What Have I Done?

I can barely see as I sit here typing. I have a ghastly cold. The sort of cold that leaves your eyes sore, your nose sore, your throat sore, in fact everything sore or aching, so it is more likely the flu-bug I've picked up from somewhere.

But, for all of the negatives of being ill, there is one positive. The fluff gets blown away. During the fitful hours of wakefulness, the unimportant, the menial and downright silly evaporate.

An illness makes you focus on all that really matters whilst the petty things slip gracefully off one's shoulders, the true weight of their importance is made known, they are composed of the lightest feathers. Much like snowflakes, each one delicately placed one on top of the other can prove a match for anyone wishing to shovel their driveway. But, once a scorching sun unleashes its rays, those flakes melt away.

And so, as I often do, I stood one morning at the kitchen sink, hands busy washing breakfast dishes, but with a mind far away, deep in thought. Eyes wide, looking up into the vast sky that stretches out before me. I notice the Mistle Thrush sitting proudly on a branch of my Mountain Ash tree, a regular who comes several times a day to feed on the berries of that faithful tree. From the corner of my eye I see the swoop and swing of the seagulls, who to me look so out of place in a little town like mine. Amidst the activity before my eyes and the snuffles and thrum of my aching head, I sigh, a sigh which to the trained ear speaks of something deeper than just the weariness of being ill.

Now with all those trivial worries out of my head, like 'How am I going to get all that ironing done?', 'Will my youngest son ever really learn to read fluently?', and the vain thoughts of 'Where can I find a new (cheap) elegant neck scarf from?', to the selfish, 'Everyone seems to have time to please themselves, all I want is more time to read my books'. Yes, now all of that chaff has been blown away, the clutter has been swept off the desk of my mind with one huge gust of wind during the feverish moments of the flu and the most important things remain.

The desk of my mind. Of course my desk is made of solid wood, of the very best kind, with ornately carved legs, and a strong, sturdy top. But it is old, oh very old, an antique, and of course it has all the buffs and scratches one would expect, and yet even they add to the beauty. There are drawers of various sizes, all to be opened using sumptuous, weighty handles, some of which are worn with use. Now that the clutter of what looked like a busy life has been removed from the top, only a few things remain for all to see. The desk top is what everyone we meet first sees, and it is rare we get past that with most people. So eager are we to look like we've got it all together, it seems safe to stay there, on surface level.

And so we keep the top of our desk fairly clean and tidy, or if not tidy, we like to look like we're busy, as if we're doing something productive and useful, the 'useful' part almost always needs to look distinctly 'Christian'. And certainly the illusion must be maintained that we have our ducks in a row. A family portrait lovingly placed in prime position, an assortment of fountain pens and markers, a neat pile of books, perhaps a few nick-knacks to pretty it up. A relationship that stays at this level is tiresome, never getting passed the, 'How are you?, 'I'm fine', type of conversation. Or if you do, the chittering is always in Christianese.

The drawers, ah the contents of the drawers are often more intriguing, filled with the usual filing systems, keepsakes, photographs - memories. Private things, known to but a few, the good the bad, it's all in there. Friendship at this level is often most enriching. This is real, full of nitty-gritty wholesome conversation, a tangible meal of thoughts and ideas, but to get there, one must open up. That can be painful. To be real with people presents so many dangers and possible misunderstandings, and it must be done so very wisely. But, to the seasoned soul who has guts to do it, and if the one they offer themselves to is also wise enough to accept the open heart presented to them, a deep and nourishing friendship will be enjoyed by both.

And of course there is a Secret Drawer. You can't have an antique desk and not have a Secret Drawer! There is normally only One who gets the privilege of seeing the contents of this particular Drawer. Hidden deep within the desk, perhaps access can only be obtained by a secret code or a silver key. And being a Secret Drawer it contains a box, and then a box within a box, each one lined with velvet, each becoming more secret and more treasured the further you proceed.

But, what is quite odd is that the deepest of boxes looks the most used, in fact it repulses me to see it laid bare, now that the 'fluff' is gone and there is very little left on my desk. The sickly paleness of the boxes only I know of cause me to blush a thousand times over. The drawer within a drawer, a box within a box, each locked with a silver key. A secret silver key. I alone have the key and know of the contents. But there is One who sees all, and has no need for such earthy objects as keys.

I must mention that my desk has a chair, overstuffed and delightfully comfy, but once I open that Secret Drawer and turn that precious key, my chair vanishes, all vanishes, even He that sees all disapears, I stand in blackness with nought but my secret. Everything is forgotten.

"What have I done?".

I quickly return to my desk top and scan its outward form. Am I trying hard enough? Do I press on and deny myself? Have I really untangled myself from this world and all that would stop me running with fervour? Am I nothing more than a weak, selfish soul, who just wants an easy life? Does my life line up to the standard, have I given my best, my all? Is there enough evidence to prove I am a Christian?

"What have I done?".

I can't write about the desk of my mind as a Tolkien fan and it not be a magical desk. Did I say everything vanishes and all is forgotten? God is still there even when I deliberately 'forget' Him. In the blackness He stands beside me and scans the meager display of items on top of my desk, then I wince as He reaches for my secret drawer.

I gasp, 'Oh, what have I done!?'.

His loving eyes swaddle me as He asks in return, 'But, what have I done?'.

I hear the clink of my last secret drawer open, my stomach wrenches, but behold, how could I have not noticed before, there is one more box inside. A Golden Box, sparkling like the sun, glistening like diamonds, He opens it and the light fairly blinds me, the whole room is Alight and all my secret boxes disappear.

Turning to my desk top, the 'Good Christian' life that stares up at me now makes my stomach heave, for the Light also shows their true identity. Dirty rags have replaced all that was there, I turn away in horror.

"What have I done?"

Again, He returns the question, 'But, what have I done?".

I understand, once more, He has done it all.

"Salvation is so much more than a change of destination from hell to heaven! The true spiritual content of our gospel is not just heaven one day, but Christ here and now" Major W. Ian Thomas.

"Now if we have died with Christ, we believe that we shall also live with Him" Romans 6:8

I breathe in, and the Mistle Thrush pecks off two more berries and flies home.




Bilbo's Desk photograph - http://community.thehobbitsite.com/Photo/Bag-End-Bilbos-desk/00FF6FFFF00F27D4B0007001EC415