So I had every intention of writing a post when I got home about the concept of "God-inicdences" as my eastern friend calls them... more commonly known as coincidences, but not. This spirited friend does not believe that things happen by random chance or coincidence, but that God and the Holy Spirit very much have a say in it.
However, then I got home.
And to my horror, I had been broken into (in to?); there is nothing quite like the feeling.
Last Christmas, even though we "don't exchange gifts", I received an autographed/personalized novel from a local news anchor that my godmother gifted me. It had some coloured liquid spilled on it and as a result, is severely damaged. As is my latest season of the favourite television show as the discs were sitting next to my book.
For my last birthday, I received one of those picture frames in which you can frame a number of pictures at once from two of my sisters - so that wherever my career took me, I could take my family with me. One of the pictures appears to have been snapped off, thus breaking the frame.
But these are "things" and while some are more replaceable than others, I can find it in my racing heart to get over them.
What I can't get over is the fact that it appears to be an inside job. In fact, I know that it was my landlord as the door wasn't tampered with, yet opened with a key. I don't rent the whole house or even a floor... just a room. And yet, for a reason unbeknownst to me, they felt the need to let themselves into my personal space, remove property that is clearly not their own, and trample on things of meaning and personal value.
It seems to be a feeling that I cannot get over.
As a victim of sexual assault, I very much understand the notion of personal space... of sacred space that is my own and is safe. For me... that was my bedroom. The door had a lock. It was a space that I could return to at the close of each day to read, to write, to ponder, to celebrate successes or mourn losses. It is the home of sacred things like the homemade Hope Chest that my grandfather made as a graduation gift before he passed away. And the afghan that my Grandma knit as a gift to her eldest granddaughter... housing every shade of blue yarn she could buy because we were the only two people of that genetic descent that had blue eyes... none of her children or grandchildren with the exception of her and I... had blue eyes. Growing up, we often marveled at that bond we shared. "Angels have blue eyes" she would often say - when I either did something really great or ... really not so great.
It was my space.
I pay monthly rent and everything.
And everything.
I called my sister in hopes of having her talk me down and reassure me that I'm over reacting. "It's just a room" or "Get over yourself! It's not like they let one rip while sitting on your blanket" or maybe "Why don't you spend the night in my guest room?"... but she's out of town and really, I just need to breathe and remember that I am okay; I am alive; Tomorrow is a new day.
It is truly a horrible and vulnerable feeling - none quite like it, actually.
As I struggle to see any God-inidence in the events of my evening this evening, I think I just need to curl up in the blanket of blue.
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