Broken (in)

We sat on the floor, you and I, and broke this new house in.

You ate the cookies and I sipped my tea and together we feasted; on food, on words, on laughter.

I'd been tiptoeing around all day, still feeling like a stranger in these new surroundings, still unsure of whether there was room for me here.

I stirred the pasta and waited for you to arrive.

And you did, in your usual flurry of smiles and enthusiasm.

We set the table and ate, twirling spaghetti on our forks as we warmed back up to each other in the way old friends do.

By the time our plates were empty there was nothing small left about our talk.

Your brown eyes had grown serious as they fixed on mine, your head nodding as the words tumbled out of me.

We cleared plates and fixed the cookie dough, both of us still bursting with things to say, things we'd held onto for too long.

You helped fold the laundry and asked for advice.

I listened and offered what little I had to give.

We vetoed a movie; opted instead for open Bibles and open hearts.

You pushed me one way, I pulled you another and together, somehow, we steered each other back to the One who loves us most.

We wound up on the floor at 9:00, your legging-clad legs next to mine as we stooped down to pray.

We bowed our heads and put Philippians 4 into practice, each casting our anxieties before Him on behalf of the other, each doing it with reverence and gratitude.

You gave me a hug as you went to get ready for bed.

I hugged you back and let the thankfulness wash over me.

The house doesn't feel foreign anymore.

From now on this floor will be where you and I sat and prayed together; the bench where we made tea in a teapot; and the door where your cheery self walked in to make my day.

It's all broken in and I'm all broken -- in the best possible way.

Thank you, and please come back to break me some more.