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| Doors Closed, Windows Open |
When life closes one door, faith opens another. Closed Doors, Open Windows follows Khalil Streeter, a young lawyer whose career shatters overnight. But as pride gives way to purpose, an unexpected reminder—a dove on his Brooklyn windowsill—shows him that God’s plans are never delayed, only redirected. Let the story speak to your heart—scroll down to begin.
The day they let him go, they called him into a glass room like they were about to congratulate him.
That’s what hit him first.
The conference room looked out over downtown Brooklyn—the kind of view that made you feel expensive. Funny how even windows can feel like walls when you're being let go. Khalil had sat in that same chair a year earlier, grinning at his fiancée Meesha over FaceTime, whispering, “Baby, we’re really here. God did it.”
Now the blinds were half-closed, and HR already had a folder waiting. Never a good sign.
“Have a seat, Khalil,” said Mr. Danvers.
He stayed standing. Pride.
“You know we’ve been going through changes since the merger,” Danvers began.
“Restructuring,” the HR woman added gently.
Khalil nodded. He already knew. They always start with flattery before they take what feeds you.
“You’re talented,” Danvers said. “This isn’t about performance, but—”
“Last in, first out,” Khalil finished.
Danvers winced. “That’s not how I’d—”
“It’s exactly how you would.”
The HR rep slid the folder across the table. “Your severance—”
“I’m not worried about benefits,” Khalil said evenly. “I’m worried about rent.”
They offered sympathy. He took none of it. He shook their hands—because his father raised him to look a man in the eye—and walked out on steady legs.
He held it together through the elevator and the lobby—until the cold air hit his face outside.
Just like that, it was over.
First job out of college. Corporate track. Contracts, compliance, proof he hadn’t wasted all those years. Gone in one closed-door meeting.
He swallowed hard. “Nah,” he muttered. “It’s not ending like this.”
___He didn’t know how to tell Meesha.
He told himself it was to protect her. Truth was, he didn’t want her looking at him different.
He climbed the narrow stairs to his apartment, kicked off his shoes, and dropped his bag. The place wasn’t big—one bedroom—but it was his. Proof he was building something in Brooklyn.
He loosened his tie. “God,” he said into the quiet. “What am I supposed to do now?”
He stared at the window. “I can’t go home.”
His mama always said, If anything ever goes left, you just come home.
“Lord, please I don’t want to go home,” he whispered. Then, more bitterly, “How could you let this happen?”
That’s when he saw it—a white dove perched on the brick ledge outside his window.
“What are you doing here?” he murmured. The bird didn’t move. He laughed once. “God, if this is You, I need You.” The dove stayed—peace, parked.
___The next morning it was still there.
And the one after that.
A week later, he started greeting it like a roommate before opening his laptop to send résumés.
Each rejection came faster than the last. Several weeks later, his checking account looked smaller and his rent was due soon.
Then his parents called.
“Hey, baby,” his mama sang. “You sound tired.”
“I’m good,” he lied.
His father’s voice boomed through the speaker. “You eating?”
“Yeah, Daddy.”
His mother asked in a gentle voice. “How’s work?”
“It’s… shifting,” he said. “Company merged.”
“I see,” she murmured—the prayer already in her tone.
“You can always come home till it settles,” his dad threw in.
He glanced at the dove on the ledge. “I’m alright. It’s temporary. I’ll find something soon.”
“We believe that,” his mama said. “You ain’t by yourself.”
Then her voice softened. “Sometimes, a closed door means there’s a window about to open.”
“Alright, Mama. I hear you.”
After they hung up, he stared at the dove again. It shifted, calm as ever.
___He almost skipped the next interview.
It wasn’t much—just another online posting that promised dynamic opportunities. He wasn’t sure what it meant. He went anyway. Sitting home watching the dove all day felt worse.
An hour later, he stepped back into the street, hollow. He was overqualified for the security job.
“Yo! Khalil? That you?” a voice called.
He turned. The man crossing toward him grinned wide.
“Ciroc?”
“It is you!” Ciroc Hamilton pulled him into a back-slap hug. “Frat, you out here in Brooklyn ow?”
They laughed, the sound shaking off several weeks of heaviness.
“You look tired,” Ciroc said.
“I’m straight.”
“That the answer we going with or is it the truth?”
Khalil hesitated. Just be honest.
He sighed. “They let me go. Merger. I’ve been on Indeed like it’s church. Everybody wants five years’ experience for an entry job.” He shook his head. “I just got turned down for a security job.”
Ciroc nodded. “Yeah. I heard it’s tough out here.”
Khalil added quickly, “I’m lining stuff up—”
Ciroc said, “You don’t have to sell me a version.”
Khalil’s shoulders dropped for the first time in a long time.
“Look, I’m at a nonprofit over on Fulton,” Ciroc said. “Community Legal Resource Center. We help folks about to lose housing—people who need someone who can read contracts and explain it plain.”
“That’s what I did for corporate,” Khalil said slowly.
“Exactly.”
Khalil chuckled. “You’re hiring?”
“Need somebody like yesterday. The pay’s not like corporate, but it matters. You’d be good at it.”
Khalil hesitated.
“Stop thinking about pride and think about purpose,” Ciroc said. “It’s a new window for you.”
His mama’s words rang in his head. A closed door... a new window.
He nodded. “Alright. I’ll come through.”
Ciroc reached in his jacket pocket and handed him a card. “Give me a call, Frat.”
___
When he got home, Meesha was waiting on his couch. He could tell by the look on her face, she knew the truth.
His stomach dropped. “Who told you?”
“Your mom,” she said softly. “She was worried.”
He laughed weakly. “Nothing to be worried about.”
She crossed her arms across her chest. “The question is, why didn’t you tell me?”
“I was gonna tell you,” he said. “I just needed something else lined up first. Didn’t want you thinking—”
“Thinking what?” she asked.
She touched his hand, her tone gentle now. “That you failed?”
He looked down.
“You went out every day like you were going to work,” she said.
“I was looking for a job—”
She stepped closer, lifting his chin until he met her eyes. “How’s the search really going?”
His throat tightened.
He blinked fast. “I might have something,” he said. “I just ran into Ciroc—Howard brother. He works at a nonprofit. Civil rights, housing. He wants me to give him a call. I believe it’s a solid lead.”
Her smile widened.
“It doesn’t pay like corporate,” he warned.
“Nonprofit. I’m picturing you walking in your purpose,” she said. “If this is the window, we’ll walk through it together.”
He exhaled, relief breaking through.
“You can’t keep things like this from me. We’re a team. I fell in love with you,” she said, “not your paycheck.”
He pulled her into his arms. “What would I do without you?”
“I’m not going to let you find out.”
Then she pointed toward the window. “Also, baby… why didn’t you tell me about the bird?”
“The what?”
“That dove been sitting there like it pays rent.”
He turned. The dove was there—only now, there were two.
Something in him broke open. He smiled. “You see this?”
“I do,” she whispered.
He stared. All week that bird had stayed—through fear, pride, and silent prayers too small to say out loud. Now there were two. Calm. Settled.
“You know what my mama said?”
"She told me too,” Meesha smiled. “Sometimes a closed door means there’s a window about to open. She said it twice."
Khalil nodded slowly. “She was right.”
They stood shoulder to shoulder, watching as one dove lifted, wings catching the Brooklyn light. The other followed.
Khalil exhaled a long, steady breath. “Alright,” he whispered. “I see You.”
Meesha slipped her hand into his.
“What are you thinking?” she asked.
“I’m thinking I’m going to call Ciroc,” he said. “I’m not scared. I’m just gonna walk in there and be who I am."
She smiled. “That sounds like faith to me.”
He nodded, the knot inside finally gone.
The door had closed—but the window was wide open.
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