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The Gospel

The Gospel comes with a house key... Some say we're all the same. Some say we all should be the same. We're all sinners, it's true. We're all searching, that's also true. So for all our sameness, why are we just so different? Values, beliefs, motives. Why can't we get it together? Why can't we all see the beauty? Why can't we all praise our Creator? This image shook me, awoke me, screamed in my ears, "Wake up girl! There's something you need to see." The Gospel comes with a house key, can't you see? A key to a house so beautiful, so full of knowledge. A house where you can bask in the presence of God. A house where you can kick back and have rich conversations with the Man who created you. It's home, you can be yourself here. You can finally let your true colors show, say what you really think, and ask what you really want to know. This house can get lonely though. It's your space, you're surrounded by your beliefs, your relationship with God, you and God, that's all that lines the walls. You run your fingers over the picture frames beside the couch. Pictures of God, pictures of you, times you've had, struggles you faced. Sometimes you ask God, "Why is it just us?" At this point He always looks at you and smiles, almost a sad smile. He touches your shoulder and tells you, like every time before, "This is your story." You smile back, but sometimes it's an uncertain smile. Why? Why is it just you and Him? Why don't other people have the same pictures lining their walls? Why do their houses look the way they do? Why are they bigger or smaller? Why is there a draft that sometimes creeps in by the door of your house? Why do people repaint their beautiful blue front doors to a dull, ugly brown? Why do people come to you asking about your pink front door? It's just a color you love, not a statement, not a cry for anything. It's just pink. This tattered dress? God loves me anyways. My frayed rug? It holds too many stories to make room for a new one. Why do they question these things? Why is it just always you and Him. Night after night, figuring things out, having the same struggles? Asking the same questions. Why? It's your story.

God smiles at my outburst. I look at his face closely, take in each feature, look for some hidden meaning in those eyes, in that smile. I see nothing but kindness. Always kindness. The Gospel comes with a house key. During those long winter evenings that stretch on, with the sky dark, and the stars shining, God tells me, over and over, the story. The wonderful story. The Gospel comes with a house key. He tells me about building these houses, creating these keys. I listen in Wonder. Pure amazement. He smiles as He reminisces. He calls its soul matching, and I find it brilliant. Each soul gets a key, they just have to look to the Gospel. It's waiting for them. Tears fill His and mine eyes as He talks of the people who have yet to find their key, or who found it, only to throw it far away. Often I grow indignant. "Why God, why would they throw away the key? It's so perfect here, why wouldn't they want this?" Always He smiles. Sometimes I see such humor in those eyes, in those kind eyes. Always he says the same thing, "My child, this is your story." Details of those who found their key, open their house, and live comfortably only to find a few years in that the house needs renovations. I cringe at that thought but God smiles. "Change is good, my child," he says "you'll see." I'm starting to see it. A crack in the wall above the couch that needs some plaster. That draft that comes in through the front? That can be fixed. I've pulled the curtains open, it's no secret what goes on in this house of ours. I've taken to lengthening my table and putting on extra coffee during these long winter evenings. I want to share this house. I want people to know the joy of finding that house key. It's not hidden, you just have to open the Gospel, it's right there. Some days we drive around the neighborhood, God and I, and we look. He points out the beauty of each house. They're all so different, a patchwork of colours. A shattered kitchen window, dandelions peeking up through untrimmed a grass, fresh white trim, laundry on the line. "Why can't my house look like that?" I asked God as we drive by a sprawling mansion with a manicured lawn. "You know why," He answers. I laugh. "I guess I do," I say. "I guess it's my story, isn't it." God has shown me we're all the same. He made a house key for each of us. And He's right there, every step of the way. For each of us. And sometimes He bites His lip, tries not to smile. But His eyes are always kind. His message never changes. "I love you." "This is your story."

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