He came to my door often, slipping little messages under it. It became his daily practice. One of these days I’ll have to respond I thought to myself.
The day came. I leaned on the knob preparing to open the door. I sent up a prayer and a struggle ensued. I was not willing to invite him to sit in my space just to hear him clink the change in his pocket for hours. A devious thought. Perhaps I could hang pornography on the door in an attempt to shock him into being repulsed by my door. No. No. I will not resort to sinister methods, I resolved. I must open the door and face him. I must speak to him honestly as a friend speaks with another friend.
But he would come and see that there was no one in my space with me, immediately concluding he could stay for the rest of the week. I imagined repulsing him with an argument. A list of topics fell into my left brain. I was tempted. No. No. No. I must open the door, smile and be a gracious host. I must tell him definitely and certainly how often he could come and for how long he could clink his change. This would put a stop to the energy he put into the saccharine notes under the door.
On the other hand, could this be a good thing? Sometimes there are great loyalties behind these little messages under the door. There is the possibility for an amazing friendship with someone unique and rare. Someone to watch my back. A cloudy pillow on which to rest. That would be wonderful. But the clinking change and the saccharine notes and the unnamable something behind those silly little things. What to do? No. No. There must be no more daily messages. The time and preoccupation they demand will only serve to creep into my soul. Like the repetition of half-truths, one certainly does come to believe them after hearing them like a daily mantra. The gifts. They will become a blessing. And time only time will reveal the unnamed something. Until then, certainly there will be joyful times and grace for all. Oh, but I ache for the best. The promises and notes of wisdom. The cloudy pillow on which to rest.
I open the door. There he stands with earnest stance.
Not a day later, I emerged from my space only to see little notes under every door in a hall of mirrors. The notes. They were the ones I had received. When did they begin to mass produce these? I kicked myself for the time and patience and grace I had demonstrated him. I was annoyed. I felt lied to. I had received as in earnest. I had handled with care and conscience. I should have thrown them away as one should a saccharine note. I should have filled my garbage with them as he sat before me. But the word of the Lord came to me. Yet, the one who turned water into wine spoke to me. I returned his visit. I knocked on his door. I watched for the saccharine to turn sweet.