open the door

even though my prayer slot had just begun, and even though i had a fairly sizable agenda to discuss with God, even though i often do not get to attend church because in our tiny gathering there are no other children but ours, and no other nursery but me, so that i was doubly looking forward to worshipping and talking and listening for one blessed hour Sunday morning without someone clinging to me,

even though

i pretended i didn't hear the first time,

when He said to me, in the silent of my heart as my homeless friend drank from the garden hose attached to the side of the boiler room:

when you were a stranger i invited you in,

i could not deny that was true.

so i invited dave into the prayer room.

to get out of the cold he'd seeped in all night long.

to be in the Light and the warmth of Jesus.

i invited him in and made a fresh pot of coffee. 

i told him he could join me in prayer. i thought if i kept my head bowed and kept praying, he would do the same.

i knew what would happen. i would ask him how i could pray for him, and he would evade and start in on the tired litany of how friend of the court is keeping him homeless, how the prospect of jail time keeps him drinking, how there's no point in getting a job because his wages will be garnished anyway, and all the while he would be ranting, there would be this pain beneath the pain that he would not allow to be healed. and any chance to actually pray would be shot.

which is precisely what happened. 

except that while listening to dave's familiar monologue, i realized: 

this tired litany is not his alone. i was the stranger who whined about the most ridiculous things over and over to the One who opened the door for me, who had much better things to be doing than listen to my spoiled self. what i said when He opened the door was insufferable much of the time; i know that. how costly it must have been, must be, for him to let me in all those years that i ranted and talked at him without letting him get a word in edgewise, then turned around and walked out with nothing really having changed in my life or my spirit. how maddening and how tragic.

and yet He opened the door. He opens the door. each time i knock. 

and He tells me to be like Him. 

and i realized Sunday morning that in order to be like Him i needed to glimpse the stranger i have been, first.

and then to remember that any grace i give that doesn't cost me anything, might not be grace at all. and that the only reason i am on this side of the door is because he let me in out of the cold time and again.

and after years of talking at Him then walking back into the cold, one day i suppose i stayed inside.

now being on this side of the door: i never want to leave.

and how it feels to be on that side of the door: i never want to forget.

::jenn::

Comments

[A Facebook User]

Oh Jenn,
What a beautiful little post. Thanks for your honesty and your transparency. I love the image of the stranger at the door... and truly, we are all the stranger. I still remember when, years ago, you told me that my family was my primary mission field. The same is true for you, I'm sure. I pray God will sustain you as you do His work, both in your home and in your neighborhood.
peace,
April Kuiper

[Susan]

I think you learned more through the interruption than you would have in the silence. I am deeply challenged by what you said.

"now being on this side of the door; I never want to leave.
and how it feels to be on that side of the door; I never want to forget"

it's like:

sitting at His feet, I never want to leave
being held in His nail-pierced hands, I never want to forget

it is the golden rule with skin.

love you deep

[prior]

:)