From a suffering soul, “I think God’s mad at me”

We aren’t supposed to be here. Weeks before, we’d made the plans, nailed down a date, and written it in red on the calendar. Then something came up, and our friends canceled out.

“Let’s run our errands,” we say to each other, and so we set out. Unexpectedly, we find ourselves in a different part of town and, being dinnertime, we decide to stop at Taco Bell.

We join the line at the counter, and there she is, a trim, attractive blonde. Twitching, fidgeting, never standing still. Her movements are frenetic, unnerving. I can’t help but watch her. Something is clearly wrong.

Orders finished, we take a seat at a table, waiting. The blonde fidget disappears. Her drunken companion, speech slurring and slow, is waiting, too. Then, at once, she appears again. From my spot by the window, I cannot look away. There is something…something indefinable about her.

“Give me something to tell her,” I pray in my heart, and, rising, I walk over to where she stands in her cute, cropped blue jeans. She looks over. “I’ve been watching you,” I say, “and I want you to know that God’s heart for you is so big and warm and open.”

She’s stunned. Speechless. “I can’t believe it,” she says. “I never talk to God.”

In all of my encounters with people in the great, wide world, I have developed an innate sense of what each one needs. With some, I shower cheer and humor. With others, I share a scrap of faith from my pocket. With all of them, I engage them wherever they’re at.

But back, now, to the twitchy, frantic soul in blue jeans. “How can I pray for you?” I say, looking into her face. I can nearly feel the groaning in her spirit.

“I don’t know,” she says. “I don’t know.”

She can’t stop vibrating. Her hands flit hither and yon. Then all at once, she leans forward, and she takes me up in a hug. “Thank you.” Pain leaks from her eyes, and her hands swipe liquid hurt.

“I don’t know your name,” I say. Stress and agitation are rolling from her in waves. Taking her face in both of my hands, I look right into her eyes. “But God knows your name.”

I walked back to our table where Mr. Schrock was watching. His blue eyes were misty. There was a lump in my throat, and my own eyes were wet.
Before leaving, she slipped back to me at our table. “Thank you again,” she said.

She told us, then, parts of her story, a patchwork of suffering and loss. “I think God’s mad at me. I read the Bible, but I can’t understand what it’s saying.”

“The only verse you really need to know right now is this one,” and I offered John 3:16. “God’s not mad. He sent his son to die. For you! No, God isn’t mad.”

I watch her walk away, then, the falling-apart girl whose name is known, first by God and then by me. Her name is Angelica.
**********************
Three years later, on a pleasant, summer night, we’re visiting with friends. The midnight sky’s like velvet. There’s music in the air, and it’s good to be alive. Then behind me, I hear it. The sound of retching. Or is it a deep, wet cough? I cannot tell, and so I look around.

Sitting behind me is an old man. He sees me turn, and so he says, “Too many cigarettes.”

I smile. “Are you okay?” He nods.

Some minutes pass. One of our group arises, and all at once, the old man speaks. “Are you leaving? If you are, I just wanted to say thank you for caring about me.”

I smile again, and then he says, “I just got some bad news. I can’t talk about it.” His gravelly voice, it cracks, and he wheels around for his seat.

Oh, man. There’s no leaving that alone, a human soul who’s suffering. So, of course, I follow him there.
Kneeling, I put my hand on a bony knee and listen as he shares his sorrow. His brother will die tonight.

“My nephew called and said it’ll be tonight. He wanted him to call me and tell me that he loves me.” His breath hitches, and suddenly his voice is strangled. He cannot stop crying.

When I ask, he tells me that his brother’s name is Ken, and his name is Henry. “Can I pray for you?” I say.

“Yes.” He says it through his tears. And so right there, with the curtain of night enfolding, I lay one hand on a bony back, and I talk to The Friend on his behalf.

I return to my husband and our friends. We laugh and talk long into the night. Before we leave, though, my new friend slips back up to me, and he says, “Thank you. When you put your hand on me, I felt the peace.”

His face is much lighter now, and his smile gives the witness. We leave, and my heart knows again the power of Love for a soul that’s been placed in my path.

There are times to expressly share one’s faith. There are times to refrain from sharing it. At all times, though, we can offer the Love we carry in our own pockets to the suffering along the way. In so doing, sorrows are divided and hope is multiplied.

You might not be able to change the world singlehandedly, but if you share the little that’s in your pocket, it will help the Angelica or the Henry who stands in front of you. And that’s enough.