The Underwoods

One of my favorite people died yesterday. He was tenderhearted and generous and authentic. He had this great laugh. He was a reader. He loved the Church. He loved his family. He loved God. His name was John. He was married to one of my other favorite people. She was kind and gentle and just as generous. When she talked to you she made you feel important. She was intelligent and classy, equally filled with love. She died a year ago, after being brave and courageous and joyful in the midst of countless cancer treatments. She was a beautiful woman. Her name was Liz. I usually ‘fake name’ the people I write about, but not this time. This time, I want you to know their names.

There was this woman long ago from a city called Shunem. She was a Shunammite, you could say. We don’t know her name. Someone simply wrote about her because of her kindness. Elisha, this prophet of the LORD God, would pass by her door every so often on his travels to and fro; and when he would, she would feed him… give him a place to stay for the night. That’s all. No biggie. Just some dinner and a pillow. Anybody could’ve done it… but did they? Funny how something so simple could make it into a history book so grand…

When I started as Pastoral Resident [fancy name for an amateur minister] at a church in Virginia, I had just come out of seminary and I was full of vision and passion and life. [I hope I still have most of that by the way.] I moved into an apartment of my own and realized very quickly that the nights are lonely without roommates. I got a dog and definitely imagined his voice in my head; but alas, our inside jokes and random late-night Taco Bell runs just weren’t the same. I had been in that small town a month when Liz and John called. “Just some dinner,” they said. That’s all. Nothing fancy. Salads with yummy cranberries and bleu cheese. Homemade brownies and some vanilla ice cream from the fridge. Sitting around a table, talking for hours about random world events, their grandkids, my dog, favorite books, favorite movies, and following God – always following God. I stayed in that city for two years – two years of salads with yummy cranberries. The dessert always changed. They knew I love dessert.

That’s all. Nothing fancy. I want you to know their names. John and Liz. I have added them to my history book because they were that grand.

We focus on junk that doesn’t matter. [And when I say we I’m mostly talking about followers of Jesus or ‘little Christs’ you could call us, though this statement probably applies to everyone.] This doctrine or that one. Church politics, who gets to be a deacon and what translation should the pew bibles be. How should we vote and on what should we focus our next picket line? Lots of… junk… that doesn’t truly help or support or love anybody.

This cool guy [I assume. I actually don’t know him.] named Tony Campolo [which is just a cool name] once said, “I wish Jesus would ask, ‘Virgin Birth; strongly agree, agree, disagree, strongly disagree? Check one.’ But those aren’t the questions. The questions are, ‘I was hungry, did you feed me? I was a stranger, did you make room for me?’” John and Liz got it. They were some of the best ‘little Christs’ I have ever known, and it wasn’t because we voted the same or agreed on free will versus predestination. It wasn’t because they showed up every week in their ‘Sunday best’ or took a stand for/against healthcare reform and gay rights. They were some of the best Jesus-followers I have known because I truly believe they looked like Him – loving me, and everybody else, the same way He did when he walked on the earth 2,000 years ago.

To John and Liz, you don’t know what you did for me. You were just feeding this young, amateur minister, providing her a little human companionship from most of her nights spent alone. I told you that I loved you. I told you ‘thank you’ a thousand times; and yet, I am confident that you never realized what an eternal fingerprint you left on my heart. You were my Shunammite woman. You were Jesus to me.

To those who loved John and Liz, may we cry tears of sadness that they are no longer in our presence but may we moreso cry tears of joy for having actually befriended two people who resemble that much love. There are truly angels walking among us, and now we know two of their names.

To all others, who are simply reading these words, may you recognize the Johns and the Lizs in your life. May your eyes be opened to the Shunammite women and men in your midst, for we may be entertaining angels in disguise. And may each of us take seriously the legacy, the fingerprints, we leave behind. Just some dinner. A dollar here and there. A hug. Some encouraging words. A conversation. Holy traces. Sacred moments in the mundane. 

May we resemble Him.

Pens

I have pens. A lot of pens. People laugh at my plethora of pens. If someone would give me a penny for how many pens I have used/owned in my lifetime as a server, I could perhaps buy something large and expensive - maybe nice patio furniture. My life revolves around pens. Part of the reason I go through so many pens is not because they stop working. No, not at all. In fact, I rarely see a pen to the end of its existence. Why, might you ask? Well, because people STEAL them. Hmm, steal is a harsh word. “Forget and take” is perhaps a better phrase. [Unless you’re that table that stiffed me four months ago and walked back to the table just to take my pen. You know who you are. I have forgiven you, but I have not forgotten you.]

Last Christmas, knowing my tight budget has little room for pen-buying, my mother ordered one hundred shiny metallic blue pens for my use. Best Christmas present ever. Well, that and the toilet paper I constantly take. Thanks, ‘rents. J Now, these aren’t ordinary pens. These pens have my name on them – my name AND four of my favorite biblical scripture passages. “Thou shalt not steal” is the first… ha, just kidding. That’d be funny though. This Christmas I will be asking ‘Santa’ for more pens, because everyone in my restaurant has at least one of them. I SEE them, sticking out from their pockets! They snag them from my apron, they pick them up from my tables, or I have gifted them with one at some opportune time. Just the other day the bartender said to me, “I use your pen when I’m studying at home and it died on me the other day.” Hence, she was graced with a new pen. I had a table [not mine, mind you] pull me aside the other day and say, “We’ve heard about you. Are you the girl with the pens?” Hence, they also received a pen. It’s comical, really. I mean, these are GOOD pens! They write awesome!

A few months ago this sheriff from a neighboring county came in to eat. He gave me his credit card and I returned it with his slip and, of course, one of my pens. He then proceeded to show me his business card. “I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me”, it said on the back. We traded. He took my pen. I took his card. And in some weird way I felt more connected to a greater purpose – like we are all in some way trying to make the world better in any way we can.

Long ago there was this random woman on Oprah. I don’t remember what she did or why she was there, but I do remember that she said this: “We never touch people so lightly that we do not leave a trace.” How about that? We all leave our mark. We all have “pens” and “business cards” - yours just might be in the form of a smile, an attitude, a joke, a particular kindness or perhaps the opposite of kindness… We all have these things called fingerprints and we really do leave them wherever we go – physically, and in other ways that we will never see.

Sometimes I wonder if that table – the one that stiffed me and then rubbed it in by taking my pen – really considered how much they would affect me. Probably not, since I’m pretty sure I wasn’t a ‘person’ to them but rather a useful tool for their food consumption needs. I sound bitter about this table, but I’m really not. As a server, you can’t let that stuff get to you. If you don’t laugh about it then it very easily spreads and you begin to hate the human race. I don’t hate the human race, but I do think that the human race [me included] so easily forgets that all of our actions – good and bad – influence somebody. Your attitude on the phone with that customer service representative is going to have an affect on them – maybe they’ll be able to shrug it off by lunchtime or maybe they’ll take a bit of it home to their spouse, to their kids, and/or simply internalize it for awhile. The way you treat your neighbor, the mailman [or mailwoman], and that 16 year old cashier at Arby’s leaves a trace. It’s not her fault they put onions on your sandwich when you asked for none.. or… maybe it IS her fault. Either way, she’s a human being created in the image of God and they are just onions. Pick your battles.

What do your pens look like? What would your business card say? We all leave a trace - good or bad. Every positive and negative and slanderous and joyful and critical and hopeful thing that we say and do is a seed, influencing someone in our lives – your kids, your spouse, a friend, a coworker, a complete stranger or maybe just yourself. If you could only see your fingerprints.

May we plant seeds of joy, encouragement, and hope - rather than criticism, despair, negativity, and slander. May we be aware of our words and our actions. May we realize that leaving a trace of kindness and love is usually far more important than making our point and getting our way – and may our attitudes and the way we live our lives remind others of something, er someone, greater than themselves. Like Jesus said, “When you see me you see the Father”. When you see me, and when I see you, may we be reminded of the ultimate fingerprint God left on the world long, long ago.