Must the Skies Open for Me?
My head dropped into my hands as I hung up the phone.
We are few, yes. But was no one else available? No one?
Really?
I dragged my feet down the steps to change, not just a little surly about the Sunday nap I would not take. But more than that, my chest pulled up tight, making my heart rap hard on the backside of my ribs.
As I turned the car down the alley behind the sheriff’s office, the sign slipped past my window: Detention Street.
Perfect.
Translating for a worship service or a Bible study? No problem. In the ER? I’m on my way. I even stayed around for a couple of hours after my kids faced the needle to help out at the immunization clinic the other day when they were short of bilingual hands.
But at the jail? My insides preferred to stay in the car.
::
I’ve made no secret of this preference, I suppose. And it does seem a bit standoffish.
But I simply didn’t want to be seen at the jail. In a small town, word gets around.
Perceptions are important.
It’s not what you think. I’ve been a long time searching out the right words to explain this and I fear I’m still not there. It’s not getting my hands dirty that makes reluctance rise up. Could it be that they would be too clean?
To be clear, it’s not about law enforcement or immigration policy.
It is about this: As we seek to “reach in” to a community that walks in shadows, I don’t want to be that kind of light. I pursue relationship with folks for whom trust is everything. Right or wrong, sometimes I resist this association with those whom they may tend to trust the least.
Still, checking my reluctance, I got in the car and drove.
::
I followed the dispatcher and relaxed a little when I saw that I did not know the young man in the booking room.
So far, so good. Not one of our guys.
I thought I’d seen him around town, though he seemed smaller now dressed head to toe in orange. He sat unmoving beside the table, and I took a chair facing him at the end.
We talked about the charges, his personal belongings, his court date, his telephone call. He looked up at me, struggling against handcuffs to remove his watch and ring to be bagged, so I shifted alongside him. My hands, always pale and purplish-cold, worked next to his. They seemed even darker now. Both held back the hint of a tremble as I tugged at the watch band and slipped it off his wrist.
I considered his dignity, now gone. Perhaps just hours before, he would have swaggered with his friends outside the worn apartment building some here call Li’l Mexico.
But not now.
Now he sat still, tranquilo. Jewelry gone, street clothes swapped for a bright jumpsuit, cash inventoried, truck towed away. He had no family nearby, and he dialed several numbers beyond the obligatory one phone call before he reached a friend with the time and the ganas to help him out.
::
He seemed smaller yet as he stood to be fingerprinted, dwarfed by the machine. The deputy pressed his finger onto the glass and an image rolled across the monitor screen. The design gave me pause. The print, now as large as a man’s face, shouted aloud with the voice of the One who crafted it.
Here stood one, humbled by his circumstance while I shrunk into my chair, humbled by, well, humility.
I felt more aware of my smallness as I sat in the glow of such an intricate design.
::
In a small office tucked away in the back corner of Texas government building, I stood at much the same machine. As the attendant rolled my fingers across the glass, my own print came alive on the screen and I remembered how Eduardo’s rolled to life just days before.
I wondered about our sameness, his and mine, though we have not much in common, really.
I stood in street clothes, assisted by a civilian, securing prints for a work-related matter. I would walk out of the office as freely as I entered, just short about $45.50 for the service. He would walk into a sterile cell to await a Tuesday court date.
Mine is a place I readily call home. His place and his home sit a world apart.
::
That afternoon, I spent about an hour with him. Perhaps just a little longer than the nap I didn’t take.
It was a very small part of my day — smaller yet of my week, my month.
Nothing momentous occurred. Nothing I could see.
Before he surrendered his phone, he scribbled phone numbers on a scrap of paper with cuffed hands. I took the pen and jotted my number on his list while I mumbled something about not working for the sheriff’s department and inviting him to contact me if he should need anything.
What a stupid thing to do, I thought as I argued back the prompting I sensed in my spirit to write my phone number for a guy going to jail, a guy I didn’t know.
What a stupid, stupid thing.
Still, nothing happened.
Leastwise, nothing I could see.
::
This post sat in my drafts folder for nearly two months while I pondered the significance of my visit to the detention center. What was the point of the story?
The point was that perhaps, there wasn’t a point. Sometimes, this walking out faith is seeing nothing happen. We step into ordinary moments, sometimes to do things that make our hearts soar, others that make our hearts quake, and still others that remain in that realm of ordinary. Walking those ordinary steps doesn’t mean I’m owed an outcome.
The skies need not open every time.
At least not that I can see.
::
At least not that you can see is so often the very point, Lyla.
What a gripping story. These ordinary steps of yours. What extraordinary grace you offered without knowing what it may mean.
Powerful.
2010/01/28 at 7:17 AM
These words, “faith is seeing nothing happen” – how I need to hear them today. Brings to mind John 20:29, “blessed are they that have not seen, and yet have believed”. Or perhaps Hebrews 11:1, “Now faith is the substance of things hoped for , the evidence of things not seen.” Hanging onto and believing evidence of things not seen. How can there be evidence of something unseen? The evidence resides in me and he also is unseen – the Holy Spirit testifies to God’s grace and compassion.
Sometimes when I don’t “see” anything happening in my life or the lives of those I live with, rub shoulders with, I can grow weary. But when with faith eyes I trust and rest in His unchanging nature, He brings hope and believing to my heart. It no longer depends upon something happening – for God’s presence is what I need.
Thanks for letting me think these thoughts here – I needed them today. Have been feeling a little weary. Thanks for the encouragement of faith!
2010/01/28 at 8:07 AM
Hey Lyla, Thanks for posting.
Most of life is actually like this, isn’t it? It’s not all wrapped up in bows and shiny paper with a happy little ending.
I’m glad you shared this one. I remember talking about this by phone a couple months ago, and I wondered if you’d post. … So delighted that you did.
I, for one, am usually looking for the REASON something happened. How naive, really. As if I have any idea, really, why I’ve been called into a certain place at a certain time.
I don’t know if I’m making sense here in the comment box, but you certainly made sense to me.
Thanks….
2010/01/28 at 8:48 AM
Oh Lyla! Kudos to you for pushing through. Its funny how we still like to choose the things we are called to do. The beginning of your story made me think of myself when something unexpected happens and ruins my plans of doing absolutely nothing and how I can really act like a toddler going through a temper tantrum.
I feel this way with the youth sometimes….I feel like I am not getting through and then out of the blue one of them says something and I find that a seed was sown.
I believe, a seed was sown this day, Lyla. You may not see it come in and be harvested…but you know that you were called there for a reason. And God knows why even if we don’t.
Wonderful post – thanks so much!
2010/01/28 at 10:16 AM
Folks, thank you for your comments. This was a post I struggled to publish, unsure the story was worth the telling. Sometimes I just need to let Him use the story the way He wants. I’m glad I did.
2010/01/28 at 11:37 AM
a very good story
2010/01/28 at 12:03 PM
Lyla:
We always seem to want the roar of God’s voice instead of the still small voice. I admire those who seem to hear God speaking in various ways, blaring or whispering. We need to be tuned in so we don’t miss hearing him. I’m sure that I have missed many a word from God because I was channel surfing.
Julie is so on point. As the Apostile has said, God is the Master Gardner and he gives the increase. We just need to keep in mind that we are just one of the field hands.
Great post and aa always, you have taken an isolated event and put spiritual flesh on the bones.
Dad
2010/01/28 at 7:43 PM
What an experience, Lyla. Yes, I can see where it would be humbling. And I agree with Deb, just because we don’t see doesn’t make it so. The skies opened for me when you shared this.
2010/01/28 at 7:58 PM
I’m so glad you posted this.
I loved your ending words about not getting an outcome that you can see. That’s how I feel with my online students. I come into their lives for a semester. I point them to my blog as a witness. I make it clear I am a Christian. I pray for them when they ask. I offer emailed prayers when they give me “excuses” as to why they need homework extensions. But I’ve never seen any of them turn to Christ because of my witness. I never see an “outcome” I can chart or graph. I just have to trust I’m doing what God has called me to do–sometimes, that’s hard. 11 years of teaching, hoping one day that seed will take root in these many young lives.
2010/01/28 at 9:56 PM
Oh I know this story. Intimately. Incredible post. This reminded me of a song that has come to mean much: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=93UrjJi6ChU
2010/01/29 at 7:36 AM
There is so much not to know, just when I think I’m getting so smart…
Kelly, beautiful song. Thank you for sharing it.
2010/01/29 at 8:18 AM
Thanks for sharing this…
Simply by being there God was able to come into this man’s life in a way you will not know until you reach Heaven. Just cuz it was nothing to you… to have someone he had not met until then give their phone number, to offer to help… how huge in that scary situation…even if he never calls you what a comfort to him. Put yourself in his shoes…what would it mean to you to have gotten that phone number, someone to translate what was going on …Wow!
2010/01/29 at 11:02 AM
The point of the story?
Obedience. Kindness. A little love.
Not bad for a napless Sunday afternoon.
Sweet dreams.
2010/01/29 at 8:37 PM
What a humbling experience to walk into a jail as a one-to-one counselor. What you do is fit into their shoes, try to understand their heart’s cry, bringing with you the mind of Christ from His holy Word, the Bible. For His mercy and lovingkindness last forever. What a blessing to those who have lost everything. As you look at sadness in their eyes at about an hour later you can see a tiny glimpse of light coming forth of some hope again.
Lots of times I only have one meeting with an individual so you try to pour your heart of compassion to the person, always asking them to put yesterday behind them and today a new beginning, a new day. When the hour is over and I walk out of the jail, I want to leap for joy, feeling even more excited than the person I counseled. I want to jump for joy, I feel fulfilled.
Some plant seeds, some water. But God gives the increase.
2010/02/11 at 4:14 PM