A Sacrificial Gift

            Late one afternoon, a hospital nurse spotted a tall, uniformed fellow entering the facility’s automatic doors.  We call them ‘the magic doors’ here at West End, but you know what I mean.  She grabbed his sleeve and said “Oh, I’m so glad you’re here.  Your dad has been asking for you, and he’s not doing well at all.”

            Turning on his polished heels, he entered the room, sat down in the bedside chair, took the old man’s hand and leaned over to his ear.  “It’s okay, Dad, I’m here.”  A weak smile, but relaxation at last washed over him like a much anticipated tide, sweeping away the fear and anxiety.  “Would you like me to read you a psalm?”  A nod.  You could touch the peace that passed understanding in that sterile hospital room that afternoon.

            A couple of hours later, the serviceman walked up to the nurses’ station.  “I think your patient has passed away,” he said.

            The nurse reached out for his sleeve again.  “I’m so sorry about your father,” she said with much compassion.

            “That wasn’t my father,” the serviceman explained.  “But he needed his son at that moment, and I could be that for him.”

            Wow.  I was blown away by that story.  There was a need, and one of God’s beloveds met it.  I wonder about the fella’s sacrifice—where was he originally going?  Would whomever he was supposed to meet understand?  Could I have done the same, or would I feel obligated to explain to the nurse that it wasn’t my father from the get-go?   I’m not sure.  There are lots of what-ifs that could have happened otherwise.

            I am sure that we are given chances to meet the needs of others all the time.  Sometimes it’s not much of a cost to us.  Sometimes it’s just a listening ear.  Sometimes it’s holding a hand, sitting, sometimes it’s just a matter of time.  Literally.

            Some things can wait.  And some things need attention now.  May God grant us the wisdom to know the difference, to make a difference.  For one soul at a time.

Grace and joy,

Julie

           

Freeing Grace

My friend Melissa spent the first half of her life in an attitude of adjustment:  born with severely clubbed feet and legs, she learned to crawl in hip-to-toe plaster casts; she learned to walk in clunky orthopedic shoes—shoes that were attached to one another at the heel with a wide metal bar.  Then she graduated to squeaky metal and leather leg braces.

Melissa hated those leg braces, casts and horrible shoes.  She hated not being like the other kids. She hated the questions, the stares, the looks of sympathy.  She simply hated.  Her parents were determined that the doctor’s rather pitiful prognosis would be proven wrong.  Melissa WILL walk. Melissa WILL run!  Melissa doesn’t remember a time, waking or sleeping, during the first 16 years of her life that her legs were not twisted, strapped or plastered into what the surgeons called “normal.”  Except for one time . . .

It was a nice night, quiet, peaceful.  She was sitting in the front seat of her parents’ car, her four-year-old eyes staring out into the inky blackness as her mother drove along a never-ending bridge.  She and her mother had just finished checking the lobster traps.  She felt the car slow, and looked over at her mother as she pulled the car over to the side.

“Take off your braces, Melissa.”

She was sure it was the stunned look on her own face that brought the smile to her mother’s.  Melissa was positive that her mom had lost her mind.  Her braces NEVER left her legs!

Silently, she watched as her mother removed her own sneakers and socks . . . then dumbfounded Melissa watched as she bent over to unstrap the leather buckles of her braces.  Excited now, she stripped off her own socks and hopped out of the car . . . anticipating . . .she didn’t know . . . anything that permitted brace removal had to be good!

Outside the car, the dark came to greet them, surround them, welcome them.  Hand in hand, they walked through that black night, down unseen steps to the black water.  Seeing—nothing.  Smelling—the salty odor of fish and the fishermen who had long since gone home for the evening.  Feeling—the warmth of her mother’s hand, and the rough wood stairs beneath her bare feet.  Standing on the last dry stair, she could hear the water swirling, slapping gently at the worn wooden dock.

“Let’s sit down, Melissa.  Let’s put our feet in the water.”

“Won’t a crab bite my toes, Mommy?”

A smile . . .

“No, Lissie, crabs like to live on the bottom of the ocean.  We’ll put our feet right here on top . . . see, just like this.”

She hiked up her gown and sat down beside her mother, dangling her toes . . . then her feet in the invisible water.  Warmth . . . calm, gentle, moving warmth.  They sat in this warmth, mother and child.  Four feet in the water.  Two strong and straight, two strong and crooked.

Eyes wide against the darkness, Melissa knew God.  She knew God was with her.  God was in the water that soothed her hurting, crooked feet.

God was in the sky that enveloped her brokenness with wholeness.

God was in the hand of her mother who led her to  a rare moment of freedom.

She didn’t know God’s name . . . but she knew God.

She knew the bigness of God . . . the safety of God.

She knew grace.  Grace that allowed a reprieve from bound legs and feet.

Grace transformed that dock into an altar . . . grace that revealed God’s presence to a small, bent child.  She wanted to remain on that dock forever, smiling into the hugeness of God’s love.  She wanted to sing.  She wanted to have a PARTY!  She wanted to CELEBRATE!  It was a sacred moment, even to a four-year-old.

Such is God’s grace.  It comes, as Carl Jung said once upon a time, bidden or unbidden.  How beautiful.  And how comforting.

I bet you have had sacred moments like that too.  Today’s the day to celebrate them.  And I thank Melissa for sharing this story with me many years ago.  It still brings me great joy.

Grace and joy,

Julie

Has Your Name Changed Recently?

I didn’t think I had changed my name recently, but apparently—age or clerk training, I suspect the latter—I became “Miss Julia" about two weeks ago to every cashier in my shopping circles.  Why that conjures up pictures of “Miss Daisy” in my mind, I’m not sure, but I suddenly feel extremely old.  I much prefer the informal “Julie,” which has been my chosen nickname for as long as I can remember being asked.  Besides that,  I’ve been called Mrs. Halstead or Reverend (with an occasional Sister Halstead thrown in for good measure), since I crossed some age bump years and years ago, but the “Miss Julia” thing is a new twist to me, even here in the South.

One thing I know for sure, however, and that is my Christian identity.  I received that watermark of a name in the arms of Rev. Winner at Community Methodist Church in Dayton, Ohio, at two months of age.  I believe I slept through the monumentous event of my baptism.  My parents were grateful for that quiet moment of grace, I'm confident.

For the longest time, I took the name Christian for granted.  And for way too long, I’ve been in vast company with others who have taken on the name when we profess the faith, without appropriating the Story, the living memory, that determines the meaning of the name we bear.  Hence, we cannot see our lives in continuity with the redemptive history in which we have been adopted—namely, God’s “for us” work through Israel and in the life, death and resurrection of Jesus Christ.  It’s not all our fault.  The Church hasn’t been the best, in many cases, in making that Story accessible to us.  But at some point, when we know better, we need to take that responsibility onto our own shoulders, or at least make ourselves available when God points the way for our appropriating the Story.

So hello, Beloved Christian!  We are family, sharing a common name.  Remember who you are, even when some young whippersnapper calls you “Miss Julia,” or something else you’re not familiar answering to.  We are all “Christian,” children of The Way.

Grace and joy,

Julie

A Coffee Cup Matter

I have been known to be a sucker for sales.  If it’s a bargain price, how could I pass something up?  I’m saving all that money, right?

That’s how I ended up with a mug with a quote from Max Lucado.

I know.  My academic friends don’t care much for Max, but I like his images—and often wish I’d thought of them first, as they are so, well, obvious!

So I bought the mug on sale. The shape was sharp, the size was super, and it had Max’s wisdom printed on the front and back.  Yes, it was a little crooked.  Hence the sale price, but it was on sale.  Into my cart it went.  Perfection isn’t always a necessity.

Max’s wise quote said:  If it matters to you, it matters to God.

When I got home, I started to regret the impulse buy.  The imprint made me think twice about actually drinking my coffee from it in public.  At first, I liked the sentiment.  Yeah, God and I are buds that way.  But then, I thought maybe that’s a little arrogant.  Because it matters to me, it matters to God?  Perhaps it should have been stated the other way around—what matters to God, matters to me.  There’s a difference. 

I really want to live my life in a way that always and everywhere, in every circumstance, comes from a center of what matters to God.  Love, Humility, Justice, Mercy, Compassion.  You know, the biggies, the brass tacks of what really, really matters to God.  I know me, however, and I miss the mark on that target, frequently.  Maybe I should just give my bargain to Goodwill, for someone more worthy.

That’s when I felt God winking at me.  Because with a little nudge and a twinkle in His eye, I heard that still, small voice whisper “Julie, if it matters to you, God cares.  God cares if what matters to you misses the mark or is spot on.  What matters to all God’s creation is significant, simply because He loves all.  And in God’s loving, compassionate way, God cares about the consequences of what matters to us.”

I’m not sure if that’s what Max meant, but imperfect me can drink from my crooked cup with comfort.  Thank you, God, for that reminder. 

Now, I wonder if there’s any coffee left?

Grace and joy,

Julie