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An Abandoned House and My Soul
In my old hometown, there’s an abandoned house on the corner of Ford and Woodland Street. It resides in a small neighborhood I walked around many times as a child. Just off the beaten path of dirt and gravel roads, you can’t miss the eyesore.
Anyone who sees the house today would agree it’s a dangerous environment. Inside and out, it wouldn’t be safe to step foot in. You don’t need to attempt to open the back door or walk up the crumbling staircase to know it’s unsafe. You know it isn’t.
Unfortunately, most of us don’t recognize our environment is unsafe or unstable this easily. We very well may live in an “abandoned house,” but to us, that home is the King’s House. It’s all we’ve ever known. Our sanctuary could be a prison, but we lack the skills to break free.
Quickly, we may recognize the instability but feel stuck. The house is haunted, and falling apart. We’ve fully acknowledged and accepted that fact. But where else do we go? What do we do when the monsters and ghosts that inhabit our home are family? When we long for safety, yet are paralyzed. This is what happened to me.
