the art of the open door

I sit here on this quiet morning looking out over the hazy skyline of the city through big windows that let in a flood of light everywhere. These have been full days, wonderful days, challenging days. I find myself just on the verge of capturing many thoughts and feelings.

It has felt right in a way, diving into another culture, being over my head in a language, but beginning to feel the smallest pebbles beneath my feet. This past Sunday was beautiful—recognizing a couple dozen faces, seeing them light up with smiles when they saw me, going over and greeting them with cheek to cheek kisses, chatting for a few minutes.

Oh, but it was wonderful! Wonderful to sing among these believers, read the words up on the wall and know many of them, fumble through the pronunciation, but recognize truth all the same and praise my God with hardly more feebleness than usual.

I’ve learned that watching people, listening to their intonations, and observing their motions can be an education in itself. Yet those who have gone out of their way to welcome the stranger, to teach their mother-tongue to a stammering gringo—these are the ones who have taught me the most about what it means to fling doors open.

I’ve needed open doors to get to this place, and I’ve depended on the help, the interpretation, even the simple warm embrace of many. I know part of me will never want to leave this country, and perhaps part of me never will. The warmth and closeness with which these people live is overwhelmingly attractive, and the independence and reserve of my homeland seems a rather cheap, foolish thing in comparison. I can see how one who grew up in this culture and left would feel perpetually homesick and displaced, like a fish out of water. And as I begin to find my stride here in this South American country, it’s borne in on me how my own country is becoming a refuge for many who find themselves far more lost than I ever have or likely ever will.

There’s no telling where this adventure will lead. One thing—there’s a certainty growing in me that I want to learn well the art of opening my doors: opening my doors first to those in my home, giving them the best of my time, my love, my energies. I want to look deep in their eyes and know that in my family I have the closest of companions in this life.

I want to learn to give when I think I have nothing left, to teach when I feel like I’m the one learning, to put a meal on the table when I feel like I’ve been washing dishes all day, to read on the couch for hour when there’s an inbox full of emails waiting. I want to go to bed knowing there are little people who have seen and heard and felt the love of God through their mother that day. I want to be quick to repent, reckless in forgiving.

And after that, I want to learn to open my doors to friends and strangers. I want unbelievers to witness Christ present and alive. I want brothers and sisters to walk in and feel warmth surrounding them, feel free to be themselves, feel the joy of pilgrim companionship. I want this open-doored home to be a place where the Word is opened often, and people are quick to run to their Father in prayer. I want to learn the art of inviting strangers for dinner and seeing them leave as friends. There will be candles—lots of them, music always and, I hope, much laughter.

My Father has promised there will always be a place for me at His table, and that is a truth which has sunk deep, deep, deep into my heart of late, offering hope, comfort, and peace. It has become a thread which follows me everywhere I go and influences every conversation. To know I will never be a stranger to the One who my heart loves most is a security few ever experience, and a treasure many would give their lives to find.

It  is no stagnant thing—no, this is a thing which cannot remain hidden, for it is this pursuing love of the Father which forms the germ and provides the energy and perseverance of true love between men on a fallen planet. This knowledge of reconciliation with God brings together a family by forging blood ties which cannot be broken across impossible boundaries.

In a broad sense, I’m not entirely sure of all the reasons why I’m in this country learning a different language. I do not plan to spend my life here, and I do not know if I will speak Portuguese again after this stay. These months will be a short-lived labor, but halfway through I find myself humbled, encouraged, and changed. I know this time is not in vain, for it comes to me from the hand of my Father and, always, He guides His children in perfect paths.