When Doors Open

I stood just inside my apartment, my ear pressed to the door, straining to listen to the noise coming from down the hallway.  This deep, profoundly sad wailing came from somewhere within the building, the sound traveling through my paper-thin door.  It didn't sound frantic, it didn't sound traumatic or urgent - it just sounded so mournful.  So out of place, so distraught. 

It went on for at least a good 10 or 15 minutes, and with each passing moment my curiosity was growing stronger and stronger.  What on earth was this noise - and who on earth was it coming from?

I finally couldn't take it anymore, so I mustered up the courage to walk down the hallway to investigate. 

I stood outside this unknown neighbor's apartment door, silently staring at the threshold, wondering what on earth to do, as the crying would not relent.  For the longest time I couldn't even discern if it was a man or woman, it was so guttural, so other.

Through the sobs and moaning and the groaning, I heard the fumbled words, "I just want to kill myself."

My mind went into overdrive, and it was then that I started to get a little desperate, wondering what on earth was happening on the other side of this door frame.  In a matter of seconds, my mind quickly ran through the scenarios - is there anyone else in the room with her? Could I make out any other voices? Do I need to call the police? Is this person in danger? Am I in danger by even knocking on this door?

I debated for what seemed forever before I finally decided to just knock and be brave enough to deal with whatever was on the other side of the door.  I knocked.  No response.  I knocked again.  The crying didn't relent, and quite frankly, I don't think the person could hear me.  I finally rang the doorbell (which is an insanely obnoxious noise, one that makes me cringe, which is why I had avoided ringing it up to this point).  I heard the crying soften.

And then the door opened.

Standing before me was a young blond-haired woman, mascara and tears streaming down her face, cell phone in her hand.  Hair a mess.  Clothes disheveled. 

I simply asked her if she was okay.  I told her I had heard her crying and I just wanted to make sure she was alright.  In a matter of minutes, her life story spills out, in fits and starts and ragged breaths.  She was in the midst of a panic attack when I found her, thus the uncontrollable crying.  Her dad has terminal brain cancer.  Her mom is in drug rehab.  Her boyfriend of six years cheated on her and was currently off on vacation with his new girlfriend.  The poor thing was just a mess.

And my heart broke. 

In the time since then, I've had an occasional encounter with this girl.  We'll call her Kate for the sake of this story, even though that's not her real name.  And it seems every time I encounter her, I'm catching her at her most vulnerable moments. 

For awhile now, I've wrestled with what it looks like to be a Christ-follower in this apartment complex.  The entire building is nothing but studio apartments, which basically amounts to a whole lot of people who want to live alone, whatever their reasons.  This is a group of people who are not looking for community, not looking to make friends.  If they wanted to make friends and wanted community, they'd be finding themselves at apartments elsewhere in the city that create those kinds of dynamics for their residents.  My apartment complex is not one of those places. 

So how do I make sure my neighbors know Jesus?  How do I love neighbors who aren't looking to be known, aren't looking to meet other people?  That has become my prayer - Jesus, open up the doors and provide the opportunities to interact with those around me. 

And he has quite literally opened doors. 

Just the other night, I came home late after attending a simulcast of the IF: Gathering, maybe 10:30 or 11:00.  I pulled into the apartment complex parking lot, and I noticed Kate's car in the lot, lights still on.  I figured maybe she had forgotten and left them on.  As I walked by her car, I noticed her car wasn't running, but she was propped up in the driver's seat, passed out, her head tilted back against the headrest. 

I tapped on the window (parallel deja vu maybe to knocking on her apartment door?), and got no response. I tapped again.  No response.  I finally just opened the car door.  Her eyes slowly opened, clearly a little dazed. Tears and mascara streaming down her face, just like the first time I met her.

I asked her if she was okay.  She sat there for a moment, as if it took effort to collect her thoughts, and then for those thoughts to make it from her brain to her lips. 

"My dad died," she said.

And my heart broke all over again. 

Turns out her dad had died several weeks ago now, the pain obviously still fresh.

As I stood there, I couldn't help marveling in some small way.  Hadn't I just been praying in recent days that I would figure out how to tell my neighbors about Jesus, praying that God would open doors for opportunities and moments? 

I guess he took those prayers seriously. 

I don't know what comes next in the story.  I know that so long as God keeps providing the opportunities to step into this girl's life, I'm going to keep stewarding them.  Even if I don't always know what's on the other side of that threshold.

Because what I want for Kate to know more than anything else is that Jesus is wild about her.  And I want her to meet Him, to know him, to find that he is everything that she is searching for.  For her to open that door some day and to find Jesus standing on the other side, not just me.