An Ugly House by Faith Zazueta

Once the garden of my heart turned into a potter’s field.

In the dark where I cast things I had broken on my own. Full of pride I cried, “I am doing your will!” though the whole time it was my hands that sullied the clay, attempting to play YOU like a child playing dress up in her mothers oversized shoes.

But you knocked on the door of the workshop of my heart, I rose from the wheel, from the place where I toiled. Piecing together remnants of things, projects I had foiled.

I opened the door and tears filled my eyes. “Lord, my house is not clean, you cannot look inside. My table is filthy, I have no chairs. There are cobwebs in the corners and the cupboard is bare.

Every vessel I make is worse than the last, have you not seen the field? My story, my past?”

As you raised your hand and placed it on the door, I saw clearly the hole that it bore. And from your hand there began a light, seeping into the wood, brilliant and bright where the barrier between you and I once stood.

Your voice so sweet drifted in on a breeze, “I have come to dine if I might come in please, I am not concerned with the darkness of sins. I have brought the bread, and I have bled for the wine. I will break it, bless it, and give it, for you, are mine.”

Trembling with apprehension I ushered you in, horrified at the dirtiness and hollowness within.

Before my eyes I watched you inhale until, releasing your breath the shadows paled. The grime melted to nothing and the wheel became clean as you fashioned a table fit for a king. Through the windows, long shuttered, bird song danced and I raced to out to the field to find my broken pieces had seeded giant plants. Their petals reaching high, inclined toward the sun. I gazed in wonder as grass began grow and the shackles of my pain gave way and time seemed to slow.

 

Of all the things I have adored, be glorified more

as my soul becomes poor, as I bow in willing subjugation.

Maker of the morning, you are rising over mourning and

I am filled with a love song.

Be glorified for you have turned my mountains into glory hills. Be glorified for you have turned the pools of my tears to rivers of everlasting life! The night comes, Even so I lift you high anyway!

Peace is coming like a dove and I am overcome because I ran to the valley of my disillusionment, the place where my desires, longings, and dreams went to die. And I found that you made it a place where you might be glorified.

 

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