What my bio doesn’t say
What my bio doesn’t say
is that I’m kindest
in the swirling, frenzied, chaotic
places where everyone else seems to be the worst version of themselves.
Like airports or bus stations.
I thrive in heavily trafficked hubs
just people watching as strangers impatiently gather their things and look at their phones
like they have much better places to be.
It’s in those unexpected moments that I realize my smile goes so much further
than the conventional smile in a congregation full of kind acquaintances and friends.
But my worst self,
you’ll find her in the pristine places where everyone plays perfect
like churches.
I sit in my pew impatiently waiting for the clock to tick by,
not out of conviction like the priest passively jokes,
but out of rage as individuals who call themselves christians
actively disengage from the culture around them
to incubate themselves in little caves of comfort,
turning away from the mission of God
refusing to love
the oppressed
the orphan
the widow.
And yet,
the self much lower than my worst self,
the self I loathe,
I met her last Thursday.
It was a cold morning and I was in a rush to get the least amount of gas possible due to the $14 in my bank account and dreading the $500 credit card charge to pay for the insurance deductible to pick up my broken into car, only to turn around and trade it in for a more reliable vehicle.
In other words, ya girl was stressed.
I regrettably pulled up to the gas station pump.
The one with the damn broken buttons.
Instead of pulling up to a new pump, I reached in my borrowed vehicle to grab my bank card to pay inside.
As I closed my car door I saw in the corner of my eye a woman standing shivering about 20 feet away with a blanket covering her body.
Suspiciously I pushed the lock button of my keys.
As I paid for the least amount of gas to get me through the weekend, I thought of the woman with a pit in my stomach.
I walked out of the station and over to my broken button gas pump
only to see the woman standing right there
shivering in the cold.
She said nothing with her mouth
but so much with her desperate eyes.
My circumstances swirled around my head and in a moment I blurted
“I’m sorry, I don’t have any money.”
She said nothing as she disappointedly nodded and walked away.
I, too, disappointedly filled my tank and drove off.
The entire way to work I thought of the blanket in my trunk I could have left her with.
Hell, what’s another $20 charge on the credit card for some food and a hot drink in the gas station?
I even had a Scooters gift card in my wallet that I could have offered for her to walk across the street to get some treats and sit in a heated room for a bit.
But my circumstances
lulled me to comfort
contentment
complacency.
It would be not a week later that a payday would grant me my comforts again and I would drive a new vehicle past that same gas station.
The woman with the blanket
she is the oppressed,
the orphan
the widow.
And I
am the church who nestles into the comfort cave.
Let my woes be a warning to not become a victim to the comforts of this world.
Take care and talk soon,
L
