Somewhere downstairs, someone is playing the piano. The sound echoes through the vents and magnifies, filling our ears with a melody we’ve never heard. He’ll play all night if we let him.
This Friday night is quiet and full of the things that make this place homey. Our kitchen leaves its doors open so we can pad, sock-and-slipper-footed around it in search of things like popcorn and mandarin oranges. We pull off the peels in patches, then stack them neatly one atop the other.
There is the general understanding that this week has drained us. It has taken every ounce of stubbornness to wrestle our sheets from around our shoulders and ask, once more, for our feet to hit the floor.
Here, though, is also the surprising tint of something new. Our house is beginning to settle in. We feel less like the out-of-town company–or the help–and more like we might belong here. We might actually fit here together. The random room assignments have a predestined feel. The kitchen cabinets fill up with shared groceries, and community tupperware. We make coffee for two every morning and bring it to our roommates as they talk sleepily with Jesus.
We have found the space we need to listen and to be still and to process our years away. As the lake rises to the tops of the banks, we find more reasons to walk along the shoreline, singing prayers. The Lord meets us in moments like these.
And it’s becoming clear that He’s been here all along, in the shades of blue we see when we close our eyes, and in the laughter of the apartment beside us. But tonight, He’s most clear in the gentle lilt of the piano drifting up the staircase and wrapping around our house.