Hallowed Walls

If walls could talk, they would probably be pretty miserable at times, just having to sit there being silent even though they might have something to say. It could be torture at times to have to sit there silent, no matter the circumstances unfolding right by you. Knowing that you can talk, but you mustn't just because walls are not expected to talk. It would be enough to really mess you up. It would be enough to drive you crazy. It would be enough to make a wall do things. How do I know this? Because I am a wall.

You are probably wondering “a wall where?” and hoping I am the wall in The Oval Office, or maybe a wall in the hotel room Marilyn Monroe died in. I’m sorry to disappoint you, but I am not. I am a wall inside the master bedroom of a 4 bedroom family home in a suburb of Dallas, Texas. I am a simple, unassuming wall. I have enjoyed a simple and humble life since I was built 30 years ago. I am not in a fancy building, nor do I have a fancy appearance. I have remained a tasteful shade of eggshell white, my only decor has always been charming family photos, and the occasional Thomas Kinkade. This is how I enjoy being attired, quietly and without ostentation.

I had been living this simple, quiet life for most of my years, until several months ago when a new family moved in. The Barnettes. The Barnettes were a young married couple with four small children. I do not know the ages of the children. I am a wall, not a pediatrician, but I do know that they were all young enough to have the habit of screaming loudly and often, and also small enough to still need the assistance of their mother to do things like take a bath and put socks on. One of them was still too young to walk or crawl.

I was perfectly fine to have a new family, I had thought. Before they moved in, they had a party with people who brought paint and paint brushes. This pleased me very much, because I’d not had a fresh coat of paint in a while. I was surprised though, to see them bring the paint and brushes to me first. Normally people start painting on the opposite wall and work their way around to me, but I seemed to be the only wall they were concerned with. And then I felt nothing but pure horror when I realized why.

I have enjoyed being a tasteful white my entire life. I have never wanted anything but to be a shade of white. The Barnettes, however, decided to violate me with a vulgar shade of purple. It was the same purple as that singing dinosaur on the TV. Not only did they decimate me with purple, they left the remaining walls in the room untouched, despite the desperate need for a touch-up.

They left me overnight to dry, and I thought the purple would be the worst of it. I regret to inform you that I was so wrong. The Barnettes returned the next day with hammers and thick nails, along with 137 crosses. They drove 137 thick nails into me, and then placed crosses on those nails. I was now purple, and wallpapered with crosses. The woman looked up at me when they were finished and said something about how I glorified Jesus now, and her husband agreed. This was the first time I found it difficult to remain silent despite my ability to speak. I wanted to tell them right then that the only thing I glorified by looking like this was the Dollar Store clearance rack.

The next day, they finished moving furniture in and started settling in. The couple’s bed was placed against the opposite wall facing me, and no furniture was pushed up to me. I was left open. This has never happened to me before. I felt naked.

Several weeks went by, and I was hopeful, but no improvements. Neither husband nor wife realized how ridiculous I looked in the outfit they put me in. I was just left there like a clown. And that’s what I felt like, a clown. I was their cluttered purple clown. And all I could do was sit there and stew, as walls are not supposed to talk.

After those several weeks, the Barnettes children really started being a headache for me. The hall bathroom had some sort of issue, so the entire family started using the bathroom in the master bedroom, which is just to the left of me. So I had to listen to all the piercing and deafening screams of those children whenever they had to perform any little act of hygiene. Brushing their teeth, taking a bath, pooping in the potty… they all despised doing these things and let their mother know exactly just how much by way of constant, relentless screams. Since they were all so little, everyone had to enter and stay together in the bathroom to make sure no one got into trouble while the other one was bathing or peepeeing

And the mother was no better than the children. The mother would cry every day. She would wail, as if her best friend just died every single day. The mother would beg and plead for her children to cooperate. The mother would sob and heave with tears. The mother would cry out for help from someone named Jesus, but Jesus never showed up to help her.

I was hoping the father would do something about this unbearable noise that kept coming from the bathroom. One of the families that lived here before had a father that would take off his belt and whip the children until they stopped the racket, but this father is never here. This father is at work from early in the morning until it is dark. And then all he does is eat the dinner the mother makes, and then head for bed. The children scream the entire time he is home, but he does not seem to notice. The only time I see him with the children is when he has them all come and talk to the sky with him before bed. Even then, the brats are screaming. The mother constantly tries to quiet them while the father tries to talk to the sky, but they’re never all quiet at the same time. One of them is always screaming. When all four of them are screaming, it's enough to make me want to scream, which I have never done before.

One day, while all the screaming was going on in the bathroom, the mother was again crying and asking that Jesus person for help. Desperately, like usual. Then I could tell she gave up. She let the children run out of the bathroom, and she left the baby one that does not walk or crawl laying on the floor to scream. She lay heaped over her knees on the floor, heaving, screaming and crying. And then she went silent. She was silent for quite a while before she got up. She lifted her head and had a cold, glassy look in her eyes. Then she picked up the screaming baby-sized one and walked out of the room.

I got to thinking after that, maybe the mother is as miserable as I am at this point. Maybe there is something I can do to help her. I’ve never had a true desire to talk to anyone before, but for some reason with this woman I do. I have to help her escape this miserable situation. She was clearly as miserable as I am, perhaps more, so why shouldn't I help? So when she came into the room with the children later and started another round of pottying and bathing, I called out the name I was pretty sure she went by.

“Emily”

I could tell she stopped still for a minute, but then she went back to shampooing a child’s hair. I tried again.

“Emily”

She stopped still again. This time for longer, but still did not answer. I had to try a new tactic.

“Emily, I know you can hear me. Rinse your child’s hair out then come sit on the bed and let's have a talk.”

Emily completely froze then. And then she slowly finished rinsing the child’s hair, then got him out of the bathtub and dressed him. She took all the kids out of the room, and then came back into the bedroom and sat on the bed. The children were then screaming from the other room.

“Emily, why are you doing this? Why are you keeping children that scream and make everyone miserable?”

Emily’s eyes were wide and terrified. I could tell she was too scared to speak, so I told her, “It’s alright, Emily, I’m just trying to save you. To save everyone.”

Emily was breathing heavily and looked panicked. She was looking all over the room as if she was trying to find me. She had no idea I was right in front of her. No one had ever heard a wall speak before, she had no idea what I was or where my voice was coming from. I had to find a way to make her trust me.

“Emily, I’m here. I know it’s hard to believe I am here speaking to you, but you have to trust me and believe in me so that I can save you.”

Emily shook, and then whispered, “I believe in you.”

“Emily, why do you let your kids behave that way? They cause so much suffering, what they do is not right.”

She inhaled, then let out a sob before she said, “Am I not raising them in a way that pleases you?”

“Well, no, Emily. I don’t like the way you’re raising the kids at all. They're bad kids. The worst kids I’ve ever known.”

She then made a look like I just kicked her in the gut. She stopped breathing. She didn’t start breathing again for a while, and then she asked, “What should I do to save my children from displeasing you? How do I become righteous?” She seemed very calm now. So calm. And then it occurred to me that I had not actually thought of a solution before starting this conversation. Maybe we could solve things together.

“You need to simply silence them.” There, I thought. That’s all she needs to know, now she can figure it out from here.

“If they are silent, that will please you?”

“That’s all I ask.”

“How do I silence them? Tell me your will.”

That got me thinking, because I had no idea. What makes people stay quiet? I really had no idea. I tried to think of a time when someone who lived here became totally silent, and then I remembered: Old drunk lady.

The first person that lived in my house was an old woman who loved vodka. She only lived here for a few months before she became totally silent, and then new owners moved in. She only ever took showers, and then one night, for some reason, she took a bath instead. She went into that bath holding a glass of vodka and singing, but then all of a sudden she went totally quiet. She stayed completely silent for over a week, until people showed up, then moved her out on a rolling cart inside a bag. I don’t know where they took her, maybe she realized this house was too big for her, and she moved to an apartment. I never really thought too much about it, but I do remember that bath made her totally quiet.

“We could try the bathtub, maybe.”

Emily sat there staring at the ground for several minutes, before quietly saying, “We demolish arguments and every pretension that sets itself up against the knowledge of God, and we take captive every thought to make it obedient to Christ.”

“Uh, okay” I thought. And I was trying to think of how to respond to that when she got up off the bed and walked out the door. Less than a minute later, she returned with the biggest child. She carried him into the bathroom, where she had just bathed the other child, and placed him into the bathtub that was still filled with water. She mumbled a bunch of stuff to herself, then pushed the child’s head under the water and held him down. After several minutes, she picked him back up, carried him out of the bathroom, and laid him on her bed. He was silent. It worked.

She did the same thing to the next three children, one after another, then they laid all next to each other on the bed in complete silence. It worked.

I was so happy and proud of myself for what I had helped her do, and how we were both going to be so happy from now on. Next, I was going to tell her how she should take all these hideous crosses off of me and paint me white again. But I never got to do that. Because after the father came home, there was such a ruckus. If I thought it was loud before, I had no idea how loud it could actually get. Goodness, what a production happened after that.

The mother and father moved out pretty quickly after that for some reason, which turned out to be good for me in the end. The house has been empty for a really long time now, and I’ve enjoyed total silence. Someone came and took all the crosses off of me, but I’m still purple. I’m purple with 137 little holes in me, but I’ve learned to accept it. This is far better than screaming children.

Sometimes I think about how a new family with screaming children might move in, but that thought does not bother me. I know that I know how to take care of it if it ever happens again. I know what works.