“But he was pierced for our transgressions, he was crushed for our iniquities; the punishment that brought us peace was upon him, and by his wounds we are healed.”
Someone once said God never closes a door without opening a window. In my life, I’ve found that to be true.
My daddy was a carpenter. He spent his life making windows and doors. I remember how he smelled like sawdust when he came home from work in his blue-grey work clothes. If you breathed too close to him one wayward shard of pine saw would almost always get sucked straight up your nose.
Like any little girl, I looked up to my daddy. But he was very flawed. He required much prayer. Loving him was often hard work. Longing for him to love me – that came easily.
There were shouts and screams. Violence and loaded guns pointed in threatening voices. Passing out on the couch from overdosing. I remember the day my daddy took a drill and screwed our doors in shut. Nothing was to get in. And no one was to get out.
But thank God he forgot the windows.
With little more than all we could toss in a small grocery bag. We grabbed that one little grocery bag and jumped.
Five . . .
Four . . .
Three . . .
Two . . .
One . . .
That was the longest three feet I had ever jumped. I seemed to fall forever into nothingness until my bare feet hit the wet grass below. That night we slept in our car. My feet still hurt from running on that hard gravel road to freedom. I can still feel the way the jagged rocks pierced my skin.
Fast forward the story to a new beginning, after a very violent end my father went away to prison for many, many years. The nails in our door stayed put. The nails had become comforting to us. They used to keep us in . . . but now they kept other things OUT. And even though he was 600 miles away in a maximum security prison –
We thought we needed the nails.
The nails stayed in for four years. Until one day when the light came streaming in through that very same window that we jumped from that early spring day. Against my mother’s wishes . . . I went to my dad’s old shop now dusty with age and took the very same drill that put those nails in from the shelf – and I drilled them out with all my might. I remember how the sawdust flew straight up my nose just like it had when I was younger fresh from my father’s work clothes.
It took a long time to get used to the fact that things could come back through that door. Until I realized that even though this was not a door GOD shut, He still provided the window. Later on, even still I had the tools to open the door but because I was afraid . . . I let the nails defeat me.
I’m sure there have been plenty of windows and doors in your life too. I still struggle to see which doors are shut for real and which doors are only screwed shut because I allow them to be. How merciful that no matter what shuts that door . . . our father always provides a window of hope.
The nails in my door have had a very figurative meaning in my life. Even when something seems like it is strong enough to keep me imprisoned whether it is fear or something else entirely that stands in between me and life to the fullest . . .
My daddy’s nails put me in bondage . . . but my Father’s nails set me free.
If He can do it for me, someone so undeserving of such mercy, He can and He will do the same thing for you. I know you can defeat your nails. God is a God of amazing, knock-your-socks-off, how-could-there-not-be-a-God irony . . .
A forgotten window once told me so.