Sacred Places & Spaces, Part I. Wise Basements.
This is part one of a series of posts I am going to write, discussing certain places and spaces on the Tabor College campus that became sacred and meaningful to me throughout the course of the past four years.
wise basements, part one.
I haven't met many people who like to hang out in basements,
especially the one shamefully tucked away underneath the aging halls of the East dormitory in the women's quad on the Tabor College campus.
But I, of course, am the exception.
So in the eloquent and classy words of Usher --- these are my confessions.
Maybe people don't venture down to the basement because they have heard the strange, elusive story about a drunken baby hiding in a crib with a chubby fistful of alcohol in one of the closets. Or maybe it's the stuffy smell, the disheveled seating area, the worn couches sporadically placed around the room, or the aging khaki colored walls decorated with outdated 80's graffiti.
Or maybe people don't go to the basement because of its silence -- a kind of quiet many feel threatened by because they have only taken time to live in a world of noise and anything else other than the sound of chaos is frightening.
The basement of east is a sacred space for me because it was were I learned how to really pray, the kind of prayers you feel like the Holy Spirit hand-writes with your tears as you cry out, then seals up in a well-used, ivory envelope and slaps a postage stamp with Jesus' face on it, and hand-delivers it to God.
The basement of east is where I found refuge in the stories of Old Testament sinners, where I linked spiritual arms with Jeremiah and Moses and Abraham and Joseph and in turn, grew on many different levels, but spiritually speaking, like a weed in an Amazon rainforest.
Perhaps it is fitting that the darkest and most difficult times I had at Tabor were spent seeking God's face in this basement.
After all, basements do become a place of refuge during a storm.
This basement was the underground well I had to run to each morning in hopes of being refilled, reaffirmed, refreshed. Otherwise, I would have cracked, quit, lost sight of the cross, lost sight of my purpose, my calling, my mission field.
It was where God asked me to surrender my basketball dreams so that He could do something greater in my life, something different, something necessary.
This basement was where I asked God to take away my love for basketball, because I knew I wasn't strong enough to give it up.
My favorite author, Shauna Niequist, dedicated a chapter to basements in her fabulously soul-nurturing book Cold Tangerines.
She relates basements to vulnerability -- the chamber holding all the things we don't want others to know, the things we want to keep covered and out of sight, fearful that if those we love saw what truly resided in the cob-web ridden basement of our hearts, they would no longer love us, because they have seen the deepest, darkest parts of ourselves - the parts we are most fearful of.
The basement of east is the place where I went before God, day after day, empty-handed. The place where I told Him I had nothing else to give, nothing important to say, nothing more to do than survive.
And between those thin places and tired old basement walls, He equipped me, molded me like clay, refined me, taught me, prepared me, strengthened me, but most importantly, reminded me that His love never fails and His truth eternally reigns, each and every day, which was enough to get me through one day at a time.
I'm not denying the basement of east is dirty and old, thick with stagnant air and unappealing decor, because it is. It has a creaky, low ceiling with a dirty window-well, dull light fixtures that never stop buzzing, a broken television set, and a musty smell that makes your noise crinkle in confusion, but mostly disgust.
But maybe that is what wisdom looks and smells like -- like a tattered coat with frayed edges, a wrinkled brow covered in dried sweat, because maybe wisdom is something you can only earn over a long period of time.
The basement of east represents a time when I had to struggle up the steep path of "why" -- it is the tangible place where trial and triumph, surrender and sweet redemption manifested their immortal and abstract selves in to one unfrequented, smelly underground space.
I believe it was where Jesus gave me the grace to start believing in myself again, despite the siege of whispering voices that tauntingly surrounded my shell-shocked heart with murmurs of short-comings, self-doubt, and lies.
Perhaps the basement of east is a place where I learned not to fear the silence, the shame, but rather get my hands dirty in the mud of personal experience and divine promises in order to reach down and pull out little gold nuggets of truth God was trying to teach me, along with handfuls of who He was shaping me to be, the woman who was non-existent before such a necessary, meaningful refining time of fire and authentic faith.
So where ever your basement is and whatever you have hidden there, don't be afraid of it. Don't run away from it.
Because who knows? That basement could be a special place where God does His most sacred work in the deepest parts of your own soul.
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1 comments
dude sarah. i too share a love for that basement. our tears are friends down there :) thank you for putting your feeling into such tangible, meaningful words. beautiful.
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