44 Reinhold-Friedrichs Strasse

i think in the mansion my promised room
will have a slanted ceiling one wide-swinging window
and a gently open door to a balcony swaddled
in draping wisteria and fat harmless bees
i think a spring breeze will blow back the curtain
in a bath of silence and it will all be showered 
in light the floor littered with light 
like lace like the patterns of promise
i think my books will be there all their underlined 
quotes swimming in the air like dust motes 
in a sunbeam all the words i clung to finally come true
the bed will be gone because i will have found my rest
and certainly the air will be purple and fresh
i think i will stand in the doorway
i will know what i am seeing and i will remember
but there will be no more pain

my photo

44 Reinhold-Friedrichs Strasse was our house in Germany the second time—half a house, really, the building split down the middle with a wall so thick we never heard our neighbors. The wall extended outside, too, shielding our front patio from theirs and enclosing our little cobblestone path from the carport to the main door. The patio was covered in rose bushes that turned it into our own botanical garden for a couple weeks in late summer, and the carport was draped with wisteria. My room had an exterior door to a small balcony above this European jungle. Because this was northern Germany, we had no air conditioning and no screens, and I spent much of year with the door cracked, a breeze blowing my gauzy curtain and the thick bridal scent continually into my room.

I spent a lot of hours in that room the two years I was there. I’ve droned on about that experience enough elsewhere, but it was where I laid on the floor listening to podcasts and audiobooks for hours on end because it was the only thing that didn’t exacerbate my pain. I watched full hours-long replays of the previous days’ Yankees games. I paced the multi-tone purple carpet as I memorized poems and Scripture passages, grasping at anything that kept my mind busy and body calm. I stared at my sloping ceiling in that awful moment in the middle of the night when you’re the only one awake and you can feel the solitude like a weighted vest.

It was the room where all my dreams, much of my agency, and the pillars of my security were stripped away.

It was also the most beautiful room I’ve ever had—the wide window overlooking the rose bushes and the European street, the balcony door, the birdsong and wisteria, the heated floors in winter, the way the angled northern light fell across my white crate bookshelves.

And it was the room where God met me. Mostly in the way he met Job but also in the way he met the woman at the well and Mary in the garden. The way he met Jacob as they wrestled till dawn.

So I like to imagine that this is the room I’ll see first, when everything is made new at the end of time.¹ The wrestling room. The room of pain, the room of blessing.

People argue about whether we’ll remember what happened here on earth when we’re in heaven (or really, the new heavens and new earth), and I say yes because memory makes meaning. Remembering is precious and powerful and I don’t want to forget what happened here—in this life, in that room. The shadow proves the sunshine, as my favorite band says. To stand in that room again, with all the promises it seeded finally flowering beyond what I could’ve imagined, with all the pain of it buried and reborn, is far, far better than to stand in some alien blank-slate space.

I know memories can destroy us. I know our bodies will go to incredible lengths to keep us from certain memories because they must, to survive. But I believe one day we will be able to remember fully, and it will not break us.

So now, if you’d trust me with it, I’d love to know: what’s your room? When you imagine your room in the mansion (setting aside the theological questions of whether it’s a literal mansion because yeah it’s not—and that’s not the point), what room or place do you see?

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In Other Words…

Goodreads reviews:

I’m rather behind on my 2024 goal, but I have been reading books I really want to read, instead of just whatever is around, so that’s a reading life success! I’ve recorded fewer 5 stars reads this year, but there have some been many solid, immensely worthwhile 3- and 4-star reads, so hopefully that just means I’m being more judicious with handing out 5s.

Recent reviews:

• Tomorrow, and Tomorrow, and Tomorrow by Gabrielle Zevin (3.5 stars)

• Surprised by Oxford by Carolyn Weber (3 stars)

• How to Know a Person: The Art of Seeing Others Deeply and Being Deeply Seen by David Brooks (4 stars)

Burst of Light:

I am so honored to be included in the beautiful collection of poetry that Alexis Ragan has put together in her newest journal, Burst of Light! The vision behind this collection, the original art and photography, and, of course, the other poems are all stunning. I recommend reading through it as a way to savor these last few weeks of summer. Also, fellow poets, check out the lovely community of artists she is building on Instagram! My poem is called “the dog days are over” and yes, that is in reference to Florence + the Machine’s wonderful song. ;)

A note about this space:

One of my goals with this substack is to motivate myself to write more frequently. I've fallen off of that a bit in the past few months, but that is changing! I’ve created a bimonthly posting schedule (as in, twice a month—we’ve got to make these words clearer!) for the rest of the fall, and you have my permission to hold me accountable if I veer off it. ;) As always, the fact that anyone takes the time to read my words is astonishing to me and a great gift.

to staying awake,

Aberdeen

1. This is the verse I’m using to build this metaphor: Jesus is talking to his followers about how he’s going to leave them soon—but they don’t need to be afraid, because: “My Father’s house has many rooms; if that were not so, would I have told you that I am going there to prepare a place for you? And if I go and prepare a place for you, I will come back and take you to be with me that you also may be where I am.” The image of a mansion with many rooms for Jesus’s followers is a popular one, and while I don’t think it’s referring to a literal building, I do think the comfort he’s offering is grounded in physicality: there is a physical place where we will be with Jesus, in the flesh, that we are going to. The end of the story—of ours individually, of humanity, of the world—is good, and the particular pains and pleasures we experience now will somehow be redeemed and restored.