Say a prayer for him.

At the end of my writing group on Sunday night, a gentleman walked into the room.

We were the only people left in the building, it was getting late, and I admit that my heart doubled up for a moment when I saw an unfamiliar face appear at the door. "Is there a service going on?" he asked. No, we told him; unfortunately, the last service had finished a couple of hours ago. But he didn't go away. He came inside. He sat in a chair.

He told us his story, and that he needed help.

I'm going to be honest: when people tell me they need help like this - money, a working phone, a place to stay for the night - my body tenses up. My mind doesn't know what to do. I jump through too many mental hoops, hoops that I'm sure the person wouldn't appreciate, that I know I wouldn't appreciate in their place. Is their story true? What will they do with the money? Is that even my business? What would Jesus do? Probably invite them to sleep in our guest bedroom. Am I going to do that? No. Is that because I'm a woman and have been conditioned to feel afraid? Because I'm too proud, too comfortable in my own life, too... not like Jesus?

No matter what, I know that I'm basically not going to be like Jesus in this situation. And I don't care for that about myself and yet at the same time, I feel it protects me. And yet Jesus didn't mean for us to be protected. (See what I mean about the mental hoops?)

It was quickly clear that the gentleman didn't mean any harm. But even still, my heart pounded in the midst of the surprise and of not knowing what to do.

I was so deeply strengthened by my fellow church members and writers. Not one of the four of them moved a muscle. They could have said, "Well, I have an early morning tomorrow, gotta go!" But they stayed in their seats. Not only that, they acted much more quickly than I did, pulling out their phones, asking him more about his situation, calling numbers and Googling local services, trying to figure out the best way to help on an empty Sunday night.

And I kept thinking: What can I do? What can I do? What can I do?

Smile at him.

He smiled back.

"What's your name?" I asked. He told us.

"What was your wife's name?" He'd said at the start that she'd passed away last fall.

Talk to him. Maybe parts of his story are blurry. So what? Treat him like the human being that he is. May he feel some sense of calm sitting in this room, even as his immediate future is so uncertain.

"Is that your church across the way, too?" he asked, pointing towards the sanctuary.

"Yep," I said, nodding. "That's where we hold worship in the morning. We hope you'll come sometime, if you can."

My friends and I continued to talk with him, trying to feel out what the best answer for a Sunday night would be. It was nearly an hour until we reached someone who could help more than we could (but, this little voice in my head asks, is that really true?). But as the gentleman prepared to leave, I knew there was one more thing that we could do.

"Can we say a prayer for you?" I asked, standing and moving closer to him. My eyes welled up even as I asked the question, even as he nodded vigorously. The honor of asking that question. "I'm just going to put my hand on your shoulder," I said, and did so. His shoulder was warm underneath his button-down shirt. Human. And so we all bowed our heads and I stuttered through a prayer - be with him on his journey, watch over him and guide him to whatever the next step might be, may he feel your presence and the presence of his beloved wife...

In my words, and the action of them leaving my mouth and touching the air, reaching his ears - I sensed the presence of the many who have lit the path for me. The many who have encouraged me to minister, before and even when I decided not to become an actual minister. Those who show me that I am still called to ministering in these small and simple and messy ways - and my belief that sometimes, this small and simply and messy ministering by us, as lay people, is the most powerful.

I know I got some things wrong in that unexpected hour. I stiffened and stumbled and didn't say, "Hey, let's go down to the village and I'll buy you some dinner and we can figure out what to do next." 

But as we said "Amen," that moment felt like the only thing I could be sure I'd gotten right in life that day.

"Unbridled Mirth": A Remembrance

Yesterday, my grandfather would have turned 89. We celebrated by going to church and, later, spending sunset in the bowl of grass by his gravestone. I thought I'd continue the celebration a bit longer by posting a brief excerpt from my (still-to-be-fully-revised) memoir manuscript, in honor of Frank Logan Asbury III. 

June 30, 2012

My Dearest Claire,

I enjoyed with “unbridled mirth” the Father’s Day card and “poem” which you sent me on 6/29/12 – particularly the “fishy” nature of the “take me to the river” language!! – As hot as it has been here the past week I would be simply delighted to have you or others “take me to the river and drop me in the water”!! You are becoming completely skilled in your poem composing!!

Mason is off to New Orleans for a few days to do a little “courting.” We miss you here, my darling girl! Encl. is some monetary support!!

I love you – as do we all!

Pop-Pop

Ever since I could remember, five humongous fish had been mounted to the wood paneled basement walls on plaques. Their scales, fins and bugged-out eyes had been frozen by glaze, and a child – which I was then – could easily fit a fist into their open mouths. In this immobile state, they appeared much more alarming than I imagined they had been underwater. Pop-Pop loved to go on fishing trips with his Emory buddies, and these mounted fish were his trophies, and his company as he watched the game, snapping at the players as if he were a sideline coach. In his study upstairs, one photo showed him in his mid-fifties, wearing a slicker and knee-high waders and looking supremely pleased as he hoisted two fish as long and thick as his own arms.

In homage to his fishing prowess, someone (most likely one of his sons, who had inherited his sense of humor) presented him with a Big Mouth Billy Bass for my grandparents’ golden wedding anniversary. Billy Bass was a rubber fish mounted on a plastic plaque made to look like polished wood. When one of his young grandchildren eagerly pressed the button, Billy Bass twisted the front part of his fish-body and serenaded us with the songs “Don’t Worry, Be Happy” and “Take Me to the River.”

Whenever a family birthday came, he would retreat to his study to compose a poem at his large wooden desk. Since four of their five children lived nearby, birthday gatherings were normal, on the back deck in spring, in the dining room in winter. After my music teacher aunt pitched “Happy Birthday,” Nana sliced the grocery store cake and silence would fall as he recited his original composition in honor of the lucky recipient – sometimes a limerick, sometimes a Shakespearean iambic, sometimes free verse.

For decades, he cheerily held court among his large and growing family, among the dogwoods and azaleas, beneath the high ceilings and grandfather clock’s deep clang, in the white brick three-story house they’d called home for more than fifty years.

The Friday Five: Good Tired

No April Foolin', I'm sure glad it's Friday. Here are some moments and memories that have been saving my life. What about you, friend?

1. Generous parents. Last Saturday felt like a true spring cleaning day, with major help from my folks in the yard work department (I forgot how much I enjoy pulling weeds... majorly therapeutic). Thanks, Mom and Dad! To repay them, I made chicken pot pie and Mom brought berries and whipped cream for dessert and we all sat around our dining room table with tired limbs and full stomachs. The best kind of tired: Good tired.

2. Easter Sunday. I've already written about this, but just to repeat, it was wonderful, as it always is. Some friends then hosted a delicious potluck brunch. Good tired.

3. Spring walks. We're walking in the evenings again! Our street is full of blooming yards and sleek sunlight, and it's such a lovely ending to the day. Good tired.

4. Women's small group. I love my ladies (and our resident baby), our laughter, vulnerability, affirmation, and encouragement. A much-needed hour of my week.

5. Remembering Matt. My high school friend Matt passed away this week after three years of battling cancer. I hadn't seen him in about ten years - basically since we graduated - but I have many happy memories of his humor and kindness. Matt was voted our "class clown," but he was far more than that. His wit ran deep, his smarts were evident, and he was easygoing and friendly to all. I've spent the week digging up memories and photos and reconnecting with several other high school friends. It's made me really sad and simultaneously very thankful that I knew Matt, and that my high school experience was a good one because of people like him. Thanks, old friend. I'll never forget you.

Honorable mentions: My awesome coworkers, delish Sean dinners, a new Headspace meditation pack on anxiety, our soft red fleece blanket, rain, yellow daisies on the porch, and this moment right now: Friday night, Parks, and homemade pizza, after quite a long day at work.

Good tired.