It's Not About Me

The worship service had already started when I slipped in. I had been helping out in the church kitchen, cleaning up after the meal we always serve right before the Friday-night service. Looking at the pile of dishes in the sink, I thought about skipping the service completely. Still, it was Good Friday. I knew they were doing Communion, and I knew I should be there.

The sanctuary was crowded, but my husband had saved me a seat. When I sat down, I turned to the woman beside me and smiled hello. She was by herself, and I’d never seen her before, so I leaned over and asked, “Are you with one of the other churches visiting tonight?”

“No,” she answered. “I haven’t been to church in a long time.”

I nodded my head and said I’d traveled that road myself for a few years. We talked for a few minutes during the music, while I answered her questions about the church, even leaving the sanctuary to find a brochure for her to take with her.

Once the music ended, they started the Lord’s Supper. Row by row, we made our way to the front, where our pastor and another church leader were holding a loaf of bread and a cup of juice. We would tear off a piece of bread and dip it into the cup as we passed by. It was a solemn, meaningful experience, especially walking by the cross that they had placed on the stage just for this service.

The woman sitting beside me didn’t take Communion, remaining in her seat instead. When I sat back down beside her, something led me to reach out and pat her hand. We sat there in silence in the darkened sanctuary for a moment, while the rest of the congregation filed past the front of the church.

After a moment, the woman leaned over and said, “I didn’t take Communion, because I don’t think God wants me to. I’ve done so many things wrong, he could never forgive me.”

Don’t do this to me, God, I thought. I’m not the person to handle this. Where are our prayer warriors? Where are the women in the church who have mentored me and encouraged me so many times? They’ll know what to say. But then something reminded me that God didn’t put her beside one of those women. He put her beside me. This was meant for me.

Instinctively I put my arm around her. All I knew to say were the words that I would want someone to say to me. I reassured her that she was a child of God, and no matter what she had done, God could never quit loving her. I pointed out the empty cross on the stage and reminded her that Jesus had done that for her, so she could be free and let go of her shame. And then this stranger, this person whom I had known for maybe fifteen minutes, laid her head on my shoulder and cried. And I cried right along with her, just telling her over and over, “God loves you. God loves you.”

I don’t know how long this went on -- maybe five minutes, maybe ten. I felt my husband’s reassuring hand on my shoulder, but other than that, she and I seemed to be all alone. Gradually she calmed down. We sat in silence through the rest of the service. Just before it ended, she leaned over and kissed me on the cheek and said that God must have brought me to her that night. I gave her my phone number and told her to call anytime.

I can’t imagine what courage it must have taken for her to admit her shame and her brokenness. I just pray that she was able to let go of some of it that night, that God used my words to touch her in some healing way.

Now, here’s the thing: How many of us are just as broken, just as filled with shame? How many of us want to cry on someone’s shoulder? How many of us need to hear someone telling us “God loves you” over and over? We may not be brave enough to open up so quickly, but that doesn’t mean the pain isn’t there.

Before Friday night, I can’t tell you the last time that someone cried on my shoulder. I don’t remember the last time I told someone, “God loves you.” I’m not proud of that.

Are we paying attention to the people who are hurting? Or do we keep ourselves too busy? Do we spend so much time taking care of what we think is most important, or what makes us feel most important, that we pass right by the walking wounded? They’re out there. They need us. We need one another.

I learned a couple of things Friday night. First, I learned that it’s really, truly not about me. I wanted to be in the kitchen, getting a head start on the dirty dishes, so that I could get home a little earlier. I wanted to be a Martha. Remember the two sisters in the Bible, Mary and Martha, who spent time with Jesus? Martha was the one who bustled around, cooking and cleaning. Mary was the one who sat at Jesus’ feet and listened. I wanted to be busy in the kitchen; God had other plans.

Second, I learned that I’m a grownup. Oh, I know I’m closer to fifty than I want to be. The creases in my face remind me every time I look in the mirror. But the spiritual maturity, that took a little while to develop. When did I become a giver of support and not just a taker? I guess that’s part of the journey I’ve been on for a while. Now that God apparently trusts me to help carry another’s burden, I have to trust myself, and quit looking for someone else to take up the slack. It’s something new for me, but I’m finally ready for the challenge. After all, as a close friend is fond of telling me, “God doesn’t call the equipped. God equips the called.” The next time someone needs to cry on my shoulder, I’ll be ready for it.

Oh, and one more thing: God loves you.

Mending a Broken Sole

Okay, I'll admit it. I thought I looked good. I was wearing my new outfit to church -- brown pants and a burnt-orange jacket, with a sparkly shirt underneath. Even my earrings and necklace were picked out the night before and perfectly coordinated. I set out a pair of shoes with a little bit of heel -- not too much, but just enough to be a little dressy.

Everything seemed fine, until I was walking from my Sunday school room to the sanctuary. I noticed that one foot seemed to be dragging a little. How strange, I thought, but just then the music started up, and I got into it and forgot about my shoe.

Until I sat down for the sermon. I looked down and realized that the sole of my shoe had come unglued, except for about two inches at the toe. Great. Here I am thinking I've got it all pulled together, and there's my shoe flapping in the wind. From the surface, my shoe looked fine. Underneath, it was on the verge of disintegrating. What if I had gone forward during the invitation to kneel at the altar, and everyone had seen my loose sole? What if I had been walking back to my seat, and it had come all the way unglued, and had just laid there in the middle of the aisle for everyone to see? Oh, the humiliation!

Isn't that how we live our lives, though? On the surface we carry this facade that everything is great and we've got life completely under control. We live in fear that people will find out that underneath the surface, where no one can see, our souls are broken. Show our weaknesses? No way! Admit that we're falling apart? Not a chance! Just smile and stay calm. Don't let them in, or they'll know just what a screw-up we really are.

What a way to live. What an isolated, exhausting way to live. And I admit, I'm one of the worst. Just this morning in Sunday school, a woman who has become a close friend in the past few months admitted that when we first met, she wasn't sure she liked me. She said I seemed so calm and so together, she didn't think we could possibly have anything in common. I wanted to turn around and see if she was talking about someone behind me, because that's not me at all. I'm not calm, even though I strive to be, and I definitely don't have it all together. I didn't realize it, but by trying so hard to look as if my life were perfect, I had created a facade that people couldn't or wouldn't penetrate.

Just in the past few months, I have begun to open up. I've always been a good listener, but that was partially to keep the conversation focused on the other person and not on me. Now, little by little, I've begun to reveal the parts of me that I've always tried to hide -- the insecurities, the brokenness, the things in my life that keep me awake at night and make me feel unworthy and unlovable. And as I've shared these things with people, something amazing has started to happen -- no one has turned away. No one has abandoned me. Instead, I've found friendships on a deep level that I never even knew existed. As I've opened up, so have they. All the tears that I held in for so long flow freely now, and I let them. My laughter is genuine. My words are sincere, because I'm less concerned about how they make me sound, and more concerned that they somehow comfort or enrich the person hearing them.

Sure, opening up is a risk. Being vulnerable makes you feel . . . well, vulnerable. And let's face it: Not everyone out there can be trusted with your emotions and your secrets. That's where God's guidance and your own instincts must be followed. But when you finally throw caution to the winds and let people into your heart, the rewards are immeasurable.

So what if your shoe breaks? Kick off your shoes and dance in the rain. If you wear earrings that don't match, say it's the latest fashion trend from Paris. If you get spinach stuck between your front teeth, smile broadly at everyone sitting around you. Just be yourself, warts and all. Relationships with people who accept us as we are will sustain us long after the storms have swept away our facades.

Dodging Butterflies

Many years ago, I took a trip back to the Smoky Mountains, where I grew up. Although I was with a group of people, I had wandered a distance away and made my way down to the water's edge. Except for the water pushing its way over the rocks and flowing downstream, there was no sound -- just me and nature. A young girl, maybe nine or ten years old, also wandered down close to where I sat, but other than wondering briefly if her parents were keeping an eye on her, I didn't pay much attention to her. 

Then I saw it: Just a few feet away, a large, flat rock was completely covered with monarch butterflies. There must have been at least fifty of them, quietly sitting on the rock's surface, their wings gently opening and closing. I've learned since then that such a gathering is known as a "bachelor's watering hole." Monarch butterflies, as they migrate, will find a place to rest and replenish before continuing their journey. I'd never seen such a sight before, and it took my breath away.

While I was watching the butterflies, the young girl noticed them and came closer. I said something like, "Aren't they pretty?" She looked at them for a second, and then before I could react, she picked up a flat rock and slammed it down on top of the butterflies. I sat there speechless, not knowing what to say. She left the rock where it was, turned and smiled at me, and then climbed up the bank and disappeared.

It's been probably thirty years, and I've never forgotten the experience. I think it's because I can't understand why she did it. Why would someone deliberately destroy something so beautiful and so innocent? 

Unfortunately, the answer comes back: Why not? We don't live in a perfect world. Innocence doesn't last long, often not even through childhood. Maybe that little girl wanted to hurt something because she had already been hurt herself. Maybe she didn't understand what she was doing. That's my hope: that her actions came out of ignorance, not out of vengeance or some overwhelming need for power, because someone had taken hers away.

Sometimes, when I'm sitting in the quiet, enjoying the sight and sounds of nature, I'll see a butterfly float by. I'll wonder if that child remembers what she did. If she does, does she regret it? I'll never know. Could I have stopped her from destroying those butterflies? Probably not. It happened so fast. But I can choose not to make the same kind of decision. I can choose not to use careless words that crush someone's self esteem. I can choose not to turn away from someone who is reaching out. I can choose to protect the things I hold dear. I want to think -- no, I need to think -- that what I do matters.

A principal at an impoverished elementary school in the foothills of the Smoky Mountains makes sure that his students develop an appreciation for life. Seedlings in plastic cups line the windowsills of the dingy classrooms. Cocoons are watched eagerly for the first signs of life. Gerbils are stroked carefully by little hands. The principal prays that they will always be amazed by the works of God, no matter how small. After doing a tour of duty in Viet Nam, he’ll never take a sunrise, a rainbow, or a friendly smile for granted again. He even reluctantly admits that he dodges butterflies in the road.

For every person who can walk by a homeless man on the sidewalk, there are others who operate a shelter where the man can find heat, food, and a safe place to lay his head. For every company ready to cut off a family's insurance because the cost has become too high, there are people who bake cupcakes, wash cars, and dig into their own pockets to help a child fighting cancer. And for every person who can callously destroy a butterfly, there is someone else who will go out of his way to protect it.

Prince of Peace

"For unto us a Child is born, Unto us a Son is given; And the government will be upon His shoulder. And His name will be called Wonderful, Counselor, Mighty God, Everlasting Father, Prince of Peace." (Isaiah 9:6, NKJV)

The sounds of Christmas faded away, drowned out by a roaring noise in my ears. Suddenly I felt lightheaded, and I struggled to catch my breath. I was having a panic attack — again.

The problems had started a few months earlier. Doctors blamed them on stress and premenopause. Medication helped ease the symptoms, and therapy had helped me learn how to handle the anxiety. But as hard as I tried to keep calm, I lived in fear of when the next panic attack would hit. Over and over, I cried out to God. Fix this, I prayed. Give me back the peace I’ve lost.

For my birthday, my husband, Jim, arranged for us to stay at the Opryland Hotel in Nashville, Tennessee. He knew that I loved the hotel’s indoor garden, especially when it was decorated for Christmas. But spending the night? That was way too extravagant.

“It’s a special treat,” Jim said. “Maybe this is just what you need.”

At first it was. We laughed at the giant animated mice decorating the Christmas tree below our balcony. We wandered along the poinsettia-lined pathways and marveled at the number of twinkling lights that dotted the glass ceiling. I relaxed and enjoyed myself.

But it didn’t last. When we were seated in one of the expensive restaurants in the garden, I felt anxiety creep in. My throat started to close. My head started to spin. I fought to keep my feelings hidden from my husband. I didn’t want to spoil his evening; he had gone to so much trouble.

Frantically I looked around the garden for something to focus on that might distract me from the oncoming attack. I scanned to the right and to the left. The Christmas decorations that had pleased me so much just an hour before just felt cold and unfamiliar. I was surrounded by people enjoying the holidays, and I was sitting across from the love of my life, but I had never felt more alone.

Then I looked up.

Directly above my head, suspended between two six-foot doves, was a banner bearing just three words: “Peace on Earth.”

Gradually my throat unclenched, and I was able to take a deep, calming breath.

I wasn’t alone at all. When I needed it the most, God had given me a super-sized reminder that the kind of peace I need isn’t found in animated mice, bright lights, or expensive restaurants. That kind of peace comes directly from the Prince of Peace, who will never leave me.

Love Is Patient

We have an older woman who attends our church. At one time, for a long time, her grown son and his family were also members. But, as it happens sometimes, the son became disillusioned with the church, and he and his family quit coming. Except for his mother. Every Sunday, without fail, she saves an aisle seat for her son. Just one seat, right beside her. He doesn't come, and the seat stays empty, but she patiently waits.

One Sunday, out of the blue, she looked up to see her son standing beside her row. She quickly moved her purse and her Bible out of the seat so that he could sit down. It was just that one Sunday. He hasn't returned. But the empty seat right beside her will be waiting, if he ever comes back. Then, maybe, he'll be back for good.

It makes me think about how far we get from God sometimes. We get so caught up in our careers, our past-times, even in our church activities, that we wander away. Or maybe, like the son, we've deliberately walked away from God, angry over something He did or didn't do.

The great thing is, God doesn't move. It could be weeks, or months, or even years, but when we're ready to return, we never have to worry that God will have given up on us. God doesn't give up. Whether we've drifted away from God, or deliberately turned our back on God, He'll keep waiting. He's got a spot saved just for us.