Life was busy. Life was loud. Some days were louder than busy, and today was one of those days. It’s a wonder I heard the faint knock at my door. I quickly opened it, hoping this wouldn’t take long. To my surprise there stood a stranger—a gentleman I did not know. In a soft-spoken voice he introduced himself and then explained that a friend of mine told him I wanted to meet him. It was true. I had. He politely asked if he could come inside, so I awkwardly extended an invitation for him to enter my house. He had a warm smile I could not resist, and his eyes—I could not stop looking at his eyes. As he entered the room, an uncommon peace entered as well. I knew for certain I had a special guest inside my house.

He said he planned to stay for a while if that was okay with me. I offered him the small guest room at the back of my house, and he accepted the offer. As time went by, we slowly got acquainted. I must admit that sometimes he startled me when he spoke, simply because I had forgotten he was there. At other times he would call to me from the back of my house, yet because he spoke so softly, I didn’t hear him. It actually took quite a while before I recognized his voice well enough to pay attention to him.

My houseguest shared bits and pieces of his story with me, but we usually talked about me. He listened intently and acted as if he understood every twist and turn of my tangled life. Nothing surprised him, even the dark moments I had not shared with anyone. For some odd reason, I felt I could trust this stranger. After a few weeks, I handed over even more details of my past. When I thought I had covered everything, I would recollect yet another event, even the painful ones I had stuffed deep inside. One by one I shared them all—the good, the bad and the ugly. I bore my soul. I spilled my guts. He didn’t flinch or raise a brow, but smiled as if to say, “I know.”

Eventually I shared with him my dreams—the failed ones mostly, since they far outnumbered any dreams-come-true in my life. His compassion was not something I had experienced before. I remember thinking, “Does he really care about my failed attempts to be somebody? Why should it matter to him?” Yet his gentle touch upon my shoulder told me he cared. I wondered why.

We gradually became good friends. I opened more rooms of my house to him and learned along the way that I enjoyed his company. However, I kept much of the space for myself since it was my house. He began to make suggestions about all the clutter and offered to clean the closets. I was reluctant at first, but I soon realized that he had some good ideas about discarding things I didn’t need to make room for things I did need. He also encouraged me to visit the attic of my soul; you know, the place where things are stored that might never be used again. Sure enough, he pointed out several boxes of junk filled with bitterness and resentment towards those who had hurt me, and he recommended that I get rid of them. I hesitated, thinking I might need those memories in the future, but He assured me that I never would.

Next, he spotted a large trash bag in the back corner. It was tied so tightly with strings of self-pity I thought we’d never get it open. The stubborn strings eventually gave way, exposing the grudges I had held against those who had taken advantage of me. Obviously, I had not forgiven or forgotten. Was I supposed to throw out those memories too? I quickly reminded my houseguest of the old saying, “If someone takes advantage of you once, it’s their fault. If they take advantage of you twice, it’s your fault.” Should I let him talk me into discarding such valuable wisdom? How would I be able to protect myself in the future? Again, he assured me it would be perfectly fine to throw them all away. I didn’t understand, but he said I would later. So out it all went.

We then headed to the basement. There we uncovered a quagmire of things I had buried deep within my heart—things I didn’t want anyone to see. We rummaged through hurts from my childhood that I felt were too dark to be exposed. Again, my houseguest offered to clean it up. All that was required from me was my permission. I gave it. I didn’t have to touch one thing, and it was done. I felt so clean and so free—why I felt free indeed! Why was he doing all this hard work for me? I began to sense that my life was shaping up and he was the reason.

Although I had given him a great deal of freedom in my house, I still had my life to live, didn’t I? Sometimes I invited him to go with me to family gatherings or activities with my friends, but on other occasions I simply forgot about him. He never mentioned my negligence, but my gut feeling was that he yearned jealously to spend time with me. I guess I took it for granted that he understood it was my life, and somehow I believed he would always be my friend.

As the years passed, I noticed a pattern emerging. I did my own thing much of the time, leaving him out and ignoring him—until trouble came. Then I would rush home, seek him out in the back room of my house, and tell him what was on my mind. I usually cried and longed for him to console me. He always did, and then for a time, we were best friends again. That is, until another friend called and invited me to go out, and away I went with no mention of it to him. I was quite confident that my repetitive behavior grieved my houseguest.

Then it happened. I found myself in a debacle I could not resolve. I was at the end of my rope, or better said, at the end of myself. I needed my houseguest so desperately, yet I had ignored him for such a long time. In fact, it had been days, or maybe weeks, since I had been aware of his presence within my house. It was time to be honest with myself and face reality—I had actually pushed him further towards the back of the house and reclaimed some of my space for myself. A gut-wrenching emptiness churned within, and I thought perhaps I had gone too far this time. The words unpardonable sin flashed across my mind. Surely I hadn’t committed that, or had I?

My dry, parched soul yearned for his presence. The need for my house guest loomed larger than my pride, so I swallowed it and went looking. Twinges of panic compelled me. My thoughts and my body raced as I searched from room to room. He wasn’t in the usual places, so I pressed harder and sought him with more gusto than I knew I had. Finally, I heard a faint voice in the far recesses of my house and moved toward it. Much to my surprise and even more to my relief, there he was. Strangely enough, if I hadn’t known better, I would have thought that he was the one searching for me. I don’t think I’ll ever figure him out, and at that moment I didn’t care. He opened wide his arms and welcomed me into his presence. Ah, peace at last. My fears vanished as I poured out my very soul to him. I was amazed at his wise strategy to resolve my dilemma, but more so at his seemingly endless patience with me. This time I promised both of us that things would be different—I would never do this again. I had missed his touch and his fellowship. Oh, how I had missed him.

One day shortly after our friendship was restored, my houseguest shared with me about his purpose on earth. Apparently, he was part of a master plan to redeem all of mankind and show us the way to God. I heard the word purpose explode in my head. This one knew who he was, where he came from, and his purpose in life, including being right here in my house. Perhaps I should have spent more time listening to my houseguest, rather than my houseguest listening to me. After all, I’ve never quite figured out who I am or where I am going, much less my purpose in life.

I decided right then that he could freely occupy more of my house. This stranger was no longer strange to me. I fully intended to ask for more of his advice, and who knows, I might even take it. Things in my life were certainly smoothing out. Now don’t get me wrong—life was still challenging, but I began to call on my houseguest more and more to counsel me in decision making. I can’t say I always heeded his advice, but I was learning that he was always right.

As our relationship deepened, my confidence in him grew even more. I was anxious to hear his take on everything—his ideas and perspective that were so much nobler than mine. Apparently, I spent too much time grappling with the junk, re-thinking the what-if’s, and worrying over things he simply was not concerned about. Oh, to think like him! To have a mind like his! Only in the next life, so I thought.

As I learned more about my houseguest, I made an all-important discovery—he had feelings too. My hurts and disappointments were something he himself had known. As I grew to love him, I began to care more about how I treated him. What seemed to be an innocent oversight on my part was rejection to him, something he had faced to the fullest. Surely I wasn’t capable of deliberately rejecting him, was I? Would I deny him as so many others had done? Deny that he lived in my house? Knowing how fickle I was made me wonder why he would take the risk with my friendship. I didn’t trust myself, so why should he trust me? I didn’t have the answer.

My houseguest was now my BFF (best friend forever). Life was working more as a well-oiled machine these days, even though I sensed that something was awry. I just couldn’t put my finger on what it was. It was then that my houseguest made me an offer—he would take control of half of the house we shared together. I told him I would think it over, fully confident that his proposal would be in my best interest. I thought about it and decided to accept, but with one condition:  I could keep my special area—my space—for myself. It was still my house and I needed to be able to regain control at any time. He accepted my condition, and the agreement was made. I worried that I had hurt his feelings, but I knew he would never tell me if I had. Things improved even more since I had less to worry about around the house and more free time to enjoy my houseguest. My load felt so much easier and lighter, and I might have thought life was perfect, if not for the on-going reminder that something was not quite right.

Maybe my houseguest could help me resolve the problem, so I asked him. I got the usual no-surprise response, and he said he could help me with that very thing. Although I had learned to love and trust my houseguest a great deal, his proposal wasn’t something I was ready for. He offered me a two-part agreement between the two of us. He would take control of my entire house; he would make all the decisions that were made in my house—what to eat, what to say, what to wear, where to go; and he would take full responsibility to provide everything needed to maintain my house forever. My part of the agreement was to fully converse with him, staying in constant communion with him at all times so I’d know what his decisions were. I would be required to trust that his decisions were best for me and my house; and I would always abide by his decisions and obey what he told me to do.

Knowing by now that my houseguest never made bad decisions, I believed this could be a good deal for me. He had never broken a promise, and something told me he never would. Of course, the deal was entirely up to me. It was my choice, for if I didn’t want to enter the agreement, he didn’t want to either. He would never take anything I didn’t willing give to him. But then he said one more thing that made me gasp! He would do all of this for me if I would give him that one last area in the house—my space—the control room where choices are made. That was the space I had reserved just for me, and now he wanted that too.

Plainly stated, I would have to surrender to him my all with nothing held back. That meant no plans of my own, no opinions apart from his, no overeating, no gossip, no criticism of others, no bad attitudes, no pouting, no tantrums, no selfishness. My money would be his money; my time would be his time; and my heart would be totally his. He said that once my everything belonged to him, I would no longer need to protect myself, and therefore, I’d have no use for those memories from the past. From that point on, my life would be hidden inside his life, sort of tucked away from the world where no one could find me to do me harm. He reminded me that his ways were very different from mine. Boy, did he ever get that right! Perhaps that is why it all seemed so mysterious, yet somehow I was beginning to get the picture.

If I understood him correctly, he had come to take full possession of my house. But was I ready to yield my entire house to this once-a-stranger houseguest? We had enjoyed years of friendship and intimacy, building hopes and dreams together. I had felt a part in all we had done, enjoying the successes, being proud of our accomplishments, but now it would be more of him and less of me. He would increase; I would decrease. Would I simply fade somewhere into the background? Could I handle that? Actually, it would be all about him and none about me. He and he alone would receive all the recognition.

But wait! I thought we were partners. Where did that concept go—the two of us, co-captains, co-equals? No, it would be all about him. He would be the supreme ruler of my house. Oh, and my house would now be his house, his dwelling place. Was I ready for this step? Could I handle him being lord of all? Of my all? I didn’t know for sure what my answer would be, but the blueprint was clearly laid out. I had a huge decision to make.

Just then I remembered a conversation I had overheard a few weeks before between two friends discussing their own houseguests, which by the way, sound a lot like mine. One friend had said to the other, “Don’t you get it? He must be Lord of all or he isn’t Lord at all.” I wonder if that explains what’s going on at my house. Oh well, no need to wonder. I’ll just go ask my houseguest since he promised he would help me understand all things. As usual, I received the no-surprise response from my amazing houseguest—my Best Friend, my Helper, Teacher, Counselor, Comforter, Ruler, and Lord—my Holy Houseguest Extraordinaire! 

~Sarah Jane Kellogg