People in my old neighborhood walk for exercise, either for themselves or for their dogs. People in my current neighborhood—I still have not found an accurate term for where we live: “downtown,” “the inner-city,” “the ’hood”—walk as a means of transportation. We live on a busy street with a bus stop a couple doors down and a Family Dollar store across the street. This creates a great deal of foot traffic in front of our building and plenty of opportunities for people watching.
Too bad Jesus isn’t satisfied with my mere watching of people. No, He wants me to engage with them. Sometimes I stay put and feel guilty about this, and sometimes I actually do something about it.
A couple Sundays ago, I was out for my morning run before church. I took longer than I expected and found myself crunched for time as I rounded the corner for the last six blocks. Two blocks later, I saw a woman walking with a cane up ahead of me. It wasn’t the first time I’ve seen her. As I’ve passed her a few times on my way to take the kids to school, I’ve whispered, “God bless you, sister” as I watch her labored gait move slowly, oh so slowly, down the street.
Now she was in front of me, sliding one foot in front of the other with the effort of a frozen mountaineer scaling Everest. I was running at a near sprint, making good time. Checking the clock on my iPod, I knew it was risky to start a conversation with her. Would there be enough time to find clothes for all the kids, hose down their heads, buckles shoes, round up coats, and maybe still get a shower for myself? I hate being late for church. You miss all the good songs.
But what about being the church? I’ve been thinking about that a lot lately, about the importance of teaching the kids not just to do church—ritualistically, once a week—but to actually be the church to the hurting world. Would the church run by this woman without a glance? Would Jesus?
I stopped and assumed her snail’s pace. I said something about seeing her walk along this street before and admiring her tenacity. I told her I hoped I would be like her some day. All true. And then I got an education.
Her name is Renee. She’s 64. She’s had the same group of girlfriends her whole life, and they’re planning a big bash for their 65th birthdays this year. She’d like to go in a hot-air balloon. She has two daughters who live far away. She worked in insurance for 29 years while raising her daughters, then went to college and then grad school to become a librarian. This woman with a couple of prominent teeth missing has more education than I do. Her husband died a while back, and she moved to Colorado Springs for a fresh start. She has a roommate she enjoys. She goes to church about a mile and a half away and usually has someone who picks her up because she doesn’t drive anymore. But on that day, the youth group was having a special breakfast for seniors, and she didn’t want to miss it, so she decided to walk. A mile and a half. She’d never made it further than our shop, which was about halfway. But she knew if she could make it to the bus stop, she could rest for a while before continuing. Along the way, she picked up cans and placed them into one of the several bags she was carrying. (Yes, “bag lady” came to mind before I took the time to know her.) She collects the tabs off the cans because somehow they are converted to money for the Ronald McDonald house in our neighborhood. She also volunteers on Fridays at the neighborhood school—the one where 90 percent of the kids are on the free-lunch program—to read to the kindergartners, and they bring in cans for her so they can support the Ronald McDonald house, too.
And here I thought I was the one being the church to Renee. God never tires of finding new ways to humble me.
I was hanging on her every word and barely noticed we had made it to the bus stop where she planned to rest. She was sweating pretty hard by now, and I begged her, pleaded, to let me drive her the rest of the way to church. After about four gentle rebuffs, she looked me straight in the eye and said firmly, “I need to do this.”
Again, I begged her to knock on our door if she changed her mind. I took her hand and told her I’d see her around. I went upstairs and looked out my window, watching to see if she would change her mind. She didn’t. Instead, she shuffled off, grabbing a can or two along the way, until I couldn’t see her anymore.
We were about five minutes late for church, and I didn’t mind one bit this time.
