Small Hinges, Heavy Doors

We wait for thunder—
visions, vows,
a life turned on a dime—
and miss the whisper that keeps returning
to the same hallway of the heart.

It’s the sand-grit habits,
the tiny tilt of tone,
the almost-truth, the hurried prayer,
the kindness we postpone.

Here is where the battle circles back:
the thought I entertain,
the screen I do not need,
the word I could have swallowed,
the apology I owe.

Grace does its finest work in inches—
by little and little,
like a mustard seed insisting on a tree,
like leaven persuading the whole loaf.

I’ve learned the heavy doors of change
turn on small hinges:
a quiet no to self
when no one’s keeping score;
a hidden yes to God
before the chorus starts to sing.

Win the skirmish no one sees,
and rivers find their course.
Tend the vine where little foxes run,
and sweetness fills the fruit.

Perhaps the miracle I keep asking for
has been entering on tiptoe all along—
each ordinary surrender,
each patient, faithful turn,
God writing larger victories
in the smallest lines of us.

If this poem stirred something in your heart, remember that the deepest roots grow from God’s Word itself. “Thy word have I hid in mine heart, that I might not sin against thee” (Psalm 119:11). If you’d like simple, practical help in tucking Scripture into memory…

👉 Sign up for the free FAST Crash Course in Bible Memorization: http://fast.st/cc/21419