The downstairs level of my place has been something of a madhouse for the last few days. A whole new crop of roommates moved in–twenty-four of them, actually–and unhesitatingly made the house formerly known as mine, theirs too. Mostly, it’s been good…
But it’s also been loud.
Tonight when they asked if I was going to a party with them over at the Lake House, my answer was a resounding, “No!”
Not, “eh, maybe?”
Not, “we’ll see.”
It’s nothing against any of them or against the party itself. It’s just that right now, tonight, what I needed was to throw my hair into a bun, pull on my boyfriend’s Northface, and make a simple dinner. I needed the quiet and a room to myself. I needed a hot shower and a cup of tea. I needed to journal and talk to God. I needed to read his letter one more time.
What I definitely didn’t need was to be around more people.
There’s something about noise that numbs my spirit. It’s the great enabler, allowing me to ignore the my thoughts rather than take them captive. And oh, I’ve got to get better at that.
I need to tie up the little doubter still creeping around in the crevices. I’ve got to chase down the chatterers still loitering about after hours. I need to rope up the vindictive, the guilting, the terrorizors that says You’re about to mess this great thing all up. You’re about to lose this fight.
These thoughts have turned my mind from a Shalom place into a refugee camp, mucking about aimlessly, cluttering up my corners and pitching plastic tents where there should be clear roads.
And I have had enough.
One by one, I’m serving them an eviction notice. There’s no more squatting here, fellas. There’s no more sanctuary in this head. There’s no room in this inn.
When I get my hands on them, you better believe we’re going to have a conversation about what the little suckers are still doing here.