Soul Gripping

I work at a charity in a poor urban community. I'd whittled my to-do list down so much yesterday that I decided to work on a mail campaign alongside our volunteers. I like being around our volunteers because most of them are elderly, and they help me to daydream about the person I want to become. I want to believe that even if I were wealthy I would think about people who don't have enough, or that even if I were a widow, I would want to spend some of my time helping others. The volunteers help me to imagine being a financially secure and loving person, and it's hard for me to imagine myself as anything better.

Yesterday morning I was working with one of my favorite volunteers named Betsy, who's smart-alecky and has a story about everyone in the city. Elaine was also with us. I had never actually spoken with her before; she has a soft voice and looked polished but was casually dressed. I was having a pleasant time stuffing envelopes with Betsy and Elaine and listening to them talk about "nickel Cokes" and dating during World War II.

Within an hour, I was trying to keep the two of them from seeing that I was crying. I found out through their conversation that Elaine had had a son with Down's syndrome, and he had been a sweet, happy adult who had proudly volunteered at our charity. Elaine talked about how much he enjoyed his volunteer work and then smiled a little and quietly said, "I prayed and prayed that I would outlive him, and God answered my prayers."

I cannot comprehend loving one of my children so much that I wanted to go through her death so that I could always make sure she was taken care of. But at the same time, I do understand it, and that's why I started to cry. I didn't cry because I pitied Elaine; she didn't seem unhappy. I cried because the love that emanated from her made something resonate in me, and it hurt.

In the spiritual place I have been brought to, love, pain and death exist together. Loving deeply makes me so vulnerable that pain is unavoidable, and death is the only way through the pain. The death of dreams, the death of insistence, the death of self. And somehow the death of Jesus on the cross completes everything. I could barely type the last sentence because I have absolutely no understanding of it. It's something that I believe, but it's not something I can speak about. I've had only the faintest glimpses of what Jesus has really given me, and they've been fleeting. There have been a few moments where I was aware of my life and it's circumstances, but I became more aware of the love of God.

So I cried at the mail table at work yesterday. The part of me that has seen glimpses of God does not emerge very often. But it will burst forth in certain situations, such as after talking to someone and realizing that God wants my prayers for them, or listening to someone and realizing that she knows the same God that I have known. Then that part of me that is buried deeply, that exists in the innermost layer, becomes for a moment my entire existence. If I'm alone I can cry and gasp and thank God for showing himself to me again. If I'm around other people, I blink back tears and try to act like I don't feel like the wind has been knocked out of me. Betsy and Elaine were looking at their stamps and envelopes the entire time they talked; I don't think they noticed.

Do you have people in your life or have you met anyone whose words grip your soul? Have you ever felt like you couldn't talk about God as he really is in your life and then met someone that you thought would understand? I would love to read your comments.