I look around the living room of my childhood home. My reading chair is gone. So is the grandfather clock that sat behind it. My parents haven’t sold the house yet, but it’s on the market.
So the house sits quietly. It waits for the return of fullness.
And, as I stand in the stillness, so do I.
There’s an emptiness in my chest. A longing for a relationship I don’t have. A lament for ones I’ve had to let go of.
I look at the mantle above the fireplace. The dark marble is bare, but it’s solid and strong—like the rest of this nineteenth-century house. The house was here long before my family filled it, and it will stand long after we have left. I know this room won’t be empty forever. It will be filled with laughter again. It will echo with music.
If I can trust the solidity of this house, how much more can I trust the solidity of the One who created me?
I close my eyes and breathe deeply.
“Lord,” I pray. “Restore me to fullness. In a way that you see fit. In your timing.”
I open my eyes. The room is still sparse. The ache inside of me is still heavy. But I trust that God is greater.
