in the fury of the moment

There is something so precious, almost sacred, about hearing another person ask for help. There is something so incredibly humbling about being the one being asked for help. Today I took a long lunch and went and spent a couple hours at the outreach center in town – it’s a place that, until this past Monday, I had no idea existed. When I moved to this town just over seven months ago, quite possibly the hardest thing for me to leave in Salisbury was the mission where I used to spend 2-3 days of my week. It was in that musty, crowded building that I caught a glimpse of what it really means to be a Christian.

I still remember the first interview I did there, and how those 20 minutes revealed corners and crevices of my heart that I wasn't even aware were there. As I sat across from a young hispanic woman and her three small children and tried clumsily to have a conversation in order to determine her needs, I realized that I had nothing to offer her. As Yesmina looked at me, she probably thought that I could help her: me, a white woman just a year younger than her, with clean hands and nice clothes. I had a college degree and had written term papers on how to best serve other cultures within our country; I had years and years of Sunday school under my belt - I could tell her children stories about David and Goliath, and how Jonah got swallowed by a whale; I had traveled to other states to serve meals and build homes for people just like Yesmina and her children ... and yet, there I sat, clinging desperately to my pen and clipboard, with the full knowledge that all of my education and training and serving and reading had done nothing to prepare me for the moment in which I found myself. Here was a woman sitting in front of me, basically revealing her life story to me in a plea for help.

I fumbled my way through a conversation that was half-Spanish, half-English and discovered that Yesmina's husband had recently lost his job as a factory worker. Soon after he lost his job, Yesmina and her children lost him. Jose had left her alone with no money and no idea of where to go for help. She had found out about the mission through a woman on the street, and she came to us asking for help with her rent, power bill, water bill, groceries, clothing, and school supplies for her children. As a freshly-trained interviewer, the policies were still fresh in my mind, and I knew we would probably only be able to help with one of the items on the lengthy list she presented. I started to open my mouth to tell her this, but as I looked at little Jose and his almond-shaped eyes shining back at me, I mustered up a smile and said I would be right back.

I stepped out of that room, closed the door behind me, fell against the wall and finally exhaled. I breathed out all the sadness and helplessness that I had been bursting with in that small, cramped room. I cried for Yesmina and for the reality that those children would probably never again see their father. I cried at the injustice of life. I cried out to God in a search for answers, wondering why I was sitting on one side of the table instead of the other. Why wasn't Yesmina the one wearing a nice dress instead of dirty cutoff jeans and flip-flops? Why wasn't I the one burdened with diaper bags and a stroller and three tired children? I took a deep breath and walked down the hallway to go talk to the program coordinator. She saw my face and she ran to me and hugged me, and reminded me that she had warned me that my heart would be tugged and pulled and stretched in unimaginable ways. I had heard her words, but nothing could have prepared me for the reality.

I reviewed Yesmina's file with her, and somehow we were able to figure out a way to meet almost all of her needs. I was also able to refer her to a housing program run by the mission, in which single mothers can come live in apartments with their children while receiving training and assistance from the mission. I went back into the room, this time with a real smile on my face. Two of the three children were crying and Yesmina's eyes looked weary and defeated. As I sat down and tried to explain to Yesmina that we would be able to help her, her pretty blue eyes desperately searched mine. She leaned forward, listening intently and grasping for a word she recognized, finally latching onto the word "ayuda" and beginning to smile. I held out the various vouchers and payment slips to her, and her smile grew as she read the Spanish words written alongside the English. She jumped up from her chair and squeezed me with her strong, tan arms. I hugged her back, feeling undeserving of her appreciation but so glad I was somehow able to help her.

As I helped Yesmina and the children out of the mission that day, I realized that I am unworthy and - on my own - I do have nothing to offer. But the wonderful thing, the truth that simultaneously takes my breath away and knocks me to me knees, is that God does things through me. And God does things through people like Yesmina. There is no "us" and "them", no "this side of the table" and "that side of the table". We are vessels, containers filled with something ... that day, Yesmina was filled with grace and humility and Christ. I realized as I watched that little family walk down the street, that I had just spent 20 minutes with Christ in a person. And because of what I was filled with that day (and what I hope I'm filled with everyday) - love, and mercy, and compassion - God was able to use me to love her. There is nothing that I possibly could have done to prepare for that moment. I just needed to be there, so that God could work.

I am so looking forward to the privilege of being involved with this outreach center here in town. I have a feeling there will be lots of opportunities to be there and watch as God somehow, amazingly, does something through an unprepared person such as myself.

posted by Krista @ 4:17 PM