As the sun’s warm rays danced across the rooftops, I drove my cooped-up boys to the sand volleyball court down
the street. They brought along Tonka trucks and Star War guys, and as the sun’s
rays danced low, three boys hollered loud and threw off flip flops, digging
naked toes in cold, wet sand.
As my boys laughed and dug into sand, that’s when I saw
Little Boy and his Mama. Little Boy was digging, spraying sand all over
red-headed Mama, and Mama was saying, “Stop. No. Please, don’t dig like that. You’re getting sand everywhere!!”
As gritty sand flew, Mama looked up at me and then down at
my baby-belly, saying, “Is that your fourth
boy?”
I laughed: “No! It’s a girl.” And Mama smiled, leaning towards
me across warm sand, and I could see words
in her green eyes, but I just wanted to read the book in my purse, the one I’d
been waiting all school-long-day to read, so I looked past Mama and walked
straight-as-an-arrow to the empty picnic table on the other side of the court.
I plopped on warm, red wood, pulling book out of my purse,
and that’s when I noticed red-haired Mama walking away from her sand-spraying boy and towards my momentary haven on the red bench, and as Mama’s question
flew over open sand: “Trying to catch up on some reading?,” I silent-groaned—this Mama’s got a lot of words to spill!
And skipping right over “My name is _____, what’s yours?”
red-haired-Mama gushed:
“You know, I have so much trouble with my son, and just a
little bit ago, I called my mom asking for her advice, and she told me I had no
backbone and just didn’t know what I was doing and, she’s so critical, you
know? And I know I’m insecure and I don’t know what I’m doing, but, you know,
why did she have to be so critical? ”
And I said, “Yeah, parenting is so hard, and yes, I know
about the criticism thing.”
Then—to my selfish delight—on the other side of the court,
Little Boy threw sand and red-haired Mama
trotted back across the court yelling, “I told you no throwing sand! If you do
that again, we’re leaving.”
As Mama scolded sand-throwing Boy, I picked up my book,
looking for my end-of-day-haven in beautiful words.
But before I could read a word, a years-old memory flashed
across my conscious: I saw the anguished
face of a co-worker as she bared her soul to me, and I, I was too
Selfish-busy to pause and listen to soul-bearing co-worker. The memory cut
deep, and I saw my Selfish heart replaying in the Now, so I put down my book and
heaved up and across the sand to where red-haired Mama knelt beside
sand-throwing-Boy.
As sand from Little-Boy’s wild hands flew into my eyes, I
laughed, saying, “Boys have so much energy!”
At this invitation, Mama’s words tumbled out, “I’m feeling
so depressed. I feel depressed a lot. Sometimes I feel like committing suicide,
and I go to counseling, and I don’t know what to do with my son, I mean, I went
to a play group today and this other mom. . . .”
I listened as Mama spilled her story about how another mom
in her Jehovah’s Witness group called her son a “brat.” Then as one sorrow
led to another, Mama shared about her imploding marriage, her hopelessness, her
fear, and how the JW elders couldn’t seem to help at all. I saw the pain in her taut body, her averted
eyes, her rushing words.
As Mama spilled sorrow upon sorrow I wondered: What do I say? How do I speak Hope, live Jesus in this moment?
And as Mama’s words surged around me, I felt Fear creep: You aren’t very good at this share-Jesus-to-a-stranger
thing. Better just to listen and empathize and leave it at that. After all, you
might botch the truth-telling . . . .
Then Little Boy threw more sand at our eyes, and Mama said,
“I mean it this time! If you throw it
again, we’re leaving!” And Little Boy
threw sand again, and ran across the
court, away from Mama’s grasping hands, so Mama yelled, “We’re going, for real this time. I mean it!”
As red-haired Mama leaned down to pick up shovels and
buckets, I felt Holy-Spirit pressure loose my lips:
“What’s your name? .
. . Is it ok if I pray for you?”
And Julie’s green eyes looked into mine saying, “You can
pray, but I can’t pray with you.”
I closed my eyes and prayed for Julie-the-red-haired-Mama. I
prayed that Jesus would meet her in her struggle as He’d met me in mine. I
prayed she’d know his love, His presence. I prayed she’d know the
Jesus-who-Died-on-the-Cross for her.
Then I hugged Julie, and she half-hugged me and picked up
Little Boy, and drove away.
That’s when Micah, who’d been playing in the sand next to
Mama Julie and me, started asking questions: “Mom, did she believe in God? Why
did she say you could pray for her, but she couldn’t pray with you?”
I knelt down in wet sand next to almost eight-year-old Micah,
and as we built a sand castle together, we talked about Julie and Little Boy
and how we all need Jesus to heal the pain of the past and the present. We
talked about Truth and Hope and how we can love others by Living Jesus. And when the castle was built and his questions
mostly answered, Micah looked up at
me saying,
“Write it down, Mom. Write it all down so you can treasure
it in your heart—what happened here tonight.”
Write it down so I can
treasure it in my heart . . . .
So, I am writing this story to treasure what God did with a Selfish-sinful woman who wanted
to read her book rather than reach out. I’m writing to treasure what God is doing in the
heart of a woman named Julie.
And I’m writing to
remind myself that every day, every moment, is an opportunity to Treasure the
Only One who gives Life and Hope.
