Shag carpet hugged the floor beneath me, and a weave of wire and mattress hovered just a couple of inches from my nose. Bathed in the coolness of shadows, I daydreamed.
Brave warrior-child that I was, I never feared The Monster Under The Bed. The space beneath my bed was instead a sanctuary—a place to curl up with a flashlight and a book and enjoy the quiet. Even when not seeking solace underneath my bed, I have always sought peace and privacy. I began closing my bedroom door as a young girl—not to get away from anything or anyone, but just to snatch a few moments for myself.
When I meet new people, I have to fight my internal urge to not close myself off entirely. I know that when most people meet me, they think I am shy. And, well, they’re right—at least sort of.
But deep within me is the soul of a daring adventurer.
No, really. I mean it. No joke.
I am thrilled by the idea of journeying to a faraway land, living in the most primitive of conditions and dining on the most exotic of foods. I find images of backpacking through the wilderness or adjusting to a foreign city’s culture positively electrifying. But do I have what it takes? Is this the place where God is calling me?
The time has come, yet again, to apply for Summer Missions 2008. Tomorrow, my application folder must be signed, stamped, sealed and sent off. Interviews are in two weeks. I’ll be notified where I’m going about a week after that. Imagine that, in the space of three short weeks, I’ll know where God is sending me this summer. Am I ready for this? Well, no. Not even close.
Thank God it simply is not about me or my readiness—it is about Him and His plan. And He won’t be ‘sending’ me anywhere, it will be an adventure we will traverse together. Whether I find myself stateside, across the globe, in a remote town or urban city, He’ll be holding my hand.
"Then Jesus came to them and said, "All authority in heaven and on earth has been given to me. Therefore go and make disciples of all nations, baptizing them in[a] the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit, and teaching them to obey everything I have commanded you. And surely I am with you always, to the very end of the age."
Matthew 28:18-20
Sunday, October 28, 2007
Saturday, October 20, 2007
Pressing on toward the goal
Legs pumping and hearts racing, they sprinted up and down the court. They worked like a well-oiled machine, passing and catching, shooting and scoring. The pace of the game was nothing if not intense.
Well, excluding myself.
There I stood, dumbfounded and trembling near the center of the hardwood. The game pulsated around me, and the action shifted quickly from one side of the court to the other. I jogged halfheartedly in the direction of the ball, avoiding eye contact of my teammates and praying fervently that no one would be foolish enough to throw it to me.
You see, the first basketball game I ever watched….
I played in.
I don’t recall what possessed me, but I endured an odd stage of life—7th grade, to be exact—during which I longed to be an athlete. From where I stood, the life of a middle-school athlete seemed ideal. They were fit. They were popular. And, of course, they got to miss school for ballgames all the time.
I didn’t even care what sport. I just wanted to be on some team, playing some game. I tried out for volleyball first, then basketball. Needless to say, basketball was the final nail in the coffin of my athletic aspirations.
Now, I did give the sport my best shot. I whiled away many hours in my garage, dribbling away. I practiced shooting over and over. I even had a friend train me on the art of a lay-up.
The one tiny detail that I had forgotten was—yes, you guessed it—the game itself. I performed poorly enough in the other tests, but when time for a practice scrimmage rolled around, I was doomed.
As a follower of Christ, I catch myself falling into those old habits. I forget what is important. I forget the object of the game.
What is important? To me, what matters most is living each day like Jesus Christ, living in a way, and with such joy, that my very being echoes His.
To some it may seem foolish for me to dedicate my life to a goal that I know going in that I will never fully achieve. Like dooming myself to a failure akin to mine in the sports world.
I see it differently.
Jesus Christ was sent into this sin-sick world as one of us—a mortal man, as susceptible to temptation as you and I. He lived His life with poise and perfection and was brutally beaten and nailed to a splintery cross, despite the fact that He had done nothing wrong.
Ever.
He took my sin and your sin upon Himself, and He died. For us.
His life and His death and His resurrection offer us a beautiful opportunity to live a new kind of way—to live with purpose and zeal and joy.
Barring a miracle, I will never become a star basketball player. Or volleyball player. Or any-other-sport-you-can-dream-up player. I just won’t. I’m klutzy, slow and I don’t really understand the game(s). Period.
But what I will do is strive every day to be shaped more and more like Jesus. What I will do is use the gifts that He has given me and turn around and try to use them for His glory. What I will do is “get in the game” and play my heart out, work my heart out, and write my heart out, all in His name.
And, every Sunday, I will log on and keep pouring out my soul to you people, whomever you may be.
Open your heart, and let Him in, my friends. Let Him in.
"Not that I have already obtained all this, or have already been made perfect, but I press on to take hold of that for which Christ Jesus took hold of me. Brothers, I do not consider myself yet to have taken hold of it. But one thing I do: Forgetting what is behind and straining toward what is ahead, I press on toward the goal to win the prize for which God has called me heavenward in Christ Jesus."
Philippians 3:12-14
Well, excluding myself.
There I stood, dumbfounded and trembling near the center of the hardwood. The game pulsated around me, and the action shifted quickly from one side of the court to the other. I jogged halfheartedly in the direction of the ball, avoiding eye contact of my teammates and praying fervently that no one would be foolish enough to throw it to me.
You see, the first basketball game I ever watched….
I played in.
I don’t recall what possessed me, but I endured an odd stage of life—7th grade, to be exact—during which I longed to be an athlete. From where I stood, the life of a middle-school athlete seemed ideal. They were fit. They were popular. And, of course, they got to miss school for ballgames all the time.
I didn’t even care what sport. I just wanted to be on some team, playing some game. I tried out for volleyball first, then basketball. Needless to say, basketball was the final nail in the coffin of my athletic aspirations.
Now, I did give the sport my best shot. I whiled away many hours in my garage, dribbling away. I practiced shooting over and over. I even had a friend train me on the art of a lay-up.
The one tiny detail that I had forgotten was—yes, you guessed it—the game itself. I performed poorly enough in the other tests, but when time for a practice scrimmage rolled around, I was doomed.
As a follower of Christ, I catch myself falling into those old habits. I forget what is important. I forget the object of the game.
What is important? To me, what matters most is living each day like Jesus Christ, living in a way, and with such joy, that my very being echoes His.
To some it may seem foolish for me to dedicate my life to a goal that I know going in that I will never fully achieve. Like dooming myself to a failure akin to mine in the sports world.
I see it differently.
Jesus Christ was sent into this sin-sick world as one of us—a mortal man, as susceptible to temptation as you and I. He lived His life with poise and perfection and was brutally beaten and nailed to a splintery cross, despite the fact that He had done nothing wrong.
Ever.
He took my sin and your sin upon Himself, and He died. For us.
His life and His death and His resurrection offer us a beautiful opportunity to live a new kind of way—to live with purpose and zeal and joy.
Barring a miracle, I will never become a star basketball player. Or volleyball player. Or any-other-sport-you-can-dream-up player. I just won’t. I’m klutzy, slow and I don’t really understand the game(s). Period.
But what I will do is strive every day to be shaped more and more like Jesus. What I will do is use the gifts that He has given me and turn around and try to use them for His glory. What I will do is “get in the game” and play my heart out, work my heart out, and write my heart out, all in His name.
And, every Sunday, I will log on and keep pouring out my soul to you people, whomever you may be.
Open your heart, and let Him in, my friends. Let Him in.
"Not that I have already obtained all this, or have already been made perfect, but I press on to take hold of that for which Christ Jesus took hold of me. Brothers, I do not consider myself yet to have taken hold of it. But one thing I do: Forgetting what is behind and straining toward what is ahead, I press on toward the goal to win the prize for which God has called me heavenward in Christ Jesus."
Philippians 3:12-14
Sunday, October 14, 2007
The Power of a Moment
With Spanish textbooks splayed open upon our desks and Mr. Pacheco rattling on en español, I watched her.
I sat a few seats back and a few rows over, and, bored, I wondered absentmindedly about her life, her family, her aspirations.
Every day, she came to class with a 12 oz. bottle of Coca-cola in tow. She was tiny—maybe not even five feet tall. Her wiry blonde curls barely reached the nape of her neck. She had intelligent, searching, determined eyes.
And then she was gone—killed in a car accident before I ever said hello or asked how she was.
Though I barely knew her, I was shaken by the news of her death. Selfishly, I suppose. My heart ached for what had not been, for missed opportunities and unborn friendships.
I realized the power of a moment—the impact that a bright smile or hello or outstretched hand of friendship can have upon hurting hearts.
More than that, I realized the paramount importance of capitalizing on such moments.
As a college student, my life intersects with hundreds of others on a daily basis. My life is filled with hundreds of daily opportunities to be a friend and to share God’s love.
But how many stones do I leave unturned?
More than I could begin to number.
My classes are filled with faces that I barely know—with people that I have not bothered to reach out to. It shames me to say so, but it is the cold, sad truth: I become so involved in the goings and comings and the mountains and valleys in my own life that I close myself off from the world around me.
But no more, I pray.
The ripples of Karen Lashaye Pesnell’s tragic death stretch far, I am sure. My heart goes out to her family and friends and to all of the people that adored this strong, young soul. My mind cannot even wrap itself around the depths of their pain.
Even beyond those who knew her best, her life, and now her death, are making a difference.
When I walk down a crowded hall, I will remember Lashaye and smile at those that pass.
When I find myself in a classroom full of unfamiliar faces, I will remember Lashaye and reach out.
When I feel a bout of shyness slipping over me like a veil, I will remember Lashaye and make a new friend.
As I live my life, walking the streets and hall of Jacksonville State University, I will remember Lashaye. Her presence in my life was for but a moment, but her absence awakened me to all that my self-centered life was robbing from me.
Each moment is an opportunity.
Each day is a fresh slate.
No longer will I hold my joy inside.
“Keep on loving each other as brothers. Do not forget to entertain strangers, for by so doing some people have entertained angels without knowing it.”
Hebrews 13: 1-2
I sat a few seats back and a few rows over, and, bored, I wondered absentmindedly about her life, her family, her aspirations.
Every day, she came to class with a 12 oz. bottle of Coca-cola in tow. She was tiny—maybe not even five feet tall. Her wiry blonde curls barely reached the nape of her neck. She had intelligent, searching, determined eyes.
And then she was gone—killed in a car accident before I ever said hello or asked how she was.
Though I barely knew her, I was shaken by the news of her death. Selfishly, I suppose. My heart ached for what had not been, for missed opportunities and unborn friendships.
I realized the power of a moment—the impact that a bright smile or hello or outstretched hand of friendship can have upon hurting hearts.
More than that, I realized the paramount importance of capitalizing on such moments.
As a college student, my life intersects with hundreds of others on a daily basis. My life is filled with hundreds of daily opportunities to be a friend and to share God’s love.
But how many stones do I leave unturned?
More than I could begin to number.
My classes are filled with faces that I barely know—with people that I have not bothered to reach out to. It shames me to say so, but it is the cold, sad truth: I become so involved in the goings and comings and the mountains and valleys in my own life that I close myself off from the world around me.
But no more, I pray.
The ripples of Karen Lashaye Pesnell’s tragic death stretch far, I am sure. My heart goes out to her family and friends and to all of the people that adored this strong, young soul. My mind cannot even wrap itself around the depths of their pain.
Even beyond those who knew her best, her life, and now her death, are making a difference.
When I walk down a crowded hall, I will remember Lashaye and smile at those that pass.
When I find myself in a classroom full of unfamiliar faces, I will remember Lashaye and reach out.
When I feel a bout of shyness slipping over me like a veil, I will remember Lashaye and make a new friend.
As I live my life, walking the streets and hall of Jacksonville State University, I will remember Lashaye. Her presence in my life was for but a moment, but her absence awakened me to all that my self-centered life was robbing from me.
Each moment is an opportunity.
Each day is a fresh slate.
No longer will I hold my joy inside.
“Keep on loving each other as brothers. Do not forget to entertain strangers, for by so doing some people have entertained angels without knowing it.”
Hebrews 13: 1-2
Sunday, October 7, 2007
Parched?
After a long week of stressing over tests and papers and jobs, Kenny and I escaped Jacksonville yesterday.
We didn’t make it far—only to Noccalula Falls Park of Gadsden.
Because I hadn’t visited the park since a field trip in the third grade, I got online that morning to check it out.
The park’s Web site proclaimed the waterfall to be a “100 foot natural wonder” and showed off photograph after photograph of the cascading falls. Beautiful. Breathtaking.
I was stoked.
I had also forgotten about the current drought.
The “waterfall” had slowed to a trickle. Okay, a drip.
As I watched the water seep slowly from the parched bed up top, I couldn’t help but think of myself—of my own walk with God.
There have been days, wonderful days, when a glimpse of me was a glimpse of someone living for God. There have been times when I opened my Bible and could barely contain my excitement over each word, each promise that I found there. There have been moments where I felt the presence of God so vividly that all doubts fled my heart.
I look back onto these “snapshots” of my life and smile gratefully. But I would be lying if I said every moment of my days was like that.
Far from it. Each day is a struggle, and many days, I feel like I barely make it through the day intact.
Many days I feel like that sad little waterfall - only a trickle, not enough to make a difference to anyone. The daily stresses that plague us all sometimes drain me of energy and joy.
Yet even as I travel through the parched desert valleys of life (for we all find ourselves there at one point or another) I recall a promise in Isaiah.
"Forget the former things; do not dwell on the past. See, I am doing a new thing! Now it springs up; do you not perceive it? I am making a way in the desert and streams in the wasteland."
Isaiah 43:18-19
We didn’t make it far—only to Noccalula Falls Park of Gadsden.
Because I hadn’t visited the park since a field trip in the third grade, I got online that morning to check it out.
The park’s Web site proclaimed the waterfall to be a “100 foot natural wonder” and showed off photograph after photograph of the cascading falls. Beautiful. Breathtaking.
I was stoked.
I had also forgotten about the current drought.
The “waterfall” had slowed to a trickle. Okay, a drip.
As I watched the water seep slowly from the parched bed up top, I couldn’t help but think of myself—of my own walk with God.
There have been days, wonderful days, when a glimpse of me was a glimpse of someone living for God. There have been times when I opened my Bible and could barely contain my excitement over each word, each promise that I found there. There have been moments where I felt the presence of God so vividly that all doubts fled my heart.
I look back onto these “snapshots” of my life and smile gratefully. But I would be lying if I said every moment of my days was like that.
Far from it. Each day is a struggle, and many days, I feel like I barely make it through the day intact.
Many days I feel like that sad little waterfall - only a trickle, not enough to make a difference to anyone. The daily stresses that plague us all sometimes drain me of energy and joy.
Yet even as I travel through the parched desert valleys of life (for we all find ourselves there at one point or another) I recall a promise in Isaiah.
"Forget the former things; do not dwell on the past. See, I am doing a new thing! Now it springs up; do you not perceive it? I am making a way in the desert and streams in the wasteland."
Isaiah 43:18-19
Sunday, September 30, 2007
Let not your hearts be troubled...
The moment I heard her voice, I knew.
He was gone.
Tears poured forth and dissolved into trembling sobs.
My Granddaddy, my wonderful Granddaddy, was gone. Memories stabbed at my heart: the precious hours we spent compiling his life story, sitting beside him at Christmastime to hear his dry commentary on the gifts, and watching him bail hay from our kitchen window in sweltering July summers.
Then there, in my heart, was the rich sound of his laughter and his booming “Hey!” each time someone walked in the room.
Oh, how I loved that man.
He died back in May, but my heart still aches with the loss.
Losing the people we love is never easy, yet there is hope on the horizon.
God is there, whether you believe in Him or not, think He is relevant or not, or think He cares or not. He is there, and He does offer comfort.
My Granddaddy had been confined to his bed for the last year of his life, and he was miserable.
Working on our farm was his passion, his love, his dream. His immobility and helplessness were a nightmare for him. As hard as it was to say goodbye, how could I deny him his longing to walk on golden streets? He was ready to go home.
I know my loss, as deeply as it cut me, does not compare with the pain of many. I have never lost a parent, a child, a spouse or a best friend.
I also know that I will see him again.
In his mid-twenties, long before I was anything more than a figment of a faraway dream, my Granddaddy decided to follow Christ. I was not quite six years old when I answered the call of God upon my own heart.
Following God isn’t easy—at all. It is a day-by-day struggle, a constant fight to follow Him. But, oh, how beautiful a life it can be.
Perfection is not required. Neither is a holier-than-thou attitude. All you need is a willing heart that longs for something more.
“Do not let your hearts be troubled. Trust in God; trust also in me. In my Father’s house are many rooms; if it were not so, I would have told you. I am going there to prepare a place for you. And if I go and prepare a place for you, I will come back and take you to be with me that you also may be where I am.” -John 14:1-4
Have a question or comment, a rant or a rave? Don't hold back...
He was gone.
Tears poured forth and dissolved into trembling sobs.
My Granddaddy, my wonderful Granddaddy, was gone. Memories stabbed at my heart: the precious hours we spent compiling his life story, sitting beside him at Christmastime to hear his dry commentary on the gifts, and watching him bail hay from our kitchen window in sweltering July summers.
Then there, in my heart, was the rich sound of his laughter and his booming “Hey!” each time someone walked in the room.
Oh, how I loved that man.
He died back in May, but my heart still aches with the loss.
Losing the people we love is never easy, yet there is hope on the horizon.
God is there, whether you believe in Him or not, think He is relevant or not, or think He cares or not. He is there, and He does offer comfort.
My Granddaddy had been confined to his bed for the last year of his life, and he was miserable.
Working on our farm was his passion, his love, his dream. His immobility and helplessness were a nightmare for him. As hard as it was to say goodbye, how could I deny him his longing to walk on golden streets? He was ready to go home.
I know my loss, as deeply as it cut me, does not compare with the pain of many. I have never lost a parent, a child, a spouse or a best friend.
I also know that I will see him again.
In his mid-twenties, long before I was anything more than a figment of a faraway dream, my Granddaddy decided to follow Christ. I was not quite six years old when I answered the call of God upon my own heart.
Following God isn’t easy—at all. It is a day-by-day struggle, a constant fight to follow Him. But, oh, how beautiful a life it can be.
Perfection is not required. Neither is a holier-than-thou attitude. All you need is a willing heart that longs for something more.
“Do not let your hearts be troubled. Trust in God; trust also in me. In my Father’s house are many rooms; if it were not so, I would have told you. I am going there to prepare a place for you. And if I go and prepare a place for you, I will come back and take you to be with me that you also may be where I am.” -John 14:1-4
Have a question or comment, a rant or a rave? Don't hold back...
Friday, September 21, 2007
The Giving Tree
“TIMBER!”
Everyone’s heads swiveled toward Mrs. Wanda’s front yard, where a towering tree fell in a graceful arc across her driveway.
One of the mission team’s objectives that week was to chop down a tree that was leaning dangerously over a power line. Watching it fall, we all breathed a collective side of relief. It would still have to be chopped up for firewood, but at least the risky part was behind us.
Mrs. Wanda’s neighbor dropped by to check our progress and did a double take at the sight of tree. He told us that the tree was a black walnut, and that just last year, he had sold one from his own yard for about $500. We were thrilled and went into the house to tell Mrs. Wanda the good news. We told her about the tree’s possible worth and that AO would help her find a buyer. Thrilled, she ran to find her husband Gary to tell him the news.
Later, Wanda emerged from the house.
“I’ve decided to give whatever money ya’ll get from the tree to Appalachian Outreach,” she said. “Ya’ll have done so much to help us that it is the least we could do.”
Mrs. Wanda needed that money.
Neither she nor her husband was able to work, her mother was in the nursing home and she was tending to her sick friend. I had talked with her enough to know that making ends meet was no easy thing for her family. From week to week, she could barely scrounge up enough money for the essentials.
But still she gave.
Mrs. Wanda gave freely from the depth of her own poverty. When I remember her, I smile, and I think of the story of the widow’s offering.
“Jesus sat down opposite the place where the offerings were put and watched the crowd putting their money into the temple treasury. Many rich people threw in large amounts. But a poor widow came and put in two very small copper coins, worth only a fraction of a penny.
Calling his disciples to him, Jesus said, ‘I tell you the truth, this poor widow has put more into the treasury than all the others. They all gave out of their wealth; but she, out of her poverty, put in everything—all she had to live on.’”
Mark 12:43-44
Giving isn’t all about dollars and cents, but it is about sacrifice.
Mrs. Wanda made for an unlikely teacher, but God used her glimmering example to show me a sliver of true generosity.
I couldn’t forget her if I tried.
Everyone’s heads swiveled toward Mrs. Wanda’s front yard, where a towering tree fell in a graceful arc across her driveway.
One of the mission team’s objectives that week was to chop down a tree that was leaning dangerously over a power line. Watching it fall, we all breathed a collective side of relief. It would still have to be chopped up for firewood, but at least the risky part was behind us.
Mrs. Wanda’s neighbor dropped by to check our progress and did a double take at the sight of tree. He told us that the tree was a black walnut, and that just last year, he had sold one from his own yard for about $500. We were thrilled and went into the house to tell Mrs. Wanda the good news. We told her about the tree’s possible worth and that AO would help her find a buyer. Thrilled, she ran to find her husband Gary to tell him the news.
Later, Wanda emerged from the house.
“I’ve decided to give whatever money ya’ll get from the tree to Appalachian Outreach,” she said. “Ya’ll have done so much to help us that it is the least we could do.”
Mrs. Wanda needed that money.
Neither she nor her husband was able to work, her mother was in the nursing home and she was tending to her sick friend. I had talked with her enough to know that making ends meet was no easy thing for her family. From week to week, she could barely scrounge up enough money for the essentials.
But still she gave.
Mrs. Wanda gave freely from the depth of her own poverty. When I remember her, I smile, and I think of the story of the widow’s offering.
“Jesus sat down opposite the place where the offerings were put and watched the crowd putting their money into the temple treasury. Many rich people threw in large amounts. But a poor widow came and put in two very small copper coins, worth only a fraction of a penny.
Calling his disciples to him, Jesus said, ‘I tell you the truth, this poor widow has put more into the treasury than all the others. They all gave out of their wealth; but she, out of her poverty, put in everything—all she had to live on.’”
Mark 12:43-44
Giving isn’t all about dollars and cents, but it is about sacrifice.
Mrs. Wanda made for an unlikely teacher, but God used her glimmering example to show me a sliver of true generosity.
I couldn’t forget her if I tried.
Sunday, September 16, 2007
Love one another?
Blood-colored rust covered the tin roof, and flakes of white paint peeled off to reveal rotten wood siding.
My heart twisted at the sight of the home.
It was the sixth week of my work with Appalachian Outreach, a poverty relief organization in the mountains of East Tennessee, and I was spent. While my fellow missionary David parked the truck, I glanced again over the list of projects for this home that week and sighed. The list was lengthy.
We were to replace the tin roof, convert a porch into a bedroom, hang T1-11 siding on two sides of the house, replace the exterior doors, completely rewire the home, and paint. I sighed once more.
Then she walked out.
Loud, brash and spunky, Wanda Smith is not someone that I will soon forget. Her skin shone with perspiration and several inches of cleavage peeked out of her tank top. I blinked in shock when I realized that yes, that really was a dollar bill in there. Only slightly quieter than Wanda was the incessant yipping of her three tiny dogs, which ran in and out of the house with reckless abandon.
Mrs. Wanda was so grateful and thrilled that we were there and grabbed us by the arms to take us inside her home.
Walking in, we took note of the state of the kitchen floor. Yellowed in some areas and torn in others, the linoleum was in poor shape. Our project list didn’t include any interior work, however. It was strictly outdoors this time, and even then it was on the verge of being too much.
My heart lurched as we stepped inside the tiny living room. A rail thin woman lay on a hospital bed, propped up on a cluster of pillows. She said little. Mrs. Wanda, however, more than compensated for the woman’s quiet. She chattered on about painting the kitchen recently with donated paint. It was all I could do to take my eyes off of the woman, though. Back home, I had watched my own grandfather get very ill and thin, but I had never seen anyone look like she did.
Chatting all the while, Mrs. Wanda completed her tour and walked us back outside.
“That was Lesa,” she whispered. “She’s got the HIV and only has a few months left.”
Further probing let us know that Lesa was not even blood-kin to her, but a friend that she had taken in because her own family didn’t want her. My heart swelled, and I knew that we just had to somehow make this house into a real home for Mrs. Wanda.
Next time, I’ll finish telling the rest of Mrs. Wanda’s story (the most incredible that I encountered this summer), but I just had to go on and introduce her to you. She is a woman of incredible strength and one that I deeply admire. This same day, the first day that we met her, Mrs. Wanda made a statement that I will never forget. She said that as a teenager she would go, much like we were going, from home to home doing odd jobs for people that needed help but could not afford it. “I never thought I would ever need to be on the receiving end.”
I guess not many people ever really do. Before this summer, I drove by ramshackle houses and trailers without giving thought to the struggling people that sleep within their walls. Even now, I catch myself doing the same thing. It is so easy to become consumed in what I am doing and lose sight of what I could be doing to lend a hand. Whether the idea of raw, painful poverty is foreign to you or not, I encourage you to open your eyes and your heart to the people around you. I believe that the love of Jesus Christ is expressed most poignantly here on earth when we simply take the time to love one another.
"This is how we know what love is: Jesus Christ laid down his life for us. And we ought to lay down our lives for our brothers. If anyone has material possessions and sees his brother in need but has no pity on him, how can the love of God be in him?"
1 John 3:18
My heart twisted at the sight of the home.
It was the sixth week of my work with Appalachian Outreach, a poverty relief organization in the mountains of East Tennessee, and I was spent. While my fellow missionary David parked the truck, I glanced again over the list of projects for this home that week and sighed. The list was lengthy.
We were to replace the tin roof, convert a porch into a bedroom, hang T1-11 siding on two sides of the house, replace the exterior doors, completely rewire the home, and paint. I sighed once more.
Then she walked out.
Loud, brash and spunky, Wanda Smith is not someone that I will soon forget. Her skin shone with perspiration and several inches of cleavage peeked out of her tank top. I blinked in shock when I realized that yes, that really was a dollar bill in there. Only slightly quieter than Wanda was the incessant yipping of her three tiny dogs, which ran in and out of the house with reckless abandon.
Mrs. Wanda was so grateful and thrilled that we were there and grabbed us by the arms to take us inside her home.
Walking in, we took note of the state of the kitchen floor. Yellowed in some areas and torn in others, the linoleum was in poor shape. Our project list didn’t include any interior work, however. It was strictly outdoors this time, and even then it was on the verge of being too much.
My heart lurched as we stepped inside the tiny living room. A rail thin woman lay on a hospital bed, propped up on a cluster of pillows. She said little. Mrs. Wanda, however, more than compensated for the woman’s quiet. She chattered on about painting the kitchen recently with donated paint. It was all I could do to take my eyes off of the woman, though. Back home, I had watched my own grandfather get very ill and thin, but I had never seen anyone look like she did.
Chatting all the while, Mrs. Wanda completed her tour and walked us back outside.
“That was Lesa,” she whispered. “She’s got the HIV and only has a few months left.”
Further probing let us know that Lesa was not even blood-kin to her, but a friend that she had taken in because her own family didn’t want her. My heart swelled, and I knew that we just had to somehow make this house into a real home for Mrs. Wanda.
Next time, I’ll finish telling the rest of Mrs. Wanda’s story (the most incredible that I encountered this summer), but I just had to go on and introduce her to you. She is a woman of incredible strength and one that I deeply admire. This same day, the first day that we met her, Mrs. Wanda made a statement that I will never forget. She said that as a teenager she would go, much like we were going, from home to home doing odd jobs for people that needed help but could not afford it. “I never thought I would ever need to be on the receiving end.”
I guess not many people ever really do. Before this summer, I drove by ramshackle houses and trailers without giving thought to the struggling people that sleep within their walls. Even now, I catch myself doing the same thing. It is so easy to become consumed in what I am doing and lose sight of what I could be doing to lend a hand. Whether the idea of raw, painful poverty is foreign to you or not, I encourage you to open your eyes and your heart to the people around you. I believe that the love of Jesus Christ is expressed most poignantly here on earth when we simply take the time to love one another.
"This is how we know what love is: Jesus Christ laid down his life for us. And we ought to lay down our lives for our brothers. If anyone has material possessions and sees his brother in need but has no pity on him, how can the love of God be in him?"
1 John 3:18
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