Words came slowly. I wasn’t sure where I was going (what else is new?) but this time the writing felt forced. I finished the first rough draft, which had strayed far from its original title, “One at a Time.” Who did I think I was, anyway, to write about my Lord? There was too much of me and too little of Him in my words. Discouraged, I saved and closed the file.
The next day, Thursday, I received Sunday’s bulletin via email and read through the parts I would be responsible for as lay assistant: responsive readings, prayers, and Scripture. The prayer of confession ended with these words: “We too easily slip out of your ranks and permit ourselves to be shaped by society, trading your peace in our hearts for public approval. Forgive us, O Lord, and renew us in your witness and your service.” And then, in the prayer of dedication after the offering were these words: “Use us, O Lord, to live and speak Christ’s name against the dark forces of injustice and self-serving that rob the poor, starve the hungry, abuse the wounded, and steal peace from those whose lives are in turmoil.”
Dumbfounded, I turned back to the abandoned rough draft from the day before. There I read the same theme in different words—our call to follow Christ in ministering to the least among us instead of seeking the admiration of the crowd. Encouraged by evidence that the Holy Spirit was affirming what I had struggled with writing the day before, I started the task of revision: slashing cumbersome sentences, tightening up phrases, and searching for a way to end the piece with a return to its beginning. I finally found a better title, too: “Were you there?”
But writing was not all God had in mind for me. He had an object lesson as well. To write passionately about following Jesus and loving others is much easier than actually doing it. I was looking forward to a little break on Friday afternoon: stopping by the Freeland Library and maybe cruising through a thrift store or two. Thinking Mom was out in the garden, I wrote her a note: “I’ll be back soon. John is home.” I was energized by the thought of escape. As I came out the door, I heard a voice: “So what are you up to?” There she sat, almost hidden by the towering flowers around the bench in front of our house.
“I’m headed to the library,” I said.
“Then I’ll come along.” There went my plans. One of Mom’s favorite activities now is riding in the car. Evidently it even trumps working in the garden.
“I’ll go tell John that we’re heading out,” I replied. Honestly, I was kind of hoping she would forget the whole thing in the couple minutes that would take and wander out to the garden. As I walked back across the yard, I was begrudging my compliance to her wishes. Then it hit me: wasn’t this exactly what I had been writing about? If Jesus asked to ride in the car with me, I would be more than happy to take him. So shouldn’t I extend the same courtesy to my own mother? After all, in Jesus’ book, loving and caring for my mother is the same as loving and caring for Jesus.
Evidently, it is not just the words that come slowly at times. My actions and my attitude lag far behind: too much of me and too little of Him.
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