The Door

I return to the path, remembering where I am—lodged in a dichotomy between what I want and what I need. I am on the path leading to You again. I take another step, standing up from my fall, and raise my eyes from the ground to the upcoming obstacles. I have reached a door. It stands high above me, towering among the trees surrounding me. It is dark oak, blending into the dark places of the scenery. Vines grow up the frame, curling towards the door, leaves flourishing with age, and bud sprinkling the tendrils—halfway between shriveling and dying and blooming into the most beautiful image in the forest. I realize my decision concerning the door will either kill or restore the buds. The door leads closer to You, and forbids turning back to look at what I want—a romantic relationship. The door signifies my decision—abandon myself, knowing You will lead me to Your best plan that I will enjoy most fully, or turn and run back to the other path that appears infinitely easier and enjoyable? What stands in my way is my emotions originating from my flesh. They lead me to complacency and despair, insidiously creeping into my mind as peace and happiness—deceiving me.

This is no decision truly, it is an act of commitment. I reach my hand out, grabbing the handle, turn it—and pull.

“No one who puts his hand to the plow and looks back is fit for the kingdom of God.” ~ Luke 9:62

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