Part of my journey right now is a bit of a marathon- the building of a log home for our family in our mountain community. My father, in his seventies, has built multiple similar log homes throughout his life and I rely heavily on his wealth of knowledge in order to gain the varied skills this somewhat Herculean task requires.
Recently, I was showing Dad my door frames and the door I had hand-made a winter or so ago. He sized up the frames and the door and shook his head.
"How heavy is that door?" Dad asked.
"Not that heavy . . ." I said somewhat defensively. I had worked hard on this door, and I was proud of it. I had made it from left-over solid pine tongue and groove which was excess from our upper floor- which was also cut by us on our sawmill and planed and grooved by us as well. There was no way I didn't want to utilize each and every scrap of that wood.
There was only one problem- it was 2 inches thick, solid wood. It was heavy.
And I knew this. I knew it already. Once I had the idea to use the flooring for the door, I was mentally committed. Once I completed it, I was talking to dad about it- he had also made several doors- and he mentioned that though his doors were homemade, they weren't solid like mine. They had a thinner wood veneer over a frame, which made them much lighter, and the cavity could be filled with insulation. The method I used wasn't as good for a door because it was much heavier and uninsulated. I poo-pooed his objections to my door (but I did build a hollow core door for my second exterior door for our basement, so I was at least half listening).
So, I determined to lighten the already made door and make it hollow as well. I decided to drill into the sides at intervals and create thin chambers which I could fill with insulation. I set to work at this and it was incredibly difficult to keep the chamber going straight in and not accidentally bust through the wood of the door, which I did multiple times. No matter how hard I tried to drill staight in, I kept leaving holes I would have to patch somehow. Although I bought an extension for my drill bit, I still could not drill in very far into the side of the door and all my work wasn't appreciably altering its weight.
Now, the moment of truth was before me as Dad and I examined the door.
"Is that door too heavy for your door frames? Is it too heavy for your hinges? Is it going to be light enough to even close?" He lifted the edge and groaned, "What is it, 500 lbs?"
My throat tightened. My hinges, the heavy duty ones, were only good for up to 150 lbs.
"Fine, I'll just make a new door!" I snapped, realization sinking in. "It's not like I've spent any time on this one!"
I angrily began to gather supplies for the replacement door. Was it a bitter pill to swallow? For sure. But I had gained enough insight from the past 7 years spent building to recognize that I am not the expert.
Now, I might not always have recognized so readily that the best thing to do would be to build a new door. This realization comes from a place of humility, a place of realization of my own limitations, mistakes made. It comes from the acknowledgment that others, especially in this place, my father, know better than myself what would be right in regards to this door.
And, my earthly father is a kind father. He doesn't want to cause me more work. While it is irksome to lose the labor and materials put into that door, I can now recognize the insistence of using it would most likely cost me many more problems in the future as I'd struggle to use something unsuitable for the job. I can now see its weight pulling on the hinges until they break, or distorting the door frame. My dad tells me the truth about this matter out of love, to prevent those problems from occurring in the future. He has the knowledge to change my outcomes for the better.
Of course, it hasn't always been quick for me to accept dad's wisdom. Early on, especially, I'd reject his advice and take what I thought of as a shortcut. Then, I would realize I was actually fighting to do it the hard way, due to something I didn't have an insight on making my short cut a wrong cut. Accepting others' wisdom is truly an exercise in humility.
Let's expand this concept to Our Heavenly Father. Have we ever been stuck in our own patterns, rigid, unable to change our plans? Except sometimes our plans are all wrong for us- like we don't even know ourselves? Like someone else actually knows what we need more than we do for ourselves? Like how a wise parent knows what their fractious toddler needs is a nap though he's fighting it tooth and nail? If we plumb the depths of our hearts, perhaps, we'd already recognize that we need a new route or a new plan.
Sometimes we cling to the wrong path like I was clinging to the wrong door. Sometimes we suffer much more for trying to take what we perceive to be the easier route. We think we know what will work for us, what will be best, but we're blinded by what we don't know.
Next, sometimes, we balk at making a change we know deep down needs to happen. Perhaps it is a laziness drawing us to a comfortable life without ever questioning our greater purpose. Perhaps we are living in fear of the change that may arise, or the unknown. Perhaps we feel committed to something, and feel foolish admitting that the course we insisted upon is actually wrong for us.
My brother has always had a deep desire to serve the Lord. In his late teens, he felt a calling for the vocation of the priesthood, a noble and great calling indeed. However, partway through his seminary years, he perceived God's gentle guidance that this was not indeed the path for him. He left the seminary and the time after that must have been difficult to live through, with the uncertainty that arises from beginning anew. Later, he met his future wife, and they both discovered a new vocation, one of family and children. It is no less beautiful or holy than his original plan. I remember when he was a little boy; he once drew a picture of a house he was going to build, with multiple floors for his 100 children. (Of course, he's not quite that prolific- with just 4 children). His path to become a father wasn't perhaps what he expected in his early adulthood, but the new vocation fits him like a glove.
Sometimes God talks to us the loudest through the doors he's plastered shut. The "nos" he gives us aren't pleasant to hear, but they are necessary to help us choose a new course. Sometimes the only way we can get where we are meant to be is by altering our route, bravely choosing something different. Sometimes, we have to face facts, listening to our Father's wisdom. Sometimes, we have to realize it is time to to make a new door.
