Mistaken Identity
"I myself am made of flaws stitched together with good intentions." ~Augustin Burroughs
We have a sweet young teen in our little church who is not afraid to stand up and talk about what is important to her. Recently, she stood and thanked the church family for its love and tolerance. She explained that a friend of hers had gotten her nose pierced and the people at her church had given her a bad time about it. "Lots of people said things Christ would not have said," she declared. She said her friend had then come to visit at our church and was relieved not to feel judged or uncomfortable. Then she encouraged us to remember that if we see someone on the street covered in tattoos or decorated with piercings, not to look at the outside but to remember we are to see the person beyond that and to love them. Oh, the wisdom of youth.
Now, lest you think we have some sort of new age kind of church that isn't shocked by anything, let me tell you different. I have a little church in a little town, usually 70-ish people on a Sunday. Most of the members are 60-97years old. We have four members over ninety. None of the women wore pants to church until the 1990's and then only pants suits. The traditional hymnal is used, you won't hear anything off of popular Christian music radio. And yet our church is a welcoming, loving environment. How? We are blessed to have elderly people lead the way and they have learned the true art of love and patience. Let me give you an example...
As soon as this teen mentioned her pierced friend I was transported back about 15 years. I was a young mom with three boys 5 years old and under. When we rounded the corner of the church on that particular day there was a stranger standing near the entrance. She had very short hair streaked with pink, a multitude of piercings, and an expression of belligerent hostility, even though no one was around to benefit from it. As I paused uncertainly at the corner with my little herd, an old farm truck pulled up. Inside was Mrs. Doris, all of about 5 foot, and one of our elder women. She had been my teacher in Sunday school, the Missions leader in VBS, simply the most calmly radiant woman I had ever met in my young life. If anyone ever had the peace and love of Jesus in them, it shone out of Mrs. Doris like a candle. I watched to see what she would do.
Mrs. Doris hopped down from the truck and went straight to the girl and put her arms around her. "I'm so glad to see you again," she said. It was a tiny miracle to see the way the girl's expression changed, to see the facade drop and a ray of hopefulness shine out. She wanted to be loved, without thought of her appearance or how she might act... just loved.
It isn't very often that a person can pinpoint a life-changing moment, but that was one for me. I remember looking at Mrs. Doris and thinking, "I want to be just like her." Free with love to everyone without fear of rejection. Mrs. Doris is now 93 and every Sunday I hug her and am refreshed by her goodness. I try hard to be like her, I really do. But now let me come back to the present, to this very summer.
My middle son played music for the Confederate Cemetery Memorial services. (Need I say that he played amazingly, and even performed a song he composed himself, and that I was so proud? I thought not :) I came in a separate vehicle and, after going down a wrong street, arrived when the ceremony had already started. I crept through the gate carrying my purse, camera, and a pan of cookies, and knew that I couldn't claim one of the few empty seats left without drawing unwanted attention. So I went to stand at the back, under the trees, where it turns out I was surrounded by an entire clan of burly biker men. I smiled timidly around, feeling slightly incongruous in my gingham sundress surrounded by all the leather, chains and tattoos. Seeing my overburdened state one man offered to set my cookies on the nearby wall. I thankfully agreed and when he reached to take it I saw the backs of his hands were covered with letters.
They didn't spell out anything profane.....the left said, "Read", and the other said, "Books". I couldn't help but grin at him like a Cheshire cat. This big guy encased in a whole cow's worth of leather was, at least in some ways, a kindred spirit to me. I laughed to think that if I should ever consider a tattoo, I would be tempted to use his very words. He was also kindred to me in that he, and his entire band of brothers, was at a ceremony to honor mens' sacrifice from 150 years before. There were pitifully few others who thought that it was a worthwhile way to spend their Saturday morning. So I turned and listened to the songs and the speeches, feeling completely at ease with the company I was in. It's a case of mistaken identity to judge a person by their outsides; heaven knows I don't want that for myself.
Little lessons you have to keep learning your whole life over. Really, underneath aren't we all the same? Hurts, fears, joys, loves..... If we look hard enough we can find something of ourselves in anyone. I try to remind myself not to be put off by a hardened exterior for I can't imagine the hardships another person is going through. And who doesn't need to be loved? Just loved.
