Door

A friend invited me to join a project – a book that contained reproductions of her paintings of different doors. She asked me to write a poem to accompany one of the paintings.

The invitation struck a chord. I have a thing about doors.  When his family decided to tear their old house down, my brother-in-law asked me if there was anything I wanted saved for myself. I mentioned the door. For me every house finds a summation in the door, the reason why a poem included in the book calls it “the mother of memory.”

When the wife and I travel – because I don’t drive and for that reason I have the luxury of the view – I fix my eyes on the houses that we pass by, the doors in particular.

At one time, at a particularly busy section, while our car struggled to gain headway in the midst of traffic, I caught a glimpse of a house, all but standing beside the road if not for a few meters of setback. A tree arched over its entrance, protecting it from the day’s harshness and giving its modest, wooden door a cool, serene appearance.

I called my wife’s attention to the door, and for a while she put her driving out of mind while both of us contemplated the view, however briefly. The door, which had near its footing two or three pots of flowers, evoked in us images of a less harried morning in the countryside. This stayed with us for the rest of the journey, making it so much lighter.

I just wonder what arrivals – and departures – that door had witnessed, and hope that love and grace accompanied them, although life does not always give this assurance.

Obviously, now that I think of it, great affection attended Mary’s visit to Elizabeth. As a sign of God’s power, the angel Gabriel told Mary that her cousin Elizabeth, an old woman, was in her sixth month of pregnancy.  Luke says that when she heard this “Mary set out and traveled to the hill country in haste to a town of Judah, where she entered the house of Zechariah and greeted Elizabeth.”

Mary rushed to Elizabeth’s side to give her comfort, especially as, despite her gratitude to the Lord for the gift of a child, Elizabeth felt a little embarrassment that her pregnancy should come in her old age.

Luke continues, “When Elizabeth heard Mary’s greeting, the infant leaped in her womb, and Elizabeth, filled with the holy Spirit, cried out in a loud voice and said, ‘Most blessed are you among women, and blessed is the fruit of your womb.’”

The door witnessed the event – the coming of Jesus, as yet in Mary’s womb, to Elizabeth’s house. The door heard what Elizabeth declared, which has become part of that beautiful prayer, the Hail Mary, daily said by millions, set to music by the great composers, and sung by the best tenors and sopranos – to which I can never listen without tears.

Years ago, an uncle – my mother’s brother – visited us from Mindanao. I remember his visit for one thing – he made a wooden latch for our door. The latch was of such a workmanship that its smoothness made locking and unlocking the door a delight.

As to that door from my brother-in-law’s house, I plan to use it, if still serviceable. And then I will have it painted blue and equipped with a wooden latch, one that can be moved with as much ease as that which my uncle made.

The blue color will remind me of Mary and how she cared for Elizabeth – and above all how she brought God, Jesus, whom she carried in her womb, to Elizabeth’s house. The lock will tell me that, although I have the freedom to open or close the door, I should remember what is said in the Rule of St. Benedict – that I should receive everyone as Christ.