I Think We're Missing Service:

I've been thinking.

Admittedly, this is sometimes a very dangerous thing to do, but I think my thinking is good this time.

I think

I remember as a child, we regularly went to nursing homes and widow's houses to make punch, or pass out cake, or play musical instruments or just sit and talk with people who needed to see an eight-year-old again.

I remember this being one of the worst times of the week. Nursing homes smelled really bad, and I would have rather been outside playing, than inside a nursing home, listening to Ms Milly talk about her son in California, or that lady (whose name I've long since forgotten) tell us that story about how handsome her husband was for the 50th time, or reintroducing myself to Mr so-and-so each week, because he had Alzheimer and forgot us.

Looking back, I would not trade those times for anything. I mean this with all sincerity. So much so, that I will say it again.

I would not trade those times, for anything.

Those times, those people, taught me something that no amount of books could have seared into my brain, no amount of talking could have branded on my heart and no amount of hardships could have put before my eyes.

Other's needs are greater than my own.


Here is what I saw and what I learned.

I saw Ms Queen.
Ms Queen was a quadriplegic because she was hit by a drunk driver and thrown through her own windshield into a ditch filled with ant beds. She lay there, being bitten by ants, until someone called 911 and got the ambulance there. She was completely paralyzed from that day on. I remember going up to her room at the nursing home, and as we all filed in, she would turn her eyes as far as they would go, so she could see our faces. She couldn't even turn her head. But she could smile; and smile she did. I never once heard her complain about anything. I listened to her tell the story of how she became paralyzed, and the even more amazing story of how she came to forgive the man who paralyzed her—even though he never once came to visit her, or apologize, or even admit that he had done anything wrong.

I remember the injustice. The anger I felt for her, because she felt no anger toward that man. Why? How could she forgive the man who stole her life, and left her living? How could she forgive the man who ruined everything she ever dreamed of, without even a moment’s remorse?

She understood. She was able to see the truth. God had forgiven her of far more than this.

We repeat it in church, and teach it to our kids and say it ‘till we’re blue in the face—but to see it lived out, to watch forgiveness happen when it makes no sense—this was Ms Queen.

No injustice in my life seems quite equal to this. Can I then withhold forgiveness?

We can tell our kids all day long about starving kids in China who have so little to eat, so that we can get them to finish their vegetables—but to see it?

They say a picture is worth a thousand words. If you ever see a life, that lives what the picture is trying to say, then this life is worth far more than a thousand pictures.


I want to take a self-centered child, and sit that child down in a nursing home, to listen to the stories that the people there tell. I want that child to get a handkerchief, and wipe the spit that crusts around the mouth of a ninety year old woman, who is so bed ridden, that she can't get up to go to the bathroom, so she smells like urine and sweat and dirt. I want that child to hug that woman, and understand that before the next visit, this woman may die. And if she dies, no one will care. Her children are across the country and might come for the funeral, and to take care of the legal paperwork--but that's all. I
want that child to understand, in the most vivid way possible, that even though another kid just got a bigger serving of ice cream than they did...that's okay. For a million and one reasons...that's okay.

I think we’re missing service.

To meet another’s needs is to understand how insignificant our self-centered cries sound. Our voice, which cries at the injustice of life, trails off into space as we kneel down by the chair, and re-introduce ourselves to Mr. So-And-So, for the third time today. Our inconveniences seem so trivial when we listen to another story about how handsome this woman’s husband was when he came back from the war.

Pride and humility cannot coexist in the same person at the same time. Therefore, whatever is humbling, I think is good. Whatever forces every last ounce of pride we have, out of our hearts, whatever it takes, I think is worth it.

Serve.

Meet someone’s needs. If that means bathing a bed-ridden quadriplegic, because if you don’t, no one will—then for God’s sake, do it. For God’s sake, do something.