Loss of a Secret Place

Some people can carry their secret place -- the space in which they are free to pray and be alone with the Father -- everywhere with them. I never got the hang of this. In fact, since the actual, physical space I'd been using for prayer got turned from very-private to no-hope-of-privacy, I've been pretty well lost to prayer.

My secret place, before it got annexed by a new living area (formerly a storage space never frequented, now our bedroom), used to be my refuge. I could go in, close the door, lose myself and be neither self-conscious nor subject to being snuck up on and surprised. If I were ambushed mid-prayer or Bible reading, even by a well-meaning spouse, I'm not sure I'd be able to pray again. That's how self-conscious I still am about it; that's how enormous the risk of starting to pray again in an openly-ambushable area.

The only space I have now (the space vacated) is a loft, which isn't like a room with walls and a door; it's just an open space with stairs leading up to it. It's a place, but it's not private. It's not even close to a secret place.

I miss that secret place terribly. I've been trying to keep surrounding myself with things of the Spirit (but not too much -- not too loudly, as if I were tiptoeing around someone sound asleep -- lest I awaken to how much I want to pick up and move to a certain faraway place), but I miss my one-on-one time with Him. I listen to sermons about it, as recently in a message about the Holy Spirit being the force that brings the Word to life: "Yeah, I remember that. Right on! Good times. Can't have those anymore. Damn."

These recurrent, ultimate arrivals at "Damn" take their toll on the soul. Too much "Damn" is salt in the gears. Too much "Damn" is lemon juice in the eye. Too much "Damn" snaps its sneaky fingers and hope is nothing more than a thing with feathers, flitting quickly out the window and away.

The absence of hope reduces my potential to a storehouse of dusty holographic plates that haven't tasted the pleasure of a laser in what feels like an eternity. You can walk around and look at the two-dimensional plates but, since your mind isn't made of math, the patterns don't make spatial sense. There really is a person in here, but there is a catch: needs Light.

I need a secret place again, so that I might return to the secret place, alone with Him. I'm living under a huge deception and my eyes need to be opened. Prayers welcome.

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