the jacket

Sunday morning I am buzzing around helping set everything up before church. We meet in Savannah's gorgeous, historic Lucas Theater, a rented space to which we have access only on Sundays. Setting up and tearing down are a part of our usual schtick. Storage is limited as well. I find myself trying to explain this to a visitor in the lobby, who grabs my attention as I am briskly jetting from point A to point B. As a church, we are used to this. The doors are open. People wander in, and of course they are more than welcome—that's why we're here in the first place! So we all do our best to greet new people, amid the joyful chaos.

This gentleman is a drifter; probably homeless. It takes about one and a half seconds for me to realize that my new friend, who has very kind eyes, is playing me. We're used to this as well. I say "we," meaning our church collectively—especially those on staff, and volunteer team leaders, including me. Our church meets in a lovely urban area surrounded by city squares—parks—so a small part of our congregation is made up of people who are homeless, or are on the edge of homelessness: alcoholics, recovering alcoholics, drug addicts, parolees, the mentally ill, you name it. Having them in church is a beautiful thing, and presents special challenges, for which we receive special training. On top of the training, I've learned the hard way, in this very theater lobby, how not to handle Players—a lengthy discussion for another day.

I get him a cup of coffee, knowing he will request loads of sugar, which he does. Free calories. Then he delivers his line. He just got off the bus from Atlanta, and while he was distracted in the station, someone stole his coat. Can we help him?

After sheepishly explaining our lack of physical resources (the space is rented, we have no storage, etc.), I grab every available friend of the male persuasion within a ten foot radius and try to get them involved. My hope, I guess, is that one of them will take the bull by the horns and handle this gracefully, with wisdom, kindness and authority. In other words, I am eyeing their coats. I step away to call home, to grab a pastor, to think for a minute, all to no avail. When I return, my drifter is alone again in the middle of the fray, looking chilly. That's when it occurs to me: we're about the same size, this man and I. He is petite, not much taller than me. And my super-chic black trench coat, which I bought at a discount department store for fourteen measly dollars, is a few sizes too big for me, so it might just fit him. AND, my husband has always hated this jacket. "Really," I tell him, unpinning the broach Gray gave me for Christmas from the lapel and fishing my car keys out of the pocket, "you're doing me a favor by taking this thing off my hands."

I suddenly realize, everyone can see us. At this point, three awful thoughts make me ill. First, I am sure that my friends on staff at the church are shaking their heads, tisk-tisking me. (They would never tisk-tisk me, not in a million years.) All of the training they've provided flashes through my brain: Do show love and concern. Don't give rides. Don't give money. Don't enable bad choices. But he didn't ask for money. He is cold, that's all. I hate being cold. If I had no coat, I'd be miserable. Second, I am hyper-aware of Jesus' words, "Be careful not to practice your righteousness in front of others to be seen by them," (Matthew 6:1a). Here we are in the middle of an increasingly crowded theater lobby, where all eyes can see this drifter, who is having trouble squeezing into my very feminine, highly fashionable coat. What a sight: Tom Joad meets Ava Gabor. (The jacket is my only glamor item, by the way; I'm in a T-shirt and jeans underneath.) It's a tight fit, so donning the jacket is not a subtle procedure. Should I have ushered him outside first? Or into some dark corner? Am I describing a drug deal? The need for discretion doesn't occur to me until he is waving my satiny black trench coat aloft, struggling to get his second arm into its dangling sleeve.

My third thought is the worst: what if anyone thinks I am being especially kind? Yes, this is an act of kindness, but my gift is not sacrificial. I have other coats at home, and the means to replace this one. My sole motive is problem-solving. See a need, fill a need. And, let's face it, this man's need only begins with the coat.

Pride instantly kicks in. I don't want my friends to think I'm "performing," or to think that I don't know my Scripture. My brain is spinning. Adding to the cerebral hurricane, I'm a little peeved that, as a church, we aren't able to have resources at the ready for this kind of thing. A stack of blankets would do. I trust the wisdom of our leadership implicitly—countless approaches to solve this and similar problems have been tried out over many years—but still, I just wish things could be different. And yes, maybe I'm also slightly irked that none of the guys I snagged to help out, stepped up to the plate. Why did they abandon him? WE are the church. WE should fill in the gaps, right?

At this point I feel something like actual shame. I'm all but tapping my foot, willing the coat to fit. We both hear the distinct sound of fabric straining and ripping as he lowers his arms. Once he's finally settled, looking like Charlie Chaplin in drag, I flee to the balcony, which is my usual habit, to pray. I do pray for him—my new friend, Richard the Drifter—but I am so flustered that mostly, I pray that no one will see me when I finally emerge for the service, and that someone will collect my leather-bound New Testament, which I left at his feet, and put it somewhere safe. Or, that he took it. I wish I had slipped it into the pocket of the jacket, or that I had offered it to him. Finally, I pray that God will deliver my poor tired brain from all of these ridiculous thoughts, so I can worship and learn and serve as I should.

For the most part, God answers every one of these prayers. As usual, I'm one of the last out of the theater. I see Richard. He is asleep, wearing my coat, nestled in a seat in the last row, his head resting against the back wall, cozy as a house cat. My bible is waiting for me in the volunteer area off to the side of the lobby. I make it onto the sidewalk without having to interact with anyone. Thank you, Jesus.

The next day I crack open my binders of notes from Bible Study Fellowship, looking for something specific for a friend. Flipping though hundreds of pages, my eye is drawn to this question which follows the first loaves and fishes story in Matthew: "When you are confronted with a need, do you say, 'Oh, send them home, we can't do anything about it?'... Or do you come to Him with what you have and obey His command, 'You give them something to eat?' " Immediately my mind is eased.

How great is our God, to provide this little bit of reassurance for me?

If someone takes your cloak, do not stop him from taking your tunic. Give to everyone who asks you, and if anyone takes what belongs to you, do not demand it back. Do to others as you would have them to you. ~ Luke 6:29b-31

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only Jesus

I wrote this and the two preceding posts for a friend who loves the moon, who is seeking enlightenment:

I believe in Jesus because when I was broken hearted, completely out of hope, he showed up. He: Jesus. In a big way. I know it was Jesus—not the Virgin, or my dead relatives, or Yu-huang (the Zeus of Taoist deities)—because although I would have preferred any of them, when I called for help, Jesus was the only one who picked up the phone.

Wanting nothing to do with Jesus, I avoided him for years. I'm not sure why. I didn't know much about him, actually. He simply bothered me, and he was highly unpopular among my peers. That certainly didn't help his case. Meanwhile, as I ignored him, a pit was forming in my heart. This annoying pit developed, over time, into a gaping hole. My many and varied attempts to patch it up or fill it all ended in failure. I was crying all of the time, for no reason. It was nutty, but I knew it was a God thing. 

Always an excellent student, I did my research. My quest for God and inner peace took me to the spirituality and self-help aisles at Barnes and Noble. I read up on various Eastern and New Age philosophies, where I stumbled upon the attractive idea of concocting a personalized god-soup. I threw in a little of my parents' Catholicism, a splash or two from the East, and, as mentioned above, several dead relatives, to whom I prayed quite regularly. All the while, I felt his gentle pursuit. Him: Jesus. He was always nearby, offering peace, smiling and waiting. I responded by throwing rocks. But in my moment of extreme desperation, also mentioned above, there he was, all alone: only Jesus. 

We exchanged no words. I did not pray a special prayer; in fact, I didn't say anything at all. I stood still, tears streaming, and let him in. That's it. That's what happened. Meanwhile, inside the seeming quiet minimalism of this event, a bomb went off. In the most glorious moment of my life, darkness turned to light. I saw light. In fact, if you happened to be nearby at that moment, you probably rubbed your eyes, thinking, Good golly, that teary-eyed girl over there seems to be glowing. You'd have thought that, because I was! Radiant me, all aglow. (Everyone's experience is different, by the way. On the other end of this vast spectrum, initial belief in God and Jesus is a slow process: a heart opening to her Creator like a flower, petal by petal. But not for me. Apparently I required a more abrupt approach.)

I had never given much thought to eternity and didn't understand until later that, at that glorious moment, I had found it. All that mattered to me initially was that Jesus gave me my life back. I did not understand that he had forgiven my sins—although, trust me, I was more than penitent—nor was I aware that he had died for them. Died and risen. Nope. All I knew was that I walked into a church as good as dead, and left, alive again. More alive than I had ever been.

I have learned tons about our living triune God (Father, Spirit, Son), having studied the Bible like a maniac ever since my conversion nine years ago, and I believe what I read. I have shelves full of all the proper supplemental books—commentaries, classics, references galore—and, I have read them. (Well, as much as a girl sits down to read her Vines Complete Expository Dictionary... but, you get my point.) I was a member of the Savannah Women's Day class of Bible Study Fellowship for seven and a half years, mostly in positions of leadership. I can define propitiation. Concerning eschatology, I take a pre-millenial stance, although I am convinced that, more than likely, none of us has got it right. (I threw that in, Dear Moon-Lover, not for you, but for another friend who has me pegged, theologically, as a hack.) I can't say I remember everything I have learned, but I'm a good note-taker and can probably find what I'm looking for, as soon as I'm able to pin together five consecutive minutes, between grading projects, writing my novel, and packing Gray's lunch for school. 

Despite countless hours of diligent study, it's the application that matters. Belief without behavioral support is meaningless, and even harmful to the cause of Christ. What could be worse for one's Christian witness than hypocrisy? I am laughably far from perfect, but I do try to live by the words of this book that I've come to love. Here's the kicker: When I alter my behavior according to what's written in my bible—even though it often gives advice that can only be described as couner-intuitive—I am blessed. Loving my enemies results in me getting blessed. Responding to harshness gently, blesses me, too. It's all so upside-down. Jesus is upside-down. I love that about him. 

I'm a very emotional girl, dear friend; my world-view is guided not by logic, but by how I feel. I feel Jesus through his Spirit alive in my heart as I read and study and apply his Word. I feel him when I hear stories of how he works in people's lives. I feel him calling me to repent when I make wrong choices (daily; hourly). I feel his peace descend like a blanket as I pray. And, when I open my eyes, I see him working all around me. 

This is why I believe.

Amen.

Neither is there salvation in any other: for there is none other name under heaven given among men, whereby we must be saved. ~ Acts 4:12 KJV

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serendipity

(Written two days after Christmas.)

This week has been, for a variety of reasons, discouraging. Not exclusively, mind you. Over all, I am happy; life is good! But, every day this week, I have faced discouragement. 

For one thing, attempts to cheer a loved one—an atheist who suffers from perpetual self-imposed misery—fail, utterly. I do not attempt to convert him, by the way. Oh, no. Not that. Conversion is up to God. But I do my part, prayerfully extending love and concern, and sharing the true story of how Jesus saved my sorry self when I was as miserable as he. My favorite atheist rejects my efforts which, although not particularly surprising, hurts. 

On top of this, every day, little well meaning comments and criticisms about my writing endeavors leave me feeling misunderstood. I am cut off from my usual sources of encouragement, due to holiday travels; as a result, I am flustered. Sad. I entertain thoughts of quitting. Maybe it's time to pull the plug. All of this writing nonsense and tweeting bible verses is causing nothing but trouble, and it takes an awful lot of time. If I had time, I could pursue a hobby. I could dust off my guitar.

Meanwhile, my devotional reading plan takes me to Scriptures that address each of my sources of discouragement, quite specifically. The timing is uncanny. Concerning my favorite atheist, I feel better when I am reminded that rejection is to be expected. If you reason with an arrogant cynic, you'll get slapped in the face (Proverbs 9:7). I’m even given hope by the depths of his misery. You're blessed when you're at the end of your rope. With less of you, there is more of God & his rule (Matthew 5:3). So what if I ruined our visit by sharing the fact that I pray for him every day. Perhaps God is at work in my atheist-friend's heart. What it means is that the truth is too close for comfort and he is uncomfortable. You can be glad when that happens—give a cheer, even!—for though he doesn't like it, I do! And all heaven applauds (Matthew 5:11).

God even addresses the recent "helpful suggestions" that have been making me blue, reminding me to hear criticism with an open mind: The road to life is a disciplined life; ignore correction & you're lost for good! (Proverbs 10:17) I am comforted as I pray with David, Bring me back from gray exile, God; put fresh wind in my sails! (Psalm 51:12) 

On the little matter of my being tempted to give up not only my Twitter ministry, but also my dream of writing for God, He uses other means. Reunited with dear friends after the holidays, they rally to my aid, sending heartfelt notes and an amazingly on-target quote about perseverance in light of criticism, by none other than Theodore Roosavelt. Finishing up the final few words of Teddy's snippet, I hear a pointed lyric playing on Pandora: When I tried to give up, Lord, You never gave up on me. The support from my wonderful friends is not unusual, but how about the timing of that lyric, and the fact that I noticed it at all? Amazing.

God is always at work refining and comforting, using all things together for the good of those who love him and have been called according to his purpose. The more involved I am with him, the more I see evidence of his love all around me, even when I am not specifically looking for it. God is serendipity.

You're blessed when you get your inside world—your mind & heart—put right. Then you can see God in the outside world. ~ Matthew 5:8, The Message

stillness

When I was a brand new Christian, my friends Sarah and Georgia taught me how to pray; I've been a pray-er ever since. I guess you could call me an intercessor, which is a fancy way of saying that I pray for others, because I certainly pray a lot for my friends and family. This is not as selfless as it sounds, though—it's more a description of the way God directs my prayers, once I get settled in. As a prayer counselor at my church, I pray with and for countless folks, people I don't even know. I have prayed discreetly with strangers in grocery stores, and with friends on street corners. I can't say I respond immediately every time I get nudged from Above to pray, but I wish I did. Missed opportunities like these, for me, always end in regret.

I have studied the prayers of the bible (a highly worthwhile use of time), and have read many books about prayer. As I read Psalms every day, I am taken with David's unabashed honesty in praying. Based on these studies and my own experience, I am convinced that prayer is more about spending time with God than anything else. There is not one perfect way to do it, although humility and honesty certainly increase depth of fellowship. As closeness to God has become my goal in prayer—as opposed to getting things—I find have less to say. Prayer is a conversation, not a monologue... and, as Jesus reminds us, God knows everything, anyway. Sometimes there is no need for words at all. Deep calls to deep.

We don't have to explain anything to God, but I don't think he minds much when we do. I like hearing my ten-year-old tell me about his day, even if I already know the basics of what went on, and I'm sure God is no different. He probably laughs when we suggest solutions to our problems, but again, I doubt there is a demerit system in place up there. Sin separates us from him, so prideful prayers won't be effective—pride is the root of all sin, sin separates us from God, and separation is the opposite of closeness. Still though, I think God is pleased with our sincere attempts to spend time with him, no matter where we are in our understanding of the process.

Sometimes I feel God calling me to prayer in the strangest places. Usually this is brought on by an abrupt silence. Take Dollywood, for example. Did you know there is a tiny country church smack in the middle of that boisterous, joyful Tennessee amusement park? I stumbled upon it a few summers ago. It was still and tranquil inside, a slice of heaven surrounded by tons of whirling rides and shouting children. Walking through the doors into that oasis of peace was awe-inspiring. I prayed in that church. Oh, how I prayed.

The same thing happens in smaller ways all of the time. For example, often I find myself alone in our  tiny neighborhood gym. It's basically a cellar full of old Nautilus equipment. In the silence of that room, I am called to pray. So far no one has walked in on me, but when it happens, I'm hoping my gym-mate will think she's stumbled onto a session of yoga practice. (Oh look, she's doing child's pose!)

The day after Christmas, most of my family, gathered in Savannah for the holiday, goes for a hike at Fort Pulaski National Monument. A brisk wind is rushing over the marsh—chilly, but refreshing. While on the palm-lined path to Cockspur Lighthouse, I summon the courage to confess to my atheist brother that I pray for him every day. I have been dreading this chat. Traditionally he bristles at any mention of Things Divine. Not this time, though. I am heady with relief, flushed and breathless. We catch up with the rest of the group and make our way into the fort. I notice an entrance off to the side of the main passageway, a room cut into a huge mound of earth. Alone for a moment, I decide to enter. It is a magazine, full of (empty) power kegs. The noise of the windy day is hushed the moment I step inside. The stillness is surprising and hugely, wonderfully welcome. In the sudden silence, I hear a heavenly invitation. In response, I pray. "God, please help my brother. He is so unhappy. He needs you. And help me to love him as much as you do." Hearing the voices of meandering tourists approaching on the path outside, I know my moment has ended. I leave the room, satisfied.

A great and powerful wind tore the mountains apart and shattered the rocks before the LORD, but the LORD was not in the wind. After the wind there was an earthquake, but the LORD was not in the earthquake. After the earthquake came a fire, but the LORD was not in the fire. And after the fire came a gentle whisper. When Elijah heard it, he pulled his cloak over his face and went out and stood at the mouth of the cave. Then a voice said to him, “What are you doing here, Elijah?” ~ 1 Kings 19:11-13


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