I love doors. Old doors, new doors, doesn’t matter really. When I see a door like this, recognize the art and the beauty and the time taken to create such magic, I almost catch my breath. And I wonder. Why would someone spend that much time on a simple door? Why would someone spend that much money on it? You know that had to cost a fortune. Strange, isn’t it?
This door may be opened and closed a million times. Pounded on, kicked or jumped on by over-eager dogs, scratched by furniture and careless movers. Will those who walk through it recognize the beauty or will they be in such a hurry that it passes them by? And is it as beautiful as it seems? Really?
I wonder what lies beyond the door. I wonder what the threshold and entryway must look like beyond such magnificence. I imagine lavish furnishings, crystal lighting and rich mahogany floors covered with one or two Persian rugs. I imagine it to be a welcoming place, a refuge. A place of light and long open windows that provide stunning views of pastoral vistas that speak to the soul. All good things.
How surprised I would be to walk through that door and find the place empty. Ransacked perhaps. Beauty abandoned long ago, given over to dust and darkness, cobwebs and mold that seeps through the pores and refuses to retreat.
Doors can be deceiving.
They look good on the outside, sometimes. Sometimes we think we have only the one door to walk through. That it doesn’t matter what lies beyond. We’ve wanted it so long, imagined, hoped and prayed for it without ceasing, surely, surely it must be good.
Not always. And what if we walked past the door we were truly meant to open because this one was bigger, more beautiful…it seemed to speak our name, beckoning…and almost opened itself as we approached.
Careful. Choose wisely.
I often don’t. Choose wisely.
I barrel headlong into opportunity without thinking. I make decisions without praying. I am impulsive with my words. My feelings. I give too much too soon and wonder why later.
I have walked through the wrong door more times than I care to think about. But thank God, thank God, because He provides a way out. Always. Sometimes not right away. Sometimes I have to sit in that barren room surrounded by brokenness and cloying darkness until I realize I don’t belong in this place. It is not where I was meant to be. And I see there is another room, a room with a view of the ocean or the mountains or fields of lavender and sunflowers. A room I can enjoy, find peace and restoration. I can stay there if I want. All I have to do is give up the broken dreams, push them aside and move past them. Sometimes they can’t be put back together. Sometimes you have to climb over the heap of dreck and just leave it behind. And sometimes you have to move the rubble out of the way to find the door beyond it. But it’s always there. That other door. The one you were truly meant to walk through.