Burnt to a Crisp

Photo Credit: Ryan Roth-Klinck

By Andrea Lingle

“God calls to us in countless little ways all the time.” 

-St. Teresa of Avila, Interior Castle, p. 57

His winnowing-fork is in his hand, and he will clear his threshing-floor and will gather his wheat into the granary; but the chaff he will burn with unquenchable fire.

Matthew 3:12

The setting sun warms your back as you stand in the doorway. The light, divided by your shadow, spills across the threshold. Your shadow-legs stretch away from you, wildly elongated in the evening light, and your head and shoulders fall in the center of the spacious entryway. On the floor just beyond the oak threshold is an inlaid rose carved out of the same pink quartz from which the castle walls are cut. Woven around the center of the rose, beside the pollen and pistil, are the words Grace and Love.

Somewhere inside, there is water running. Splashing? You glance up at the ceiling and notice, where you expect there to be a chandelier, there is a hanging bower. Roses, hydrangeas, lily-of-the-valley, peonies, dahlias, and chrysanthemums suspended in a glorious effusion. A buffet for butterflies and bees, growing in the unlikeliest place. Next to the door is a bench, and under the bench are two baskets. One basket is labeled, “What Remains,” and the other is labeled “To Carry No Longer.” “What Remains” is the smaller of the two. 

Your shoulder bag is full. The sunglasses you found on the beach. You figured they would break eventually, but they never did. The keys to cars and homes and memories. A good fountain pen with dark ink that flows well even in the wind. A ticket stub to the symphony when they played Gershwin. You went with the kids, and it shocked you to see that so many could keep from dancing. A list of tasks with empty check boxes. A receipt from lunch with a friend. She had needed someone to listen. Restaurant napkins do not absorb tears well enough. The final bill from the hospital. Apparently you have to pay even if the outcome broke your heart. A single page from a yellow legal pad with the words “Pros” and “Cons” at the top. A tangle of wire. A lemon drop. A measuring tape. Wintergreen gum. Your notebook. These are the things you brought with you to this place.

This is just the entry. It isn’t a place to settle in. This is the Prologue, the Introduction, the Overture: a decision space. Will I cross this threshold? What will I carry with me into the inner rooms of this castle?

The sun is setting. Soon it will be too dark to linger in doorways wondering about baskets and burdens. The scent of the unlikely garden settles over you like whispered song. There, on the floor, Grace and Love, there, beneath the bench, a decision:

“What Remains” and “To Carry No Longer.”

The threshold is wide. The door, open to the extent of its hinges, is heavy and solid. Its oak surface carved deeply with a torturous knot, folding and winding over itself. 

“What Remains”

Sweetly, the sound of the water calls. It was a long walk here, and your shoulders ache. Your shoes, brown leather boots with deep creases on the toes, are dusty; the laces frayed and the heels unevenly worn. 

“To Carry No Longer”

Your fingers are unlacing, your bag beside you, the baskets pulled out as tears blur the evening.