The Crowded House

I heard a knock at my door, and when I opened it, a crowd of sorrows stared at me with round, black eyes. They didn't look good, bald and ashen, and alien. Some of them stank.

I sighed, and let 'em in.

They stumbled into the living room, and immediately pillaged my bookshelves. There's nothing worse than a bunch of sorrows trying to read. I tried to distract them.

"Hey, is anybody hungry?"

They nodded their collective heads.

I hustled them into the kitchen, pressed my way through the throng and pulled the bacon and eggs out of my refrigerator.

"We're vegan," one hollow voice cried.

Great. A house full of choosy sorrows.

"How 'bout oatmeal?"

"Perfect," one of them said, slowly clapping his pale hands.

Jesus showed up.

The sorrows parted like the Red Sea to let Him in.

He helped me with the kitchen duties.

The sorrows watched in silence as we boiled salted water. I put the oatmeal in the stockpot, while Jesus stirred in milk and real butter.

"They said they don't do dairy."

Jesus said, "I know."

He was acquainted with sorrows, but he kept stirring anyway. Jesus added sugar, and one of them started in on complex carbohydrates. He silenced them saying:

"You could use something sweet."

We fed them one by one, sat them on the couch, and listened to their problems. I cried with every sorrow. They droned on, exhausting me. I put my head on Jesus's shoulder.

"There are so many of them," I whispered. He gave my arm a squeeze.

When it was time for them to leave, Jesus and I saw them to the door. We kissed each one and told them to be good. We waved and smiled, and Jesus, with His irritating hospitality, shouted, "Come again!"

I glared at Him, but He smiled, and shrugged.

I can't resist Him when He smiles.

When the last one had faded from view, Jesus pulled me back into the house and closed the door behind Him.

"Look at this place," I said, discouraged.

Dirty dishes piled everywhere, books scattered like ashes, the couch cushions sunken from the weight.

"What a mess," I said, feeling every bit like a sorrow myself.

"I'll clean it up," Jesus said, picking up stacks of bowls in His strong, carpenter arms. "Why don't you have a bit of nourishment?"

I nodded my heavy head, and ate the last of the oatmeal right out of the pot.

It was very sweet.

It helped me to sleep.

When I awakened, everything was clean. The sun shone through the open windows. The wind lifted curtains, with kind, delicate fingers.

Red roses in every room.

I looked around, stretched and smiled, sated and warm.

I decided to paint the shining white walls any color I pleased.

Mair