The grief is heavy. I sit on my couch reliving the pain. Tears flow down my cheeks. Suddenly, a knock at the door startles me and breaks my sorrow. I lift my head up and stare at the door.
“Who could that be at this late hour,” I whisper to myself as I wipe the tears with a tissue. I wonder why they didn’t use the doorbell, then I remember it’s broken.
Another gentle knock on the door breaks my concentration. A light tapping as if wanting to disturb me, yet wanting to console me. I get off the couch, walk to the door and peer through the peep hole.
“Jesus?” I say half-aloud as if to convince myself. His face is warm and welcoming, filled with concern. I wonder why he would bother with someone as worthless as me.
This wasn’t the first time I’ve heard his knock. Many times I have stood at this door, my heart filled with inexplicable joy, my hand on the door knob. Yet I did not let him in.
My hand reaches for the door knob. This time is different. As I open the door to let Jesus in, I feel his warmth and compassion overtake me. I am still filled with sorrow, but his presence is a soothing balm.
We sit at the table and break bread together. Over a meal we talk about life, about suffering, about pain and rejection, about overcoming it all. He understands. His compassion is born out of suffering. His empathy for me is real. I find comfort in his presence, grateful this time I let him into my life.
© 2020, CGThelen
Behold, I stand at the door and knock; if anyone hears My voice and opens the door, I will come in to him and will dine with him, and he with Me. – Revelation 3:20 (NASB)