Every moment we must resist the urge---and fight it fiercely---the one saying, "You are unusable." God calls us his disciples, his very hands and feet.
My mother-in-law and I lounge on pillowed wicker patio chairs and breathe in warm California air under palm trees and the waning sun. She shares the guts of a messy situation. I listen well until she asks, "What should I do?" Brakes screech in my ears, but there is only the hum of the neighbor's steam cleaning machine across the street. Hold on. I am twenty years younger. I am honored and humbled. In a second, I remember every piece of unsolicited advice I have given in the name of God. Surely, I cannot be the one to give her reason.
I remember comforting a close friend badly, in a blur of unboxing and finding the best shelf for my plates. She came blazing in to reorganize my kitchen, but a sharp betrayal knocked her onto my couch. Crying, she poured it all out, the years leading up to a phone call gone wrong, in my fresh house.
I reached into an arsenal of trite expressions and scripture quotations and vomited them in her lap. Really, I just wanted her to stop crying. I wanted to tell her I was out of sympathy because the years, the history, told us all it was coming. I remember and I hope she blocked it all out, especially the part where I started opening my mouth, getting all Jesus-freaky. This is the memory rising to the back of my brain as I consider if God can use me ever.
I have thought I must have answers for everyone, especially those who ask. I have played psychologist, counselor, pastor, arbitrator, and savior. But these roles are not disciple. Disciple is the one who realizes they have nothing to give to the needy but Jesus.
As the evening passes on the patio, I listen more.
I am incapable.
But I love God and I love her, and I will listen.
If you love one another, everyone will know you are my disciples.
This dear woman who has survived four boys, breast cancer twice and almost a complete bodily reconstruction listens to my laments of loneliness. She tells me where she sees God in my children, in my family. I cannot see it half the time. I tell her the work of God I see in her life---the opening of her home, her yard, her neighborhood.
If this is discipling, I want more. The advice is gone.
We are both broken enough to see our need in our stories.
The disciples were messy people. They fought (Luke 9:40). They forgot (Mark 8:14). They were faithless and fearful (Mark 4:40).
Jesus prays for his disciples so they may be safe and useful to the world. That Jesus would call me a disciple staggers the mind! But if I am His, which I am, then call me disciple.
A recent remembrance of a story from a book I am reading surges forward. Eugene Peterson describes his wife Jan, a pastor's wife:
"This happened more and more frequently, women hungry for hospitable conversation, being listened to, not harangued, being understood, not enlisted in a cause. When they asked for advice, she demurred. 'Why don't we just be friends, maybe meet regularly together, get to know one another, and feel free to talk about what we are learning or wondering about in this life of faith that Jesus has joined us in? Why don't we just agree to be faith friends?" (The Pastor)
Faith friend. I repeat it to myself after the patio conversation. It is more for myself, to accept others and love them with no expectation. I want to be a friend even when I am chaotic, controlling, untrusting, and scared. I cannot do it without Jesus and grace and the expectation that He will show up. He is doing good things in me---small, holy moments glorifying Him.
I pray, "Use me here in the messy and my failings." I open my mouth with fear and trembling to answer. The stars peak out above the palm leaves above us, shining down on the Word itself, Jesus, the one we give back and forth, the word I keep repeating to myself and to anyone who will listen.
- Christina H.
