She Gets It

I was much better at following God’s command to serve the poor when I understood that to mean on my own schedule and at my own convenience. Now that I’m trying to cultivate a lifestyle of serving the poor at every opportunity, I don’t do it well. I grumble a lot. I’m not sure I’ll ever do it well or stop complaining about the inconvenience of it all. But I’m hoping that serving will come as naturally for my kids as complaining comes to me. I pray it will be a given for them, not something they struggle against.

Last week we put together a Thanksgiving food basket for a needy family in town, and Wednesday was shopping day. We got to Walmart at 8:15 and left at 10. (I'm sorry to anyone who is offended that we shop at Walmart. Talk to me when I don't have cereal to buy for four children.) We had to find items that I’ve never heard of, in addition to all the regular household stuff we needed. The aisles were full of people—and how fun for me that many of them were people I knew, especially since I was wearing my fat-girl sweatpants and my five-year-old was doing the pee-pee dance. (You know the one.)

Our cart was flowing over when we at last made it to the check-out lane, where ten other lovely people stood ahead of us with their overflowing carts. How handy that at least we were only a few yards from the bathroom. Except that it was closed for cleaning. The pee-pee dance intensified until at last we pushed our way past the cleaning lady out of desperation. A half hour later, we were on our way out of the store and on the road again. It’s that bittersweet moment in which you celebrate the conclusion of another Walmart trip, but realize all the work that lies ahead as you attempt to find a home for all these new items in your over-crowded pantry. Ah, life in America.

I asked Brooka if she would be extra helpful and carry in some of the bajillion bags for me, then piled her up to her eyebrows. As we waddled in the house, she peaked out from under her load and said with cheery determination, “It’s like I’m carrying this for Jesus.”

At that point, I did everything you would imagine. I dropped to my knees. I hugged her hard. I thanked God profusely. “You get it!” I cried. “You get it, Brooka! Oh, I can’t believe you get it. Thank you, God!” I prayed some of that would rub off on me. Then I followed her gaze across the room, wondering why she was giggling. Our ancient relic of a dog—all shriveled 80 pounds of him—was laying on the “good” couch with the newspaper open, looking all caught up on the day’s events.

And somehow, putting all those groceries away wasn’t as bad as I thought it would be.