Guarding Open Places
Parable
Mara was attending a large outdoor gathering when the murmur of the crowd suddenly shifted. A bear emerged from the tree line—massive, unmistakable, and enough to send people scattering. Those near Mara hurried into their vehicles. Others froze where they stood.
Her brother, Elias, remained outside holding a child. He did not run. He did not shout. He simply grew still. The bear passed him by.
“It won’t hurt anyone,” Elias said quietly, watching the animal weave through the frightened crowd—not attacking, only searching for a way out.
Later, Mara rode through the grounds on the back of a small cart. The bear was gone, but panic returned—this time from people. Sharp cracks split the air. Screams followed. Someone turned and spoke of bloodshed, of a life ended suddenly. Mara closed her ears.
“Please don’t tell me,” she said. “I already know what this will do to me.”
They took shelter in a building filled with open doors. Behind one, a mother wept beside her son. He stirred once, then fell silent. The doctor said there was nothing more to be done. Mara kept walking, her chest heavy with a grief she had not chosen but still carried.
When night fell, Mara arrived at the house where she was staying. It was familiar, though not her own. She needed something from her car. Outside, beneath a brick shelter, she saw it—white, still, and waiting. Two doors stood open.
Her breath caught.
Had something wandered through? Or had someone taken what didn’t belong to them?
She called out for Jonah, but the night gave no answer. Fear crept closer. Instead of investigating, Mara turned back toward the light of the house, climbing the steps with care.
Behind her, the car remained untouched. The danger had already passed.
What lingered was the question of how the doors had been left open at all.
Devotional
Not every threat arrives to harm us. Some only pass through, misunderstood and feared. The bear in the parable never attacked—it simply appeared powerful. The real weight came later, through human violence, grief, and exposure to sorrow that was not Mara’s to carry.
This is often the way of the empathic heart.
We prepare for the obvious danger while overlooking the quiet vulnerability—the doors left open through compassion, availability, or fatigue. We listen longer than we should. We witness more than we can process. We take in details we already know will wound us.
The car doors stood open at night, not because of recklessness, but because Mara always locks them. The openness was unintentional.
This devotional invites us to ask:
What emotional doors have I left open out of love?
Where am I absorbing pain simply because I can?
What needs closing—not forever, but for now?
Boundaries are not evidence of fear.
They are signs of stewardship.
We are not meant to house every grief, interpret every tragedy, or sit with every open door. Some rooms are meant to be passed by. Some conversations are meant to wait until morning. Some compassion must be ordered so that it does not consume the one who carries it.
The dream reminds us:
The threat may pass—but exposure lingers.
Closing a door gently is not abandonment. It is wisdom.
Prayer
God of discernment and peace, teach me which doors to keep open and which to close at dusk. Help me care without carrying, and witness without absorbing. Guard my inner house and restore what I have taken in that was never meant to stay. Amen.