Coming Home

How many doors have you held the knob of with palms in trepidation of what's behind? What door have you walked towards only to find your knees giving at its steps? And do you remember the door from which you first stepped out of? 

Did you shut it behind you, is it locked? Do you check your pockets for the comfort of the key upon the clock? Or have you left the door unlatched, in trust of other feet trudging by its side but never to enter? Yet, perhaps even slightly ajar to welcome in your maybe one day muddy feet in the chance of a storm . . . on you or another.

Where is the door to your home? Or have you forgotten its face in the matryoshka of one opened and another closed? And if your home nestles in others, how and when do you stand by their door? Do you meet them where they are, listening after a knock for their response or do you unlock to enter in assumption of availability?

When our minds are robbed by intrusive thoughts, it might strike us to shut its doors to knock on another's. Yet they, too, have something stirring behind their door. Sometimes there are hearts who house us still but cannot open its doors to us in their inability to come home to themselves. We must be home in ourselves to welcome in others. May this be a reminder that instead of shuffling for the key to his or her door when it pours, may we pat the key to our own in our heart-pocket. May we remember that door left ajar . . .