work God was doing in all of our lives. When we said goodnight at the end of the evening, we had a hunch we’d made some lifelong friends.
After the dishes were dried, I sat on the couch in the living room, inspecting the table.
Maybe it’s the table. It can’t be the table
, I reasoned.
There’s no magic in the table. There’s absolutely no magic in this table
.
Wait a minute!
My mouth cracked open. I traced the last ten months in my mind. From waving to neighbors across the street to bolting out of their driveways after dropping off a loaf of bread to trite conversations in stiff settings, we had kept others at arm’s length. Up until that point, I knew
what
we were missing but not
why
we were missing it. I embraced the shallowness of a hundred “Hey, neighbor” conversations without ever letting my guard down. Even when I delivered challah bread, I never entered anyone’s home. The encounters were brief, limited, safe. Though I beckoned people with one hand to come closer, I extended the other palm out holding them back. Instead of creating appropriate boundaries with people that allowed for healthy, life-giving exchanges—as my counselor recommended—I built walls that kept people out.
In our living room, however, I risked vulnerability. This room is the space where I take naps, snuggle with my husband, cry after a bad day. In the kitchen, I’m “Margaret, the affable host,” but in the living room, I’m just Margaret. Just me.
To rediscover the wonder of friendship, I had to change. Rather than holding people back, I needed to invite them in. My hands required unclenching and my soul exposing. I had to learn to be more freely myself—more focused on the rewards of good relationship than the possibility of being hurt. When we gathered around the table in our living room, my heart laid out a welcome mat.
The temptation to live a guarded life allures everyone, but walls constructed for protection ultimately lead to isolation. When we develop healthy boundaries and a sustainable rhythm in life, we have more—not less—time for deep, meaningful relationships.
Receiving the life God has for you requires vulnerability. God wants you to build a life without walls—one in which he is your protection—allowing you to live with arms wide open, where you can know and be fully known. Such a place doesn’t exist without moments of hurt, rejection, and misunderstanding, but in this posture, you lay hold of the wonder of friendship God intended all along.
Though our living room table isn’t magical, as I sit on the couch, feet perched on its wooden frame, and review its scars, I recognize the antique as symbolic of the wonder God had been awakening in my life. The table is physically composed of rich and meaningful imagery, its surface an actual door—representative of opportunity and invitation, hope and possibility.
Doors line our lives. Glance down the hallway of an apartment complex or a suburban street, and doors align in every direction. Some wait to be opened; others remain shut no matter how long fists beat against their frames. Much of life is spent selecting which doors to knock on, enter, and exit, and muchof our time around our table is spent discussing those choices.
Doors are not the same as a room. We don’t live in doorways; we pass through them. That may be one reason Jesus drew on this rich symbol in his teachings—he knew the temporary nature of this earthly life all too well.
I am the door. I stand at the door. Choose the narrow door
. Jesus himself passed through the doorway of two worlds when he donned the uniform of human flesh. He used the imagery of a door, maybe one as heavy and worn as our tabletop, to beckon people to communion with God. 1 Through Christ, we can be ushered from the mundane and predictable to a whole new life and world.
When I reflect on my journey with God, I realize I’ve passed by a thousand doors in the form of opportunities but only entered a few.
After the dishes were dried, I sat on the couch in the living room, inspecting the table.
Maybe it’s the table. It can’t be the table
, I reasoned.
There’s no magic in the table. There’s absolutely no magic in this table
.
Wait a minute!
My mouth cracked open. I traced the last ten months in my mind. From waving to neighbors across the street to bolting out of their driveways after dropping off a loaf of bread to trite conversations in stiff settings, we had kept others at arm’s length. Up until that point, I knew
what
we were missing but not
why
we were missing it. I embraced the shallowness of a hundred “Hey, neighbor” conversations without ever letting my guard down. Even when I delivered challah bread, I never entered anyone’s home. The encounters were brief, limited, safe. Though I beckoned people with one hand to come closer, I extended the other palm out holding them back. Instead of creating appropriate boundaries with people that allowed for healthy, life-giving exchanges—as my counselor recommended—I built walls that kept people out.
In our living room, however, I risked vulnerability. This room is the space where I take naps, snuggle with my husband, cry after a bad day. In the kitchen, I’m “Margaret, the affable host,” but in the living room, I’m just Margaret. Just me.
To rediscover the wonder of friendship, I had to change. Rather than holding people back, I needed to invite them in. My hands required unclenching and my soul exposing. I had to learn to be more freely myself—more focused on the rewards of good relationship than the possibility of being hurt. When we gathered around the table in our living room, my heart laid out a welcome mat.
The temptation to live a guarded life allures everyone, but walls constructed for protection ultimately lead to isolation. When we develop healthy boundaries and a sustainable rhythm in life, we have more—not less—time for deep, meaningful relationships.
Receiving the life God has for you requires vulnerability. God wants you to build a life without walls—one in which he is your protection—allowing you to live with arms wide open, where you can know and be fully known. Such a place doesn’t exist without moments of hurt, rejection, and misunderstanding, but in this posture, you lay hold of the wonder of friendship God intended all along.
Though our living room table isn’t magical, as I sit on the couch, feet perched on its wooden frame, and review its scars, I recognize the antique as symbolic of the wonder God had been awakening in my life. The table is physically composed of rich and meaningful imagery, its surface an actual door—representative of opportunity and invitation, hope and possibility.
Doors line our lives. Glance down the hallway of an apartment complex or a suburban street, and doors align in every direction. Some wait to be opened; others remain shut no matter how long fists beat against their frames. Much of life is spent selecting which doors to knock on, enter, and exit, and muchof our time around our table is spent discussing those choices.
Doors are not the same as a room. We don’t live in doorways; we pass through them. That may be one reason Jesus drew on this rich symbol in his teachings—he knew the temporary nature of this earthly life all too well.
I am the door. I stand at the door. Choose the narrow door
. Jesus himself passed through the doorway of two worlds when he donned the uniform of human flesh. He used the imagery of a door, maybe one as heavy and worn as our tabletop, to beckon people to communion with God. 1 Through Christ, we can be ushered from the mundane and predictable to a whole new life and world.
When I reflect on my journey with God, I realize I’ve passed by a thousand doors in the form of opportunities but only entered a few.
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