Smiles

Ever find yourself scared to believe in something? I watch a lot of "Frasier" and "The Nanny..." and nothing right ever happens to them. (Well, Fran ended up with Mr. Sheffield, but that took years.) Maybe that's skewed my perspective on hope.

And then along came Gimli.

He's like...no one.

When I got back from my summer in The Big City, Gimli showed up at my Bible study. I didn't give him much individual attention; he was some guy who had come in quietly, and I wasn't looking. It was nice to have him as part of our group, but I was really done with guys.

After listening to his comments at study for a few weeks, I started to realize that this guy thought before he spoke--and when he spoke, he was worth listening to. He was knowledgeable but only shared if he thought it would benefit the group--not to prove what he knew. When we started planning a group movie night, I realized how important it was for me to have him there. During the planning, we mentioned upcoming local football games. The next day, I found a message from Gimli in which he asked me to one of the games. I wrote back that I really wanted to go watch my students play that night, and that he was welcome to join me. I cautioned him that my students, their parents, and my coworkers would all be watching us and surmising things. He commented on how that was such a stellar invite--then asked when we should meet. Thus, things started.

I can't even go into everything--how sweet he's been--but he's made me feel cherished in so many ways. He's done normal things like repot plants with me and hang pictures in my new apartment for me. We've taken our friends' young son to a movie together and curled up under blankets on a chilly hayride together. He's led Bible study for me on weeks when I've been too stressed and tired to do so, and when he does, his thoughts are interesting and show the depth of his spirit. His touch is gentle, his eyes are kind, and his grin when he looks at me makes him so adorable.

We were shopping together the other day, and I asked Gimli if he thought the baby we had passed a few aisles earlier had had white paint on his face. He said he didn't know, hadn't noticed. "I was probably looking at you then," he said. Cheesysweet. I laughed in delight at his wonderful cover-up line.

Delight. Not TV; delightful reality.

I had grown accustomed to invisibility...but you're pulling me away from the wall.

I was settling into me, and now you've come along. Expecting change, no doubt--not in bad ways, but in "you're another human with your own history and future" ways.

And I...I don't quite know what to do with you.

This Just in from eHarm

"Meet Seamus, someone as unique as you are."

Is that not...contradictory?

Seen and Not Heard

Whirlwind trip to Iowa to see the grands before they resumed their journey home to Virginia; back early to receive a spare bed from my summer roommate and keep it from inconveniencing her dad since it took up space in the back of his pickup; back early also to make it to a church service planning meeting.

Coming into town fifteen minutes ahead of schedule for meeting my friend's dad, I pulled onto the off ramp and realized I had enough time to make it to DQ for a thin mint Blizzard (limited time only). And then, there he was by the stop sign--a scruffy-looking guy in a T-shirt and jeans, scraggly hair and cap, glasses, and holding a cardboard sign.

I don't remember what the first part of the sign said, but it ended with "IN JESUS' NAME." The cynic in me responded with, "Wow--way to play the God card." But he didn't look like he was shooting for a guilt trip. And he didn't look lazy or scary...just sad.

Five bucks...five bucks...just give him five bucks...

But the cars ahead of me were moving, and there was traffic behind me as well. Not enough time to find my wallet and sort out a five. Besides--I'm a single female. I passed him and prayed.

Blizzard was bought and enjoyed, bed was delivered and stored, and off I went to my meeting at church.

The team evaluated the last two weeks' worth of sermons and service elements, then went on to the upcoming Sunday. Highness will be preaching from James, which includes, in chapter two, verses on having not just faith but deeds as well. We discussed songs that would fit (my suggestion was Petra's "Seen and Not Heard") and anything else that would contribute to the message. Conversation swirled about, a bit of which included taking meals to shut-ins.

And _he_ came to mind. His scruffy hair and cardboard sign. And the Petra in my head was louder than the team discussing around me.

They've heard the story, they've heard the lines
But talk is too cheap to change their minds
They want to see some vital signs

You could take him some money, take him some supper.

Convictions - in the way we live
Convictions - not a narrative
Actions speak a little louder than words

Fine. It's stupid for a single female to approach a panhandler alone. I'll wait until the meeting is done and see if one of the others will go with me.

Seen and not heard, seen and not heard
Sometimes God's children should be seen and not heard

But I couldn't brainstorm and I couldn't contribute and I was almost sick as I realized that I was foregoing an opportunity of the very sort we were talking about.

There's too much talk and not enough walk
Sometimes God's children should be seen and not heard

I didn't know how to excuse myself gracefully, but something came up that I had a comment on. That led to my blurting that I had to go put into action what we were just talking about--and that I really had to _go_. One of the team asked for clarification, and I explained about the man at the off ramp. I left with the caveat, "You'll know where to start looking if I die!" And Highness, who gave his mother's eulogy yesterday, called out, "Say hi to Mom for me!" (It was truly one of the best lines in our worship team's history.)

The spedometer read higher than it should have as I made the drive across town. I started rehearsing what I'd say to whatever officer pulled me over. "Will you come with me to feed this homeless guy on the other side of town?" What I really wanted was for someone with a uniform to take over the duty. No such luck, and I reached a street with a speed limit that was more in line with the speed of my car.

I rehearsed what I'd say to the man: "I don't feel comfortable giving you a ride or giving you money, but can I go buy you some supper?" Ever-conscious of safety, I dug around for my pepper spray, made sure my doors were locked, and evaluated how far open I could leave my window without giving someone access to reach in and grab me. And then, _then_ I prayed. "God, You know what the deal is. You know how to protect me. Please do." And I knew, whatever happened, it would be okay.

My eyes were busy scanning as I approached the overpass. There--was that him? No, a sign. There? Nothing. I slowed, looked down the off ramp, ahead on the highway, and turned around. I looked down the on ramp, and down both sides of the interstate.

Nothing.

Gone.

Quarter after six. Was he being fed? Did he have a home for the night? I wouldn't have offered him _that_, but maybe a supper delivery and snacks for the next day would have brightened his mood and made the night not so hopeless.

Gone--the man, along with the opportunity.

I'm sad that I don't get to experience the joys of reaching out. I'm chastised that I didn't follow through with the opportunity when it was first presented. But I am convicted that when God calls us out, He _does_ equip.

Be strong--and courageous!
--Joshua 1:9

Valley of the Shadow

Last week, I sat with the other members of my church's worship planning team as we brainstormed ways to present Scripture relating to Jesus as the Messiah. We came up with putting people in the screen room of the sanctuary, so they'd be located behind the screen but in front of the projector--silhouetted. Next--who would read? A variety of people were suggested, and one was Mrs. J.--my 90+ year-old friend. Someone pondered the visual presented by her ever-present walker, and I volunteered to be her extra support. Whether we went with an Old Testament feel or a modern approach, a person would fit in better than a three-wheeled cart.

Sunday morning, I led Mrs. J. through the darkened hallway that went to the screen room. The path was narrow, so we had to ditch her cart. She couldn't see well and crept along hesitantly; I wondered why she wasn't more trusting of my ability to see.

I told my mother about that experience today and was struck by the vivid spiritual parallel as I spoke. Why didn't Mrs. J. trust me? I could see!

What have I been wrestling with lately? Not seeing the way, knowing I can't feel my way along...

Do you suppose, just maybe, that God feels the same way I did in that darkened hallway?

It's dark--but I can see. You're fine. If you stumble, I'll catch you. I know the way.

A friend tagged me in a note on Facebook, in which she discussed her evolving religious views. She said she's no longer convinced that Catholicism is the way to go, and the conversation between her and those who commented on the note was overwhelmingly in favor of having spirituality without being part of a church.

I wondered how to counter that. "You need to be part of a fellowship-type group where people will encourage you to keep seeking Jesus when life seems to stink." "You need to be in a place where you can learn from others."

And I stopped. And thought.

I was miserable this past weekend. I did media for a women's conference and, though the parts about husbands and children didn't pertain to me, I figured it was good I was there because I was serving. One of the speakers talked about dealing with grief and the tragic loss of her four-year-old son. I normally would have put my mind in her place and mentally lived through as much as she had, but a wall went up around my heart.

On a break, I ran into one of my former staff leaders from when I was part of the Navigators. She asked how I was, and, as we passed, I confessed that I wasn't doing so well with "the singleness thing." She nodded sympathetically and I hurried back to my post.

I saw her again a while later and she pulled me to the side. "Hey--" she said, "I'm available to pray with you about that issue if you'd like." I nodded and we went to a semi-secluded area. She looked at me. "I feel like I know your heart, so what if we just pray?"

I was already at a breaking point. Someone cared enough to ask how I was? Someone cared that I answered that question truthfully? She began to pray and the tears started dropping. I only had one tissue and reused it to the point of disgustingness. She prayed about things I didn't know were even in my heart until they crawled out.

We talked a bit until she had to go back to one of our event's presentations; I walked down a long hallway to an out-of-the-way restroom and attempted to clean my face up. I tried to get my mind back on the conference and remembered the speaker's narrative about grief. And I just got mad. I know it's horrible that she lost a son...but I haven't even had a son. I know she went through a really rough time with her husband after that loss...but I haven't even had a husband. I know her daughters suffered and were confused...but I haven't even had daughters. Usually those "somebody else's life sucks more than yours" stories make me feel blessed by what I haven't lost...but this time, no.

When my eyes looked less like the Incredible Hulk's (the blue had gone to green, and the skin around my eyes was red and puffy), I slid back into the main conference room. The guys at the soundboard looked up at me--either in surprise at my long absence or in shock at my possibly-still-Hulkish eyes--and offered me their chairs since mine at the PowerPoint computer had become occupied. I just wanted to be invisible.

Actually, I really just wanted to get out of there and sob some more.

So I disappeared as quickly as I could, pulled up at home, and sobbed. Audibly.

I don't do that. I can't scream, I only yell when my students are involved, and I get to an annoying audio level only if I'm playing Mario Kart. I don't like to make noises.

But this person in my car--me--was crying out loud, wondering why this burden of singleness was hers to bear.

And, on that, why is it bad to be unhappy with singleness? I know that as Christians, we're to be content in all situations. But was the speaker lady content with losing her four-year-old son? Was she allowed to grieve?

Am I?

I felt raw for the rest of that day and was numb by Sunday. Then M called. "You've been on my mind the past couple days. How ya doin?"

Again--someone cared to ask, and cared that I answered truthfully.

I didn't want to talk then. Didn't want to start bawling. I had somewhere to go and had just tweaked my makeup.

I texted...something...and just asked that he'd pray.

Stupid friend was persistent. I elaborated a little, and he texted a message asking if he could call. I put off answering until I thought I could talk without crying. I was almost there when my phone rang, and it was him.

"I didn't say you could call," I half laughed and half cried.

He didn't care. And he didn't care that I couldn't talk for a quarter of our conversation because I was trying to do so without gasping for breath through my tears. And he didn't care that I'd told him most of these frustrations before. He just listened, then elaborated for me. "You want to get to the point of having something to lose."

Yeah.

I showed up at my next two appointments with tear streaks cutting through my foundation and blush, but feeling raw and semi-comforted was better than feeling numb.

So why be part of a church? What if you don't even fit there? What if no one notices that you skipped two Sundays in a row? Quit going?

Nope.

The majority of people who know my heart and give me wise counsel are ones I've gotten to know through Bible studies and other small groups. Some Sundays, I've skipped church to drive around and take pictures of God's creation--frosty trees, sun dogs in the sky. Sometimes, I praise Jesus more from my kayak than I do from a pew. But sometimes, I hide from God, don't understand what He's doing, and get upset with Him. And in those times, it's nice to have His people come alongside, help me up, and redirect me.

I think that's what people in a church are for.

A few weeks ago, my Bible study was going through an episode of Max Lucado's "Next Door Savior" in which one of the ending points was seeing God's love for us. And I really needed to see God's love for me.

Are You there? Do You love me? Do You see that life's not going the way I'd planned it? Do You see I don't get to use these gifts You've given me?

When I got home, I dug into a bag of Brach's conversation hearts. I smiled ruefully, thinking of last year when I told myself to imagine that each heart message was something God was saying to me. (Of course, only the "good ones" counted.)

It was maybe the fifth heart that I scanned before consuming, where I found the words, "I love you."

Huh. Funny.

A couple more hearts in, I found another one: "I love you."

Okay.

Okay.

And I haven't found any more since that night.

You prayed for me, didn't you? That God would get to me? He did.

You sit through another sermon on marriage and child-raising while holding a friend's baby, and you can pray all you want over that friend's kid. But when the baby cries and you return her to her mom, you're left with empty arms.

The message is relentless, and you think that even if it doesn't apply to you, you should store it away for possible future use--or to help a friend when she needs it. But eventually, you stomp your mental foot and say, "I want mine! My husband! My family! My home!" The tears start to come, and not welcoming them while in the midst of a crowd, you blink, brush them back, deaden your heart, and read some Bible commentary.

The sermon ends, you chat a bit, then find yourself alone. Couples walk out with babies, strong daddies holding diaper bags. You find yourself thanking God again for the friends who let you borrow their children--not merely hold them while being supervised, but actually walk around with them, hold them long enough that they get used to you, even change a smelly diaper.

This makes you miss your friends who struggled with infertility or with wanting to enter the mission field but not finding open doors. They're still friends, but they've since adopted or gone to a country far away.

"When is it my turn?" --not a whine, but a sob.

"What's wrong with me?"

"What are You teaching me?"

"What have I not learned?"