Clearing out the cellar

Revisiting an old and painful memory with Jesus

I was clearing out the cellar recently and discovered something which I had hidden away. My recollection of why I had put it down there differed from that of my wife.

What I’m talking about, the thing I had hidden, you can see at the beginning of this article. It is a batik, made by a Tanzanian artist and which depicts one of the stations of the Cross.

It was given to me, when, after a short seven months serving as a mission partner in Tanzania in the late 1980s, my wife and I and our little son had to be medically evacuated back to the UK.

We had all suffered from malaria and our son, only 18 months at the time of our return to the UK, had lost a lot of weight, was suffering terribly from eczema, and we feared for him.

It was the best of times and the worst of times,as Dickens once put it.

The best included meeting some wonderful people amongst the missionary community and amongst the Tanzanians themselves. We saw some wonderful sights and experienced some amazing hospitality and kindness.

The worst included malaria of course, which was invariably the cerebral kind and if not treated immediately could result in death. We survived.

But that was nothing in comparison with the suffering I saw in the local hospital where the corridors and floors and rooms were filled with people dying of AIDS.

How we came to be repatriated is what I am going to tell you, and how this discovery in the dark corner of a cellar has spoken healing into my life.

But first…

Look again at the picture and ask yourself what is going on here? Look very carefully, examine every detail and ask yourself what does this picture mean? What does it say to you?

Hold those thoughts.

I thought I had understood the batik. I hadn’t .

And I had forgotten it. But God hadn’t.

When I told my wife that I had found the batik in the cellar I said that I thought it was a shame that she had wanted me to put it there.

She gently reminded me that in fact it hadn’t been her idea to hide the batik away in the cellar.

It had been mine.

I asked her how that came to be.

She told me that I hadn’t been able to look at it anymore. I had come to a place where it just made me feel low and unhappy and I didn’t want it in my sight.

She suggested that I went back into the cellar and bring it back up.

It was tucked away in the dark and damp corner and it took a little while for me to extricate it.

As I was doing this, I had one of those interior conversations that sometimes happen to me. It’s not that I hear voices in my head or that I have some kind of hotline to God; it is simply that with my imagination engaged in prayer, which happily occurs quite a lot these days, and with my background in drama teaching, it’s as if I’m improvising with the Holy Spirit, a conversation that God has been wanting to have with me for a while!

It went something like this.

So you’ve decided to take a look at this again have you?

Yes I suppose I have.

Do you understand why you have hidden it away all these years?

I think it’s because it reminded me of failure, of being broken, and of the disappointment and heartbreak of not being able to continue or finish something I started.

Who is that in the batik, David?

It’s you Jesus, when you fell carrying the Cross to Calvary.

Look a bit more carefully David. I have fallen but am I lying on the ground?

No, Lord, you look like you’re getting up again.

Do you recall that somebody came to help me?

Yes Lord, it was Simon of Cyrene wasn’t it?

Did anybody come to help you in Tanzania David?

Yes Lord.

And did you get back up again?

Yes, Lord.

So then what does that batik show you?

That you had been that way before me and that if it was ok for you to fall under the burden you were carrying, then it was okay for me too?

Keep following that thought, David.

It means that for you being faithful meant falling. But you got up again and kept going.

Go on. How does that apply to you?

I don’t know.

You do. Look, do you remember, David, how you decided to return to the UK?

Yes I do.

Would you like to remind me of the details?

But you already know them, Lord.

Of course I know everything, David but you’re the one who forgets and then gets the picture skewed. You need to remember how that decision came to be made.

Well, I was at the air strip, waiting for the light aircraft to bring in the disposable nappies from Kenya. For our boy whose skin couldn’t cope with the old fashioned towelling ones. The eczema, and the nappy rash, were so bad. There was this young white guy waiting next to me. He was a surgeon at the hospital, a MaryKnoll Father. He introduced himself and asked about me. I explained that I was the Bishop’s chaplain, and that I was married with a baby boy. He appeared surprised, almost shocked. He asked how it was going.

It was then that it all spilled out of me. The distress, the anger, the confusion. Was God asking me to sacrifice my son, like Abraham was asked to sacrifice his?

Of course I wasn’t David.

I know that now. The man carried a message for me.

So what happened next?

The young man invited me to have a word with him and his colleague up at the hospital. Which is what I did.

What did they have to say?

Well, they pointed out that the Mary Knoll Fathers would never take couples with very young children to do work in Tanzania because the health risks were too great.

Anything else?

Yes they helped me work out my confusion about Abraham, Isaac and all that. They made it clear that my first calling was to be a husband and a father and if I could discharge those responsibilities fully where I was, then whatever was left over in terms of energy and time - with that I could serve God. It was clear that I couldn’t discharge those responsibilities as a husband and father by staying in Tanzania. So I went home, picked up the phone and, within seven days, my little family was back in the UK.

So when you look at the batik now David, what do you see?

I see myself getting up again! I see that, just as Simon helped you, those two priest doctors were sent to help me.

So now, again, when you look at the batik what do you see, what comes to mind, David?

What comes to mind Lord is that you saw me and my situation and that you had compassion on me and my wife and my little boy.

Yes. I saw you fall. I know how that feels.

You didn’t judge me. It was I who judged me - I judged myself a failure. You weren’t disappointed in me. I was disappointed in myself. I didn’t love myself….But you? You just loved me and heard my cry for help.

That’s right David. I am glad we met up in the cellar. Sure it is important to clear out cellars. But cellar clearing is often more than taking physical rubbish to the dump. It can be a powerful metaphor for what I do. When I am given the opportunity, the invitation. When we talk, and I am heard.

Ah. I am beginning to get it. What a coincidence though, me finding the batik, and us having this conversation?

After all this time you really think it’s just a coincidence?

No. Wow. I am seeing things so differently.

Good. So do you notice anything that the artist has put into this batik that you haven’t noticed before? Since you are seeing so differently?

Yes Lord. In this batik you are black and you are faceless. Simon of Cyrene was black.

Perhaps colour isn't to be the focus here. Why do you think the artist left the face as it is, blank?

I’m only guessing here, Lord, but I think perhaps it’s so that the viewer can see himself there, as if his own face could be imposed on it. I thought it was created by a black artist for his people, but surely it’s for anyone, whatever colour they are, who thinks or feels that they are faceless and therefore not seen?

Like you felt, perhaps?

Yes. Like me. Like anyone going through a painful experience. Pain isolates the sufferer.

Are you going to take the batik upstairs now David?

Yes.

It’s interesting, isn’t it, David? How many people hide painful experiences in some dark corner of their memory or psyche, a bit like you putting the batik away in the cellar?

I didn’t realise that’s what I was doing when I put it away. I thought I was helping myself heal. But I wasn’t. Was I?

No. You weren’t able to face the pain. I understand. Good news though - I’m the healer, David.

Yes I know. Thank you.

You’re welcome. One last thing.

Yes, Lord?

Is your cellar empty?

No, there’s still stuff down there, but at least it’s tidy.

Not that cellar, David.

Oh. I don’t know. There’s bound to be something there…

I know, David. Do you trust me?

I always hope to…but it’s hard sometimes.

Well, with your permission may we carry on clearing that “cellar”, bringing things into the light so we can see clearly, through my eyes?

Yes. Lord. Of course…but what do I have to do?

David, this kind of cellar clearing is something you cannot, even mustn’t, do yourself. It’s too sensitive. So just relax. Don’t try. Don’t be afraid. Let me be in charge. Let’s keep talking. And I know how to treat bruised reeds and smouldering wicks, so you are in good hands…

*******************

Well, what might be hidden in your cellar? Is there something you push away, push down, every time it surfaces in your consciousness?

Don’t be afraid. Jesus knows. He is gentle. You can invite him to lead the way. He is humble and waits on your permission.

Yeah.

It might be dark down there.

But He is the Light.