The Locked Door and the Cracked Foundation

I was three years old when I first felt the kind of confusion that makes the world stop. My mom had left, and I didn’t understand why. I was hungry, alone, and too little to reach the answers... or the doorknob.

I remember laying in bed just listening for her voice. It was the only thing that gave me peace. When it didn’t come, I got up and tried the door, but it was locked. I stood on a chair to reach a top lock, fumbling, trying to make it open, trying to make sense of it. But nothing worked. Either I wasn’t strong enough, or I was never meant to open it.

Eventually, I cried. Hard. And someone heard.

A neighbor climbed through the window and held me, comforting me until my dad came home. That’s when the truth came out... about my mom’s affair, about the unraveling that had already begun behind the scenes. My family would never be the same after that day.

It felt like the beginning of everything breaking. But looking back, I see how God never left me. Even then, He sent someone to climb in. Someone to hold me. He let me feel the weight of what was happening, but not without showing me His mercy, too.

That locked door was more than just a physical barrier... it was a picture of the brokenness I was being born into. But the Lord had already begun forming a warrior inside of me. Even when I didn’t understand. Even when no one else seemed to notice.

And He’s still opening doors today.