Liz Roberson

 
 

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Some Walls are Meant to Come Down

"Did you hear about those soldiers?" She asked softly.

I nodded once and continued flattening dough. "I had heard something about that," I replied. How do you tell someone that some days when you read a headline to do with war or soldiers in the Middle East, you just scroll past them? And then read gossip on 'Celebrity Look-Alikes'. Again.

My friend gave me a knowing look, telling me her thoughts as I half-listened, partly thinking that I really should be aware of these things and partly thinking that I really didn't want to be. Some days are easier than others, but even eight years later, some days the memory of my brother's death still feels fresh.

The conversation turned and I commented that there is a whole world of hurt going on outside the walls of my home, where I seek to love and teach my children how to be love to that hurting world. But sometimes I hide from the 'hurting world' part.

At times it is difficult to overlook. Like that one Saturday morning when a young woman beat on our front door, crying hysterically and holding a tiny girl still in diapers. She was being followed by her boyfriend who had threatened to hurt her and could she please come in?

I looked at my husband and opened the door wider. As I began to extract more of the story and convince her to call the police, it became clear to me that God had sent her to us and there was no way I was letting her go without loving on her in some way.

Words began to flow out of me. I spoke encouragement to her that I didn't know she needed. I spoke answers to some of her unasked questions, she told me later.

When her family finally came to retrieve her, we said our goodbyes and she thanked me, noting that she could have knocked on any door. But God brought her to ours.

There's a lot that goes on outside the walls of my home. Every now and then, something bursts through them and I can't ignore it, but the reality I face daily is that I must leave these walls behind and look beyond them to see that my pain is not the only pain in this world.

It's easy for me to sit inside my house, behind my solar-screen windows, seeing everything going on outside and feeling safe because I know no one can see in. But God never promised me easy. He is after me to be seen and to be heard and to be His hands and feet--not just when need comes knocking on my door.

More and more, I am inviting others to see what is here inside these walls. And more and more, I am leaving the walls behind to meet someone behind their own. And somehow, the pain that kept me in my safe, comfortable place--that same pain has become an instrument of healing to others.

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