When you grow up in foster care, you learn the language of doors.
Front doors that open with casseroles and smiles. Bedroom doors that close when the fighting starts. Office doors where decisions get made about your life by people who barely know your story.
Some doors shut softly. Others slam so hard they echo for years.
The hardest sound for me was the quiet click of a lock from the inside — not because I was kept out, but because I never knew when I was truly allowed in. Was this home temporary or permanent? Was this love probationary or forever?
There are kids right now standing on thresholds, holding their breath. They’ve been through so many entries and exits that they’ve forgotten what staying feels like. They’re waiting for a door to open — and stay open.
Jesus said, “I am the door.” Not a revolving one. Not one with conditions or visiting hours. He was saying, “I am the way in, and I don’t close.” That’s the difference between systems and the Savior. Systems have policies. Jesus has presence.
If you’ve ever wondered what holiness sounds like, it’s not a sermon or a song. It’s the quiet creak of a hinge that never again shuts a child out.
