I’m too tired to sleep. I stare blankly into nothingness. I’m so tired, every part of me is tired.

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A gust of wind slams the freezing rain against the cardboard, drenching me. I wrap my arms around my shaking body in an attempt to make a difference. A violent shiver rushes up my spine and deep into the hollow of my bones. I tremble in my unshakable chill, my unshakable need. I’m at the mercy of the storm. 

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Struggling to keep my exhausted eyes open, they fall on a beautiful scene.

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A window with a thick wooden border. Large and sturdy, it displays a reflection of warm light, dancing across the glass. Through the small streaks from the raindrops, I see a fire glowing. The flame is bright, radiant, stunning. It licks the air around it, under the red mantle. Despite the raging wind, I can almost feel its warmth. Something about this place feels familiar. 

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Suddenly a happy memory whips through my mind more fiercely than the wind.

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It's evening, I'm a young child. Freshly bathed I run in my pajamas to the large, comfy chair resting beside a grand fireplace. My father, reclining within it, shouts in fanciful excitement as I leap onto his lap. His arms wrap around me and I sink in. For a moment I rest in him, my Home. I look excitedly into his eyes, asking him to tell me another story, a grand adventure.

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He smiles deeply, "Tonight I am  going to read you one of my favorites!"

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He hands me a large mug filled to the brim with deeply rich hot cocoa, sweet and warm. My favorite. As I'm taking my first sip, he pulls out a thick book with large golden pages. He opens to a story with bright pictures of pirate ships and sailors and swords drawn in an epic battle. His animated voice brings life to each character, villains and heroes alike. Staring into bright flames I watch the fire dance as my heart is set ablaze by the story of valor. 

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My eyes eventually grow heavy. Empty cup in hand, I drift to sleep in the arms of my father.

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I’m ripped from this memory as my cardboard shelter is torn from my fingers by a gust of wind.  Looking up I catch sight of it, high above me in the threatening sky. My only shelter is gone, I'm as good as dead. 

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For some reason, I'm jealous. The box looks light as a feather and dances so easily, so freely in the storm. 

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The rain picks up and I feel the scourging of cold, hard ice. As the hail pounds my raw, bare back, I feel like I'm being stoned. I don't understand how my skin can sting like pins and needles and be so numb at the same time. My fingers are turning blue and the wet rags cling to my body. Without even thinking, I stumble toward the doorstep in front of me.

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In my exhaustion, a part of me wonders if this is it. In gnawing starvation and bitter cold I think I’ll die here tonight. 

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Shivering, I take in the large wooden door that I’m now standing in front of. Etched into its center is a large, smooth heart. It’s set ablaze with fire and it looks like it’s been pierced open with a sword wielded by pirates from the picture book. I don't know Who lives here, but the door seems fit for a King.​ As I lay down and press my fading body against the wood I feel a faint trail of hot air escaping. 

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My shaking becomes aggressive, the chill achingly deep. My vision darkens. This is it. This is where my story ends. I’m about to give in when I hear a still, small Voice in the growing darkness.

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Knock.​

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The word must be my delirium. Who am I to dare and knock on the door of such a Man as this? I shouldn't even be on His doorstep.

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Knock.

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Even if He answered and I could muster the strength to speak, I could never produce words of proper dignity and honor. I'm too unworthy. I'm just a poor man lying at the door of a rich Man...

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But I can feel the invitation. I groan.

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Another sheet of freezing rain crashes, jolting me. Every part of me shivers. Tears stream down my cheeks. I just want to be that innocent little child, dreaming of adventure, thirsting for valiance and virtue. 

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I just want to be in my father's arms again.

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Knock.

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I cry out in agony from the depths of my heart, "Abba, where are you? Why have you abandoned me?!” I don’t know why I say these words. My father has been dead for years, he died only nights after the hot cocoa by the fire. But my heart will never stop yearning for his love. My need for Love gnaws even deeper than my hunger for food.

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I know I’m about to die, I can feel myself going. If I knock, maybe at least someone will come and I won't have to die alone.

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Knock.

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The invitation comes one last time and I answer. I use all the strength I can muster to raise my arm. I hope to make my presence known to Whoever is on the other side of the door, but all I can produce is a tap so light that I can barely hear it. The strain of the knock causes my vision to flood with darkness. 

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Death is at this doorstep with me.

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The sound of the heavy door being opened accompanied by a gust of warm air pulls me back to consciousness. I open my eyes to a blur of colors. There’s a large shape in the doorway.

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"Oh, My child! Come, let Me help you!" 

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I close my eyes, too tired to weep. I haven't been someone's child for a long time. His voice is deep and gentle, like my father's. I feel my body being lifted off the cold ground and I’m helped to my feet. Arm around His shoulder, I sink into His soft robe. It feels blistering hot, like He's just been sitting close to the fire.

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Warmth surrounds me and I try to open my eyes again, but I'm too exhausted. I hear the crackling of the fire growing closer as I’m gently led to a large, soft chair. 

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"Rest your eyes, little one." 

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Relief rushes over me and I settle in at these words. The heat of the fire warms my face and I drift to sleep as I slowly begin to thaw.

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Roused awake, now warm, I crack open one eye enough to see that I'm covered in a heavy wool blanket. Still lying on the recliner, I pull it up to my chin and curl up beneath it. I fall asleep again, this time to the smell of spices and the sound of bowls and silverware clinking in a nearby room. 

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I hear footsteps approaching and I try as hard as I can to open my eyes.​ Through the cracks in my lids I can make out little details of the Figure who sits on the footrest before me.

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"You only need to rest and I will take care of everything."

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He lifts something to my mouth. A warm metal spoon filled with decadent broth. He places it on my lips and I drift off between bites. I'm so exhausted that I don't have the energy to even nod in gratitude.

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I simply receive. 

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The heat of the broth slowly warms the insides of my body. After the first bowl, I have the energy to sit up and shakily feed myself the second. The kind Man sits nearby and I feel comforted by His presence. I’m still hungry, but I hesitate to eat more. I’m already indebted enough to this Man and I should be going soon anyway.

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I look over at this gentle caretaker, knowing I’ll never be able to repay Him. I’m surprised by His kind, dark eyes looking back at me. Something about His gaze suddenly assures me that I’m not an inconvenience. It’s as if serving me is His delight.

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In His Home, I’m His special guest.

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He speaks again, gently, "My child, you have been through much. How are you doing?"

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My eyes immediately fill with tears. For years I've lived on the streets, desperately alone, suffering deeply. People often acknowledged my hunger and tossed me some scraps, but they never acknowledged my deeper wounds. They never asked how I was doing. 

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His next words are a gift. "Beloved, tell Me the burdens of your heart."

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I don't hold back, I don't downplay my feelings and experiences to make Him feel comfortable. I share my story in full, I bear my anguished heart. I tell Him about my father, smiling at the first opportunity in years to talk about the man who means everything to me. I tell Him about my father's death and how no one took care of me even though I was so young when I lost him. I recount my years of humiliation, begging for food and sleeping in the streets. I’ll never forget the passersby looking down on me and calling me filthy. I tell Him that I felt like I’d become the opposite of the valiant adventurer my father hoped I'd be, I still do. 

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As I share, He smiles with me and He cries with me. My joys and sorrows are His, too. 

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When I’m silent again, having shared the heavy burden that I’ve carried, it feels as though a yoke has been lifted off of my shoulders. The rich Man stands up and steps toward me. Almost knowing my need better than I know it myself, He hugs me tightly.

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"You have overcome so much, My child. You might not recognize it in yourself yet, but you are one of the most valiant people I know." 

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For the first time since my father's death, I feel a Father's Love again. 

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The rich Man steps back, smiling lovingly.  "Wait right here, I have another gift for you!" He walks into the other room quickly with a joy on His face like that of a little boy on Christmas morning.

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What more could this good Man possibly offer me? I wonder. He returns with a towel and soap, a bowl of warm water, and a stack of clothes. He hands them to me and says, "Take your time. There is no rush," before heading back into the kitchen.

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I place the soap and water by the fireplace and unfold the pile of clothing. I’m most excited about the thick, warm socks. I haven't had a fresh pair in years. In the safety of this home, I undress, throwing my rags into the fire. They feed the flame.

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I walk to the full length mirror at the other side of the room and I gasp at my reflection. I don't even recognize myself. I'm little more than skin and bone, my hair is scraggly and knotted. I’m covered in years of grime and I hadn't realized until this moment how pungent I smell. 

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If I were in any other place, I'd be embarrassed. Ashamed, even. But not in the house of this Man. It’s me, like this, whom He Loves. Before I was clean, before I was clothed, before I could offer Him anything, He cared for me, He loved me, He embraced me. 

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He helped me see that it’s His honor to be in my presence, even like this. Especially like this.

 

I think of being back on the doorstep. I thought my story was going to end, but I’d been so wrong. This is just the beginning. Dipping  the soap into the warm water, I scrub myself. As I wash each fold of skin I remember what I persevered through and I start to recognize my Valiance. I look at myself no longer in disgust, but in reverence. Feeling new, I slip into the soft pajamas and pull on the thick, warm socks before crawling under the heavy blanket once again. From the recliner I stare into the fire and sparks of hope kindle within me.

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I hear footsteps approaching, accompanied by rattling wheels. I look over to see the Man pushing a cart that overflows with a feast. A whole crispy golden chicken, a steaming pillow of mashed potatoes, a tray of sweet fruits, aged cheeses, and buttery crackers. My eyes open wide, I’d forgotten how hungry I am.

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Who is this rich Man that treats a beggar like royalty? 

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He looks at me, smiling broadly, "Eat your fill, My friend! Tonight we rejoice over who you are! We celebrate that you are Home!” 

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I feel tears well up in my eyes and spill over. I'm so glad I knocked.

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We feast together and it feels as though my life before this encounter was just a chapter in a storybook. We laugh and sing and make up our own adventures of knights and battles and valor. For hours we imagine the most glorious stories, which don't seem so out of reach anymore.

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The fire has calmed, and now the coals pulse with hundreds of hues of orange and red. 

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"I have one more gift for you, little one," the Man says, standing.

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He retrieves the lower tray from the food cart. A plate of small decadent treats, a teapot, and two mugs. He pours us each a cup of the dark liquid and hands me one before returning to His seat. My eyes are beginning to grow heavy again, this time from feasting and laughing instead of hunger and cold. 

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I pull the warm blanket up to my chin and I take a sip from the mug, expecting bitterness. Instead I’m surprised by the deep richness of hot cocoa. I look over and see my Father smiling at me. He begins to tell me a new story, one of a brave warrior who persevered through many trials, who has a glorious purpose. It's the story of my life with all the chapters and blessings to come. A valiant adventure. 

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He speaks it over me as I drift to sleep.

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Copyright @ 2023 by Catherine Mulhern