Two weeks ago, Glenn and I bought a new front door. My parents found the door at Habitat for Humanity, and after two days of sanding down the edges and transferring the hardware, the door now fits beautifully within the threshold to our home. Every morning and evening, as I walk with Denver, I take a moment to admire it. Glenn teases that when we move again, the door is coming with us. It may seem frivolous, but having a door with a big window felt and feels significant to me.
One of the differences that I have noticed living in a coastal, military town is that many of our neighbors simply live in their houses. While I can appreciate the absence of vanity, I also feel a sort of sadness for the visible signs of neglect and disorder. To me, the new door with its large window serves as an invitation to keep order within.
The vulnerability of a glass threshold allows the light to pour in during the day and light to spill out into the night.
I've given a lot of thought to the significance of thresholds this week. Recent events in Uvalde pressed questions like fingernails digging into a bruise...
How did the threshold of Robb Elementary fail in its purpose to protect her residents?
Who stood at the threshold to the building?
Who stood at the threshold to each classroom?
Where is our collective threshold for loss?
When will we reach the threshold for change?
What is on the other side of said threshold?
Is there a window in the door?
If so, does the light pour in or spill out?
Earlier this year, I reached a threshold of my own. Perhaps, this personal threshold served as further impetus to invest in a new door for our home. In early December, a night terror ignited an anxious thought that I could not shake. The thought trapped me behind a windowless door of shame. Without an aperture for light to filter through, I was forced to open a threshold within myself.
I thought I knew what faith was-- I thought I knew the shape of it. In grief, I had named each of its corners. In gratitude, I bathed in the pools of light that streamed through its beveled glass. But when the darkness settled over my mind, the light did not spill out from within. It was the inky darkness in which you could hold your hand in front of your face yet still fail to distinguish flesh from fiction.
While I wish I could simplify my experience with words, unfortunately, the complexity of the mind eludes such distillation. It took time, medical treatment, and the unconditional love of my family, but most of all, it took faith-- a threshold with a window that allowed light to pour in during the day and to spill out into the night.
Do you not know that you are a temple of God and that the Spirit of God dwells in you? 1 Corinthians 3:16
Faith is not just about absorbing sunlight; sometimes faith means finding the light within ourselves.
Where is the threshold of faith?
What is on the other side of said threshold?
Is there a window in the door?
If so, does the light pour in or spill out?