When God Closes a Door…
My kids always seem to know what they want.
Milk. Snacks. A blanket. Socks. More snacks.
And that’s just at bedtime.
They’re pros at wanting stuff.
It’s like they’re hard-wired to desire what they think will make them happy.
Take it from my son. He’s only eight-months-old and can’t even speak yet, but he has the gift of knowing what he wants and communicating it clearly. (If you don’t believe me, watch what happens when Mom walks out of the room.)
He has also recently entered the get-into-everything phase. He army crawls like professional militia and can turn on the turbo jets when he’s hunting something down.
The other day, for instance, I was unloading the dishwasher. For the past eight months, this has been a relatively easy task. But with Sergeant Baby on the scene, it has gotten a bit trickier. He crawls into the dishwasher (literally, into the dishwasher, y’all) and one time I even had to wrestle a butter knife out of his tiny, dimple-knuckled hand. It was like a horror scene from Chuckie.
Finally, I managed to wrangle the weapon from my infant and he went on his merry, little way—directly into the open cabinet filled with tupperware. (I had tossed a few plastic bowls in there and darted away when I saw my son wielding a knife.)
He reached for the biggest, glassiest baking dish, but I pulled him away and closed the cabinet door.
And he did not like that.
The kid doesn’t know what a baking dish is—heck, he doesn’t even know what glass is—but by golly, he knew he wanted it. He had no idea what danger and destruction could have come from playing with butter knives or glass bakeware.
All he knew was that he wanted them.
Yet, as his Mom, I closed those doors for him out of love.
Aren’t we adults exactly the same way?
We’re pros at wanting stuff.
And we always seem to think we know exactly what we want.
A spouse. A new car. A promotion. A bigger house.
I, for one, dream of finding someone to represent and publish my dystopian novels and children’s books.
But, so far, God has closed those doors.
At first, I whined and shouted.
But what if God did open those doors? What if He decided to give me everything I wanted?
How would the reality of being a published author affect my life? My marriage? My kids? And my ability to tend to all of those things? How would it affect my heart? My spirit? My faith?
The answer: I have no idea.
I have no clue what it’s like to be under the demands of a publisher. I have no idea if it is good for me right now or if it will shatter my already-chaotic life into a thousand pieces of sharp glass.
It’s like I’m hard-wired to desire what I think will make me happy.
I’m programmed to pursue sharp knives and fragile Pyrex. And I truly have no foresight of what will happen when I get what I want.
But the only thing that will bring true joy to my life—and to all of our lives—is not our will, but God’s.
So I’ve learned to stop asking for things—or at least, I’ve stopped trying to pummel through closed doors on my own strength. After all, when God closes a door, He does it out of love. So now, I’ll simply back away, grateful for the blocked road with a new prayer pouring from my heart.
God, keep closing all the doors I’m not supposed to walk through.