Bright morning sunshine was spilling through the window of the small vintage diner when, through the swirling conversations and delightful aromas, I heard a thump. 

No one else seemed to notice, and I turned back to my coffee and pancakes, enjoying the diner’s eclectic décor: a real traffic light by the entrance, red vinyl booths, framed posters of Elvis and Marilyn Monroe. An airplane wing hung from the ceiling.

Suddenly— THUMP! THUMP! THUMP! 

The noise could no longer be denied. As one, the diner fell silent, heads turning toward a booth by the window, where a slight man in his twenties was pounding his fists against the wooden table. An older woman—his mother, I assumed—was attempting to calm him.

“It’s okay,” the woman called out to the startled room. “He’s autistic. He’s having big feelings.” 

To her son, she firmly but gently said, “You need to stop now or they’re going to call the police.” Her words came out in the practised voice of a mother who has said these words many times before. Heartache was in her eyes.

I recognized the look on the man’s face—defeated, overwhelmed, dysregulated. It’s a look I know well as the mother of neurodivergent children and adults who have survived high levels of early childhood trauma.

He began pounding again. Coffee pooled on the table. Dishes jumped. 

When it was safe to approach, a waitress told them they needed to leave. The mother stood, heading toward the exit. Her son lingered behind. “I’m sorry,” he called out plaintively. Then, he followed his mother out. 

Almost immediately, the diner returned to normal. Conversations resumed. Coffee was poured. Sunlight sparkled. Marilyn Monroe winked from the wall. The waitress cleaned the table. A smiling young couple arrived and was ushered into the same booth. 

What struck me wasn’t how quickly peace was restored inside the diner—but how incomplete that peace was.

For the mother and son, nothing had been resolved. Their struggle didn’t end when the door closed behind them. The only difference was that now they were excluded and alone.

I don’t blame the waitress for ejecting them. A restaurant cannot function when tables are being pounded. Her job was to restore peace and calm inside the diner.

And yet, my heart aches for that mother and son. Their story mirrors my own with one of my adult children who lives with disability, trauma, and desperate struggle.

We haven’t been asked to leave a restaurant—but my husband and I have helped our son navigate eviction after eviction, housing loss after housing loss, one to four times a year for years. 

Each time, we scramble to help him start again. Even when there are “good reasons,” the pain doesn’t lessen. It’s brutal to once again be on the outside, reeling, trying to figure out new ways to help our son—peace shattered again.

For years, it’s been a rollercoaster of closing doors—in employment, volunteering, relationships, church. Doors of friendship have closed too, sometimes violently. He has been stolen from, assaulted, and exploited by people who recognized his vulnerability.

We keep searching for resources, for programs, for something that might finally change the trajectory. Still, exclusion remains familiar territory.

I imagine my eyes carry the same heartbreak as the mother in the diner.

As his mother, I grieve the many ways my son has been pushed to the margins. Sometimes my heart hardens. Sometimes I blame him. Sometimes I blame myself. Sometimes I blame God. Sometimes I simply cry.

As a Christian, I don’t know what the answer is. I understand why doors close. Just as the diner couldn’t allow the disruption to continue, landlords, employers, and churches also make decisions for the well-being of the larger community. Boundaries matter. Peace matters.

And yet, the cumulative result is a vulnerable young man with disabilities who has fallen through society’s cracks repeatedly for years—and devastated, burned-out parents who’ve tried desperately to catch him. 

I can’t stop wondering how this reality for my son sits alongside our Christian calling to love our neighbours as ourselves (Mark 12:30-31), and to act justly, love mercy, and walk humbly with our God (Micah 6:8). 

These Bible verses are simple to quote, but far harder to live, especially when we encounter people whose behaviours make inclusion costly.

What do they mean for people who struggle on society’s fringes, with doors continually slamming behind them? People who are constantly looking in from the outside?

I don’t have an answer. But I do have a hope. 

Some doors do need to close, for safety and well-being. But not all of them.

When we aim to live with hearts oriented to justice and love, and when we view people first and foremost as children of God, doors that might have swiftly slammed shut sometimes stay open. Some doors long shut might even start to re-open.

Christ himself is the ultimate door opener. “Here I am,” he says. “I stand at the door and knock. If anyone hears my voice and opens the door, I will come in and eat with that person, and they with me.” (Revelation 3:20).

When the door opens, relationship becomes possible. Healing becomes imaginable.

When a door is held open—when someone is allowed to remain inside—it can make all the difference.