John 10:9
There are things only
children can see—things adults forget or choose not to believe. Only a few
grown-ups keep that childlike sight, choosing to believe despite how strange it
may seem in adulthood.
I am one of those
child-adults. I still remember when I first heard of it—when I first saw it. It
was unforgettable.
“Wait, what did you hear?
What did you see?”
I’ll tell you. But I must
start at the beginning.
As a little girl, I went
wherever my parents took me—grocery stores, supermarkets, the local library,
and church. Church was the most interesting place of all. I understood why we
went to buy food or borrow books, but church puzzled me. Every Sunday, people
sang together and then suddenly became silent when a man began to speak. They
nodded as if they understood everything. I didn’t. I just waited for Sunday
School.
I loved Miss Vera’s
classroom. She was kind and gentle, and being there felt safe.
One Sunday morning, on
our way to church, something happened. My father—usually a careful driver—lost
control of the car. We swerved toward a tree and missed it by what felt like an
inch. “Help us, Lord!” my mother cried. The car stopped. Dad was pale; Mom was
speechless.
The first thing Dad did
was take Mom’s hand and mine and pray, “Lord, thank You for helping us when we
needed You most. We praise You in the name of Your Son, Jesus. Amen.”
I knew he wasn’t speaking
to us—but to someone else. I had heard about God, yet I wondered: Who was this
Lord? Who was His Son? Why could no one see Him? What did He look like? What
did He sound like?
That morning in Sunday
School, Miss Vera showed us a poster shaped like a door. She read, “I am the
door. If anyone enters through Me, he shall be saved… and find green pastures.”
She explained that Jesus,
the Son of God, was the door—not one that leads to another room, but one that
leads to a place no one has ever fully seen: a place of peace, where sorrow and
hate cannot enter. But to go through that door, we must believe in Him and turn
away from sin—lies, hatred, dishonesty, disobedience.
I was astonished. Jesus
is a door? How could that be? Yet more than confusion, I felt longing. I wanted
to see that place.
That night, I asked my
mother why Jesus was called a door. She smiled and said He is also light and
love. He came to lead us out of darkness, to save us, and to give us eternal
life. We prayed together, and I fell asleep thinking about light shining in the
dark—because darkness had always frightened me.
That night I dreamed.
I stood in a long hallway
filled with doors. Behind each one were rooms full of toys and sweets. I wanted
to stay, but I was searching for Jesus—the door. I couldn’t find Him. I began
to cry.
Then I heard a voice:
“Come, child. This is the way.”
I followed the voice
until I reached a small wooden door—smaller than all the others. It seemed too
small for me to enter. But I remembered: I must believe. I turned the knob.
Light burst
forth—brighter than the sun. Beauty beyond words. And there He was.
He took my hand and said,
“This is yours forever. I will always be with you. Do you believe?”
“I do,” I answered.
I woke with a peace and
joy I had never known. I told my parents everything. They rejoiced and thanked
Jesus for loving us enough to take our place on the cross.
Years passed. I grew
older. Sometimes I was tempted to dismiss the dream as just a dream. But then I
remembered: Jesus said we must become like children to enter His kingdom. A
child does not analyze—she believes.
So I choose to believe.
I choose to trust the One
who loves me so deeply that He gave His life for mine, who opened the door to
heaven and calls me by name.
And you—have you heard
His voice? Have you found the door?
If not, seek it. Listen
carefully. You will hear your name.
Look for the door.
