The Red Door
I dozed in and out of consciousness. Daisy, my mixed breed terrier, slept with Jody and me, and she was restless. Closing my eyes, I tried to sleep a little more before getting up. It was before 6 AM, and I had the day off.
Drifting off, I saw a heavy wooden door in front of me spread across sawhorses. It was a project worthy of a master craftsman. I inspected it carefully, taking note of the marks of age and heavy use, weathering, and degradation. It would need planing, sanding, and restoration.
But I’m not a carpenter. This is too much for me.
Still, I could see this was an opportunity to create something beautiful and functional. It could offer entry to something significant.
I’ve always loved the red doors set into the walls of churches. They grace small timber frame country churches and massive stone cathedrals, and they never look out of place. They symbolize entry into relationship with God through the atoning blood of Jesus Christ. From within, they offer shelter and safety, a place of quiet retreat from the demands of everyday life.
This door should be red.
Maybe the door is my testimony. Can the simple act of witness and truth-telling be a door through which others can pass? Will refining and sharing my story also bring me across a threshold into a deeper, more expansive and generous life?
This is at once liberating and intimidating. Understanding my life, the depths of my sin, the value of being human, and using the gifts I’ve been given, that in itself is fraught with difficulty. But telling the story so that others can hear, understand, and use it as permission to tell their own will require tools I cannot wield on my own.
Could a simple testimony provide an opening through which others can enter the Kingdom of God?
