Laura has been murdered”. The words hit me like a physical blow; I can’t remember what we said in the following moments, beyond that we would meet up soon. Then I went across the road and let myself into the silence of the library. I couldn’t think straight, my mind reeling. My breathing seemed to be noticeably loud. In fact I didn’t want to think, to start pulling words out of the pain; tried not to run the words through my mind because to do so felt that what had happened to my very close and loved friend must be true. I fell to the floor. I believe I started trying then to give words to what I was thinking and feeling, but at the same time I know The Holy Spirit began to help me speak and cry. Friends who know me are aware that I have difficulty connecting with my emotions, especially when it comes to expressions of hurt and sadness for myself. I experienced an abusive childhood, both physically and emotionally and learned, as a defensive means, to hide my true feelings. As well as I can remember, the words I spoke came at last with sort of child-like confirming endings like, “If I were to simply come to You, You’d welcome me, wouldn’t You?” “You’d understand me and what is going on right away without my trying to do a lot of talking, I know.” “And it could be just like visiting You at Your house, right? Where I could come to the door and knock and You’d let me in, wouldn’t You?” I then began to “see” myself approaching an old solid looking half-timbered house, walking up to the front door and knocking. I noticed its large threshold and the low lintel. There was a front garden, trees and grass and a stone path from the gate. It was clear from the depth of the door enclosure that the walls of the house were thick. Like some places I remember from England, where it is still possible to live in a house that is more than three hundred years old.
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