Yesterday was not a good day. It started off in the
way most bad days begin, insidiously small miss steps that lead to a general
sense of stress, anxiety, frustration, and reminders that these days are
particularly notable because they are not a constant state of being, thanks be
to God. It all started the night before at a friend’s bon voyage party….
(Insert ominous music here)
As we toasted her
next step in life, my own future began to loom large with its interviews out of
state and the final days of grad school fast approaching. My friend
lamented leaving friends and a city she has grown to love and yet the call to
move on was too strong for her to ignore. It was an enjoyable and melancholy
evening, as I imagined myself having a similar evening with loved ones in the
coming months.
The next morning I woke tired and stressed, feeling the weight of the day
already heavy on me. Rushing in to town for work I made a quick
stop to capture the breakfast of champions, a cup of coffee and bagel. Around lunch time I felt in my bag for my purse….
Hmmm, not in there…..
Perhaps in
the drawer? Nope
Perhaps in
the office? Nope
Perhaps in
the office bathroom? Nope…
Ahh we have now entered the irrational, my-purse-has-been-stolen-stage
where the afore mentioned insidious misstep pops by to say “hello there, and how
is your day going?”
My boyfriend arrives on the scene as the dual role of freak
out control and wallet reclaim strategist. (impressive guy, I know) Meanwhile, somewhat internally and mostly verbally,
I am cursing like a sailor, lamenting trying to fly out of Portland on Saturday with no picture ID,
imagining my bank accounts dwindling to zero, and the Prada shoes I was kind
enough to furnish for my new wanted-in-three-states friend.
As I canvass the neighborhood in a (I am certain) fruitless query
of local businesses near the coffee shop for possible purse sightings, Nathan is
calling my cell phone (one of the missing items) to see if someone has returned
my purse. Mercifully, someone answers
my phone and explains a woman has my purse in safe keeping, while another
friend of hers returned my damaged cell phone to the bakery up the street from
the coffee shop. Not only did this woman
pick up all the items of my purse that were scattered across the street, (still
not sure how that happened), but she brought it to my house and hand delivered
it to my housemate.
I find it astonishing that this stranger would go so above
and beyond to return my belongings, but more importantly restore my sense of
security. She had to have known that I
was concerned and stressed over the loss of my purse and the exposure that loss
could have meant. It reminded me that
how I respond or choose not to respond shields or exposes those around me to
kindness and love, or harm and exploitation. It really is that straight forward.
We spend a great deal of time in my church talking about
community, talking about caring for our own people in the building, the logic
being if we don’t do it here, we won’t do it there. I would disagree. What is so powerful about this woman’s act
was that she had no reason to do it. We
have no relationship; we have no connection other than our own humanity to recommend
caring for one another. I find it
fascinating that Christ, when questioned as to a definition of neighbor told
the story of cultural enemies joined by one man’s compassion for another in the
story of the Samaritan. He defines a neighbor in that story as a person
lying naked and abused by the side of the road, totally exposed, in danger, and
in desperate need of rescue. He defines
the actions of a neighbor as the person who responds to that need in a tangle
way. Yesterday, I was in need of help,
of rescue, of someone having my back and caring for me though they had no
information that would indicate I was “worthy” of that action. I was simply a name and a face strewn across
a random street in Portland. I believe, much to my grief that I have been
socialized to believe the worst of those around me. I believe that “the other” is not always to
be trusted, or that people outside “my camp” however arbitrary that line might
be, have no motivation to care for me, a stranger, though I would expect myself
to step to their aid. I fear it is the
arrogance of “the chosen” that I can feed into and that I fear our community
can feed into. The idea that as Christ
followers there are expectations of behavior that is a marker of whom we
follow, but people outside of that community don’t tend to acknowledge. It’s a sneaky way to pat ourselves on the
back for what we believe we are a part of rather than acknowledging the Truth,
that there are many people who live beautifully honorable lives, lives Christ
would be honored by, who do not acknowledge Him. It
also reminds me that while I was stressed and rushed that morning, which laid
the framework for my stressful day, it was Christ that overlaid all of it with
Hope.
