Bathroom Doors, Wheelchairs, and Jesus

Have you ever walked into a place where you suddenly realized you were the one who didn't know what you were doing? That happened to my team recently.

We gathered for a planning retreat at one of the most inspiring places I've ever visited—a paralysis recovery center called The Perfect Step. They graciously opened their conference room for us, and from the moment we walked in, we knew this wasn't an ordinary building.

The walls told stories of courage.

Photos celebrated milestones that many people might overlook—a first step, a first transfer, a first day standing again. Every hallway seemed to whisper the same message: Hope is stronger than despair.

It was beautiful. But strangely enough...

The place that sparked the biggest conversation among our team wasn't the therapy equipment. It was the bathroom.

The entire building had been thoughtfully designed for people who use wheelchairs. The bathroom door didn't have a handle to pull. Instead, you pushed a large button.

The door would slowly swing open...Pause... Wait...Give plenty of room to enter...Pause again...

Then, eventually...Very eventually...Close.

Now, if you're perfectly able to walk, those twenty or thirty seconds feel like an eternity.

Every one of us made the same mistake. We pushed the button. Walked through. Looked for a way to close the door, but realized we needed to stand there and wait.

Wait. Stare at the door, willing it to close on our time, but forced to wait for the perfectly timed pause designed for a wheelchair to close.

Eventually, someone would laugh and say, "It's okay... It's supposed to do that."

By the end of the day, we'd all become experts at patiently waiting for bathroom doors.

What struck me later wasn't the door itself. It was the perspective. For a few hours, we experienced what it felt like to be the ones adjusting to an environment built around someone else's needs instead of our own.

Instead of asking, "Why does this take so long? We found ourselves asking, "What would make this easier for someone else?"

That's a different question. And maybe it's one Jesus asks us every day. Most of us naturally move through life seeing everything from our own perspective. My schedule. My preferences. My convenience. My expectations.

But love has a funny way of slowing us down enough to notice what someone else needs. Jesus lived that way. He constantly noticed the people whom everyone else hurried past. He stopped. He listened. He saw. He made room.

Walking through that building reminded me that accessibility isn't just about architecture. It's about our hearts.

Following Jesus means becoming the kind of people who willingly adjust our pace, our preferences, and our perspective so others can experience dignity, belonging, and hope.

Sometimes love looks like waiting for the door to close.

This Week’s Faith Habit

Go slower than your regular pace.

This week, intentionally choose the slower line.

Whether it's the grocery store, a coffee shop, or the parking lot, resist the urge to find the fastest route. Instead, use those extra moments to notice the people around you. Ask God to help you see someone you would normally overlook—and let your pace become an opportunity to practice the patient, attentive love of Christ.