The Blessing Of Closed Doors

This year, some doors shook as they shut,

echoing louder than my prayers.

Others eased themselves closed quietly,

as if You wiped the dust from their hinges with care.

Some stayed cracked, just enough

to see if I’d reach for what wasn’t mine—

testing whether I’d force my way

or wait for Your perfect sign.

And though I didn’t always understand,

I asked You:

“Close what You don’t want for me.

Seal what isn’t Your will,

even if I don’t see why.”

And You did.

Not to punish,

but to protect.

Not to leave me empty,

but to save me from less than Your best.

I see now—

Your no was kindness,

Your shut door was grace,

Your silence was a shield

I couldn’t yet trace.

Thank You

for every way You intervened,

for every room You spared me from,

for every path I wasn’t meant to walk.

You knew what I called treasure

was really trouble,

You knew what I chased

was too small for the daughter You love.

So I am learning to bless the closures,

to embrace the holy redirection,

to trust that You see the whole tapestry

while I only glimpse the thread.

Because You never close without purpose,

never withhold without promise.

Your hands do not slam doors—

they safeguard hearts.

So I praise You for the endings,

for the sealed places,

for the steps rerouted.

I thank You that You know best—

when to open, when to guard,

when to say wait, when to say rest.

And for every door left cracked,

I choose not to pry it wide,

because if it were meant for me,

You would swing it open in Your time.

This year, I am grateful

for what didn’t happen,

for what didn’t last,

for what was never mine—

because You love me enough

to close what I would have walked through blind.