The Doors Were Left for You

A few steps lead up to the doors.

Nothing dramatic. No grand staircase. Just enough to bring you close.

Someone stained their contrast boldly on purpose.

Against white walls and green grass, they do not disappear.

They are meant to be noticed.

God is like that with people.

Many of us learned that staying safe meant becoming smaller.

Lowering our voice.
Softening our needs.
Taking up less space.
Leaving parts of ourselves outside so the room would stay calm.

We learned how to stand at thresholds.

How to hover instead of enter.

How to be grateful for crumbs and call it humility.

But Christ does not meet people from behind closed doors.

He stands in openings.

Unhurried.

Unfolding His arms.

Making space.

The invitation of Jesus is rarely loud.

It is steady.

“Come to me,” He says—not after you become easier, quieter, or more impressive.

Come as you are.

With the parts you hide.

With the questions.

With the ache behind your politeness.

You were never meant to abandon yourself at the entrance.

You do not have to leave your voice, your limits, or your honesty on the steps.

The invitation is still there.

Waiting.

This is what self-respect begins to look like in Christ.

Not arrogance.

Not demanding.

Just staying.

Remaining present in your own life.

Believing you are allowed inside.

There are seasons when approaching God still feels frightening.

When faith was once tied to performance.

When church spaces were complicated.

When love felt conditional.

Christ knows how to slow His welcome to match your breathing.

He does not rush frightened people through doorways.

He waits.

If today all you can do is stand nearby, that is still movement.

If you can only lift your eyes, that counts.

If you can whisper instead of speak, He hears.

You are not late.

You are being met.

The doors were left open for a reason.