Here in this room

Our daughters were in dire need of logical consequences paired with a good life lesson, and so we banished them to their rooms for a bit.

I wasn’t surprised by the sulking that followed the announcement, but something Roxie said to her dad after spending some time alone has me carving out space for some solitude of my own:

I think I’m going to ask God what He wants to do in my heart while I’m here in my room.

Her words trigger a stream of memories that come calling in quick succession. Times when I found myself in isolation—intentional or forced, alone with myself or in a crowd, but on my own nevertheless.

• Hiking up a mountain in silence with a group of women I’d never met.
• Frozen in a bustling airport when the phone rang with news that threatened to stop my heart.
• Staring at a blank page with nothing but a 72-hour time clock and a committee of graduate professors standing between me and a Master’s degree.
• Searching for lyrics with a deer-in-the-headlights look on my face and a microphone in my hand.
• Hovering between the night sky and the city lights in a care flight chopper with my little girl as its precious cargo.
• Poised at the end of a runway with the bar set at a school record-breaking height.
• Stepping off of a cruise ship with the phone to my ear, listening to an invitation to welcome a 15-year-old into our home.
• Pacing in the woods, emotions stirred to a boiling point—half praying, half ranting, and totally confused about the future.
• Sitting at the head of a conference table, contemplating the ripple effects of a decision that only I could make.
• Caring for five children of my own and dozens of other people’s kids while waiting for my husband to come home from an out-of-state job.
• Trembling before a podium, telling my story to a room full of women with their own stories to tell.
• Standing before a casket wondering how life keeps on going from here.
• Hunched over my mama’s ICU bed, crying out to the only One who could raise her up.
• Waking up in a blue state after going to bed in one that has been mostly red since before I was born.
• Resting my cheek on the cold bathroom tile, with my body in a turmoil that matched the wretchedness of my soul.
• Kneeling in a crowded altar at the foot of the cross, on the precipice of surrender.

A pattern emerges from the discord of seemingly random events, and the connection suddenly registers in my brain. There was a split second, a fork in the road, an escape hatch of sorts. In every instance and without fail. In times that have tested me most. In waiting rooms that I didn’t ask for and in closets I locked myself into by my own free will, there was always a choice. An opening. A door.

“Jesus said again, ‘Truly I tell you, I AM THE GATE for the sheep. All who came before me are thieves and robbers, but the sheep didn’t listen to them. I am the gate. If anyone enters by me, he will be saved and will come in and go out and find pasture.”–John 10:7-9 (emphasis mine)

“Don’t let your heart be troubled. Believe in God; believe also in me … YOU KNOW THE WAY to where I am going.” “Lord,” Thomas said, “we don’t know where you’re going. How can we know the way?” Jesus told him, “I AM THE WAY, the truth, and the life. No one comes to the Father except through me.”–John 14:1-6 (emphasis mine)

In every challenge, crisis, critical decision and life-changing moment, there is a door. The way  is unmistakably marked and unceasingly open. It’s an entrance to wisdom, peace, joy and the very life of God. The door is Jesus.

I think I’m going to ask God what He wants to do in my heart while I’m here in this room.