I had a dream once that I came to an empty apartment. The door was standing open, marked with crime scene tape, which I promptly ignored and pushed my way inside. There was blood everywhere. Someone had been murdered here – and not just a quick slit throat, they had been brutally murdered. There were signs of altercation, things knocked over, and the blood formed a vague sort of trail going into all the rooms of the house. Yet the feeling I had while I stood there was not one of terror. Not was it one of disgust, or even shock. I felt an incredibly welcoming, warm feel in this room, like being in a small old church. “Welcoming” really is the right word – it felt like I was supposed to be there, as if the room itself deeply wanted me to be present inside of it. I felt so comfortable here.

I realized when I woke up that the dream had been about Jesus. I had stood inside of Him. His physical aspect ripped and torn, His heart inside of Him still continued to make a soft, sacred place for me to stay.

There was a time in the past where having a crucifix over my door would have been strange for me. It’s a violent image of torture, there, right in your face, every time you go through the door. But it’s actually become quite comforting for me. The level of suffering doesn’t cause anxiety for me to look at, but the opposite: I know that I am loved and welcomed by Him. No matter how brutal his circumstances became, there was still a little heart-shaped garden inside His soul that was set apart for me since the beginning of time.

Thank you, friends, for reading.