Headwaters Wordsmithing

Writing for the actor, singer, and reader.

Birthed in the Northwoods of Wisconsin,  Headwaters Wordsmithing creates screenplays, lyrics, and books with an emphasis on faith in God...and a minor emphasis on coffee.  Make yourself at home.

A Knock At The Door

A knock at the door. 

Great.  Just what I need.  Another vacuum or brush.  Or tract.  Or magazine subscription. 

I open the door.  A sigh of annoyance escapes as my cherubic demeanor takes wing. 

"It's You." 

"Hi, again.  You really need to sell me Your home.  It's falling apart." 

Okay.  This is starting to frost my cookies. 

"Whaddaya mean "falling apart"?!  I have the nicest lawn on the block.  This house gets painted on a regular basis - that particular shade of white is expensive, too.   "Marble Sepulcher".  And the application process is very labor-intensive.”  

"May I come in?" 

"Not right now.  I'm pretty - "

"What's that smell?" 

I step back and do a "turn'n'sniff". 

"I don't smell anyth - " 

He's standing beside me. 

"You raising livestock in here?" 

"Hey, I find that statement, uh, olfactionally discriminating.  What a person does in the - " 

"Why are there holes in the wall?" 

"That's - that's an anger management technique that -  " 

"And the trash and garbage stacked in all these piles.  A new recycling technique?" 

"Listen, You need to lea - " 

He turns to me.  There's a sadness in His eyes as He points. 

"What's that oozing from under the door over there?" 

"What - what door would..." 

I follow His finger.  That door.  To that room.  A room I've been trying to clean out for years.  And it keeps getting worse.  No matter what I do.

His voice is gentle. 

"I can clean that room. And the entire house.  It'll be place where you can live unafraid.  A place where you can invite others in.  But you must give it, all of it, to Me." 

"Give?!  My house?!  Listen, I worked hard for it...and...okay, okay, it needs a bit of cleaning.  On the inside.  But You saw the outside, right?   Marble Sepulcher.  And those rhododendrons.  They're very pricey. 

He looks at me.  There's something in His gaze.   Not condemnation.   Not pity.   More like - love.   A direct, intense love.   Pure and bright as the sun. 

I start to crumble. 

"Why don't we do this?  I'll let You do some cleanup and in exchange I can...uh, do something for You.  Kind of a quid pro quo deal?   One hand, you know, washes the other." 

The love in His eyes grows more intense. 

"No.  You must give it all to Me.  Everything.  Even that room.  The trash, the garbage, the rhododendrons.  Everything." 

The idea of bargaining is gone.  I hear myself pleading. 

"But can't we share it?  You and me, we - " 

"No.  It can be your house, or it can be My house.  It cannot be our house." 

He holds out a small business card.  It's blood red. 

"When you decide to sell, let Me know." 

I take the card.  There's nothing on it.  He steps outside.

"Hey, how do I - " 

He smiles back as He waves. 

"I'm never far away.  Just stand in the doorway, hold up that card….and I'll be here."

All content copyrighted by Dennis R. Doud. Website designed by Isaac Doud.