Our house has a front door, that is fifty feet from the street, and a back door that is handy to the driveway. Most people use the latter, but it has no doorbell. We are a walk-right-in-and-hollar kind of family, but if you were raised with proper etiquette you could stand nervously waiting for ten minutes before anyone noticed you. The other
day I looked through the window and saw a friend politely perched on the deck. I ran to let her in.
Over the last couple of years I had gotten accustomed to griping about someone. We had a relationship that was getting sour, like the taste of orange juice after you brush your teeth. I had mastered the art of cynicism, and fault finding. I looked for reasons to stay mad, and surprise surprise, I found them.
Then a few months ago I felt ripe for a
shift. In church the minister handed out cards with an invitation to ask for a change. It was time. I wrote my prayer down in permanent ink. There it sat on the paper, looking up at me.
Astonishingly, the very next day I found an occasion to feel grateful for that person. That in itself felt like an answer. But it got better. A week later I actually needed the person's help, and tentatively asked for it. The response was immediate and
generous.
In the weeks that followed a bouquet of other instances of connection sprang up, and renewed affection.
I pondered the miracle that was perhaps less of an anomaly than a willingness on my part to answer the door and let kindness in.
