A Two-Piece Manuscript: The Door & the Silence
Some doors remain closed until your faith knocks hard enough to hear your own heart. - Oliver B. Greene
I. The Door That Kept Me Going
I was twenty-one.
Broke.
Wearing yesterday’s uniform
and tomorrow’s fear.
College slipped away.
My son didn’t.
He needed me -
so I drove.
Thin mornings, Richmond-bound,
Chamberlain to the old highway,
the Ambassador breathing smoke,
gauge flirting with E
like it wanted to leave me behind.
Sometimes I asked out loud
if God even rode with me -
if anyone did.
The cassette clicked -
its small mechanical amen -
and Greene’s voice rose,
steady as a man who’s never
missed a meal or a miracle,
preaching The Other Side of the Door.
He said a better life
waits just past
what these tired hands can touch,
but only if you keep knocking,
even when the wood
stays cold.
I didn’t feel holy.
I felt used up -
soap in my cuticles, gas on my skin,
head full of bills I couldn’t pay.
Sometimes I wanted to pull over,
lay my forehead on the steering wheel,
admit I was afraid I’d never
get there.
But the voice kept talking…
telling me God hears even doubt
when it begs.
The bridge ahead shimmered
like maybe it led somewhere
besides another shift,
another shut door.
Dawn smeared the windshield -
grim and beautiful -
and I swallowed hard
on the lump that came
from nowhere and everywhere.
The tape spun out to silence.
Just the engine knocking,
like a heart that hasn’t quit.
That door’s still shut.
Some days I believe
it’s locked for men like me.
But other days -
like this one -
the handle feels warmer,
and I turn it anyway,
hoping whatever’s listening
knows I showed up.
II. When the Tape Finally Snapped
The tape hissed one last time …
then silence.
The preacher’s voice gone,
leaving only the engine
and my own unsteady breath.
I pulled over.
Fingers stiff,
hands smelling of gasoline and doubt.
I stared at the dashboard,
the bridge ahead swallowed in fog,
the city hum distant,
like a world that had forgotten me.
I remembered Greene talking about doors -
doors that don’t open until you knock.
But the knocking had gone quiet
in me,
and the wood didn’t answer.
I wanted to curse,
to slam my palm flat against the wheel,
to let the fear spill out in sound.
I almost did.
Instead I sat.
Let the silence settle
like ash on the steering wheel.
Somewhere inside - I don’t know where -
a pulse answered.
Not loud. Not clear.
Just enough.
I thought about my son,
the rent, the roads I couldn’t afford,
the life I’d nearly given up on.
And then I pressed my hands again
on that invisible door,
knuckles raw, heart trembling,
and whispered:
“Here I am.”
The tape will never play again,
but the voice remains,
in the hum of the engine,
in the wind through the windows,
in the faint click of the turn signal
reminding me
that the door, stubborn as it is,
is never fully shut.
GBS
2007
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