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  • Writer's pictureCasey Garner

The Doors of Life

Updated: Sep 19, 2023

On the precipice of the future, I glanced into the past;

aware of all that had been which could not last.

Moving into the realm of expected dreams,

I found myself roaming in the realm of in-betweens.

In the valley of decision, in the corridor of doors;

long and lit with innumerable thresholds to explore.

Each door was nicely ordained and trim,

and cut into each one was a tiny window to peer within.

In the foggy apertures of that long-forgotten hall,

awaiting the echo of a long-expected call,

I was given short glimpses of promised futures to be,

and I desired to see all of them to cheat destiny.

Through one window I saw an older version of me,

whittling away upon a log with a child on his knee;

but suddenly the pleasant scene was replaced,

by my pleading and anguished reflected face.

Glancing down I realized the door was ajar,

and quickly I stopped the future from spilling very far.

Be careful, be prudent, ponder the possibilities,

through the windows I will see what is here for me.

In one I saw a man storming a beach to reclaim stained sod;

in another I saw a missionary freely giving up his life to God;

in another I saw a teacher guiding his students to new heights;

in another I saw a husband cherishing his wife with delight.

Each door presented a shadow of what could be;

and none were completely clear, nor gave a picture of full reality.

The length of time which elapsed in that silent hall;

felt like an eternity of eternities though my watch was stopped through it all;

the future waits for no one, and the past pesters and jests;

while the present is silent giving no respites.

A decision must be made, I muttered, I cannot stand the suspense;

however, I cannot make a decision, my heart, a dreadful mess.

The choices, the anxiety, the vast potentialities of what could be;

I feel the weight of the unknown pressing in on me.

In that moment of desperation; in the hall of doors;

as silent as a whisper; a voice was heard.

That still small voice the prophets spoke of began to speak;

and all I could do was listen, and hear, and begin to weep.

The voice of divine guidance; Spirit-led,

all that inspires a saint to carry his cross to his death.

Death to the me which says all is mine;

death to the desire to rule instead of serving the Divine.

The still small voice spoke and I was free;

free to be that which God called me to be;

I walked through the door, ignoring the vision in the glass;

and accepted Christ's call and found true treasure at last.

The alarm sounds...and I awake;

the vision of the night recedes and I am oblivious to my fate.

I await that still small voice in my present day;

I pray that when He calls I will not turn Him away.

The memory of that night is fleeing,

and my anxious grasping at the dream is my pleading.

The truth of tomorrow is outside my grasp,

and I pray Truth will come now and free me at last.

But if He tarries it will only be for a time,

and I shall not forget, the voice is a gift of mine.

There is something wrong with this thought;

I realize now I am not speaking as I ought.

The voice of truth, this gift, this unrelenting sound;

never stops willing our Good with a love so profound.

God is always pouring His best into our lives;

and for me to say otherwise is to spout dreadful lies.

Forgive me God, for being ignorant of your voice;

To hear you, or not to hear you…is my choice.

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