Glass Doorknobs

Our house was built in 1913, and while it’s been updated many times since then, the original glass and tin doorknobs remain on nearly every door. They are beautiful, if impractical. They don’t lock. They get dirty easily and need to be cleaned almost daily. They are fragile, too, and must be turned slowly and carefully if one wishes to pass from one room to another.

When we purchased the house, we did so on a contract for deed, hoping we would be able to afford the down payment and buy it outright five years later. The contract for deed including an odd stipulation—that we were not to replace the house’s original doorknobs.

We agreed, though we wondered how we would be able to keep this promise. We were taking a risk, invested in a project to welcome people in need of healing into our home. How could we demonstrate hospitality while also asking them to be extremely careful whenever they opened or closed a door?

Ironically, the more than 17 people who have lived here—for short stays or long ones, including those who have chosen us as their permanent family—have manage to break every doorknob in the house, except these precious original doorknobs.

And, I think I know why this is: when we encounter beautiful, fragile things, our instinct is to take great care. When we eat out of our ceramic bowls, for instance, I find myself eating more slowly, admiring the handcrafted vessel that holds my soup, salad, or stew.

I am often rushing around in this house—looking for my phone, or the screwdriver, or the kitchen scissors; distributing laundry; knocking on doors to call everyone to supper; responding to someone calling for me. Often in the midst of that rushing, I forget what I was doing to begin with, or my mind wanders to the point that anxiety or outright terror take over—especially during this difficult year.

However, when I touch one of the glass or tin doorknobs, I find myself slowing down, turning the doorknob carefully—and in the process, being aware that I am passing from one room to another. Maybe I am doing so to enter my work space, or to climb the stairs to move from our fully awake life to the life of winding down. Maybe I am entering my son’s room, to check on him, or the bathroom, to carefully wash my hands. Whatever threshold I am crossing, I am aware of the cool glass or tin in the palm of my hand, and I take a breath.

I have done this before. I will do this again. And I am not the only one. These doorknobs have been carefully turned to move from one room to another for many generations. Who else has passed this way, again and again, while engaging in the ordinary acts of daily life we hardly think about? At this time of year, I also wonder, who else has dragged seasonal decorations out of their hiding places, carefully lifting each item, each story, from its box? Who else has lit candles in this house to mark their waiting, their grief, their celebration?

This is the Sunday of Joy, when we light the pink candle on the Advent wreath after re-lighting the candles of Hope and Peace. Many things about this holiday season will be different, difficult.  But every Advent, we are called to remember: we’ve been here before, walking to Bethlehem, carrying our grief, our exhaustion, our rage, and, of course, whatever gifts we have to offer, too. That is the way of Joy, to carry all of it reverently. We've been here before. We will come this way again. Every Advent, we are called to slow down, to notice the thresholds we cross over and over again, and move through them with great gentleness and care.