Jesus and the Green Hat

Bad smells, wrinkles, wheelchairs. These are not a few of my favorite things. Still, I found myself in the midst of them recently in a little place called Vista Ridge Nursing Center. I was singing along to the sweet tones of one by the name of Sam, and this Sam knew a secret. Unbeknownst to me, I was to speak that day to the ragged residents of Vista Ridge. In his negligence, Samuel forgot to ask me, and as he called my name, I wondered what I might say to such a group. I stood being gored by twenty pairs of aged eyes, and I began to preach a little sermonette from John 9.

I have one policy that I follow when I speak. I do not just talk because I am asked to do so. I speak because I have to, because I have something worth saying. I believe in what I say with all my being, and as I spoke to the little group of wrinkled eyes, I did everything I could to establish hope in their hearts with my words, with my own eloquence. In my impromptu attempt at hope-giving, I mentioned that a lady sitting in front (Ms. Scott) had a pretty hat on, that I really liked it. Covering her white hair was a green knit cap, a beautiful hat. She responded with a bashful smile and a tap to her greenish crown. Wrapping up my talk, I just knew that my words would surely help the haggard eyes who watched and the tired ears who listened.

I prayed the closing prayer that afternoon, and immediately, I went to speak to each of the elderly people present. I soon found myself in front of Ms. Scott. I knelt down beside her and gently held her hand, and looking up at me she said, "I'm glad you came today." I responded with a thanks for listening and prepared to move on. But, she held on tighter. Touching her cap she whispered, "I'm so glad you came," and a single tear rolled down her cheek. She let go of my hand and looked away. I was stunned. I stood up, and with my hand on her shoulder, I told her I loved her and was glad to meet her.

Ms. Scott, slightly smelly, wrinkled, and bound to a wheelchair, didn't need my eloquence or my words of hope. She needed a little hope in flesh. She needed a hand to hold and a compliment to warm her.

"Come, you who are blessed by my Father, inherit the kingdom prepared for you from the foundation of the world. For I was hungry and you gave me food, I was thirsty and you gave me drink, I was a stranger and you welcomed me, I was naked and you clothed me, I was sick and you visited me, I was in prison and you came to me" Matthew 25:34-36. If you will permit me one extra line, "I wore a green hat and you cared."

God help me when I so stubbornly believe that my ability to speak is my ministry. Sometimes, I neglect to see the hope in a smile, or the love in a hand held. Maybe my best preaching is done outside of a pulpit. Maybe it is best done in those smelly places filled with green hats and single tears, those places filled with Jesus.

This Ship Has Sailed

I would marry G.K. Chesterton. Seriously. His book, Orthodoxy, literally changed my life, and very few books can make that claim. In it, he wrote a parable about a man who grew sick of England, his home, so he built a boat to escape the boring green plants and the dull gray cliffs on the shores of his domesticated country. As the boat sailed away from the shores of Britain, a storm attacked the vessel, and the young Brit became lost at sea. After several days of purposeless floating, the schooner landed safely on a foreign land with beautiful green plants and strong gray cliffs, and the man was thrilled. He found exactly what he searched for, an exotic land, full of adventure. However, the land turned out to be England, which he now viewed in a completely different light.

I have known all about love and service for my whole life, about selfless sacrifice and humility, and I could quote the exact scriptures that teach about the love of Christ. Minister after minister preached to me about the feet scrubbing that Jesus did, but it just seemed so old and distant. But, at the beginning of last summer, as a young girl cried in my arms because of her guilt, all I could do was comfort her and listen. When I visited a widow’s house and she broke into tears because of the pain in her heart, I could give her nothing but my hand to hold, and I felt a love outside myself. I contemplated what it was I had been feeling, and I thought about the power of simply listening with no desire but to help. Just when I thought I had found something brilliant and new, I was back at John 13 starring at the old familiar basin and cloth with a Savior scrubbing feet.

Love is no longer a theory, but it is a vibrant part of my life. It is not a self help idea but a true expression of gratitude. I left what I knew to find something better, yet in the end, I was back where I started. I no longer follow a foreign man’s theology, for I have made Christianity my own story of love, a story of rediscovery.