When charity knocks, open the door.

I owe my friend Connie a phone call. She left a voice mail yesterday, and I haven’t gotten back to her yet, but that doesn’t mean I haven’t been thinking about her.

She and I have been friends for sixty-plus years, having grown up together at Moody Church. Among her many talents is being a fabulous cook. Since I’m not a very good one, I’ve always appreciated her ability in the kitchen and have gobbled up many a meal from her hands.

But one particular incident will always come to mind when I think of Connie. It involved food but no cooking, and it happened 16 years ago. On a frosty morning in 1994, she stepped through my kitchen door carrying two overloaded grocery bags.

 

Wiping the dishwater from my hands, I said, “What’s all this?”

“Never mind,” she said. “I’ll be right back.”

I followed her outside, oblivious to the winter winds, questioning her as I went. “What’s going on?” But I stopped short when I saw eight more big brown bags lined up in her car.

“The Lord told me to do something,” she said, “and I’m just doing what I’ve been told. You’re getting your kitchen stocked.”

“Oh no,” I said. “You can’t do that!”

But she deflected my objections. “Don’t get in the way of a blessing.”

Our family had been struggling financially for several years, and for me as a stay-at-home mom of seven, panic was never far away. This day a couple of my cabinet shelves were completely empty, shelves that once couldn’t hold their bounty.

“What do you mean,” I said, “by the Lord telling you what to do?”

“In Bible study this week one verse mentioned helping those in need. I knew it was God’s message for me to help you. So don’t object. I’ve gone over your head and gotten special permission.”

My eyes filled and I threw my arms around this true friend. I hadn’t told her of my rising fear over the near-empty refrigerator or mentioned that our dinners had boiled down to a choice between pancakes and soup. Yet God had, through his Word, given Connie specific instructions. Best of all, she’d obeyed. Knowing her family was also on a strict budget, I appreciated her gifts even more.

It’s difficult to accept charity. Giving is much easier than receiving. As I stood in my replenished kitchen that afternoon feeling guilty for accepting Connie’s groceries, God reminded me that charity is just another word for love. Connie had demonstrated godly love, which humbled me and simultaneously lifted me up.

 

Later that same day my four year old (who had witnessed the food delivery) made a wise assessment of what had happened. “Your friend sure shares good, Mom.”

I had to agree. Connie had stocked our shelves, lifted my spirits, impacted a four year old, and gained another star in her heavenly crown. 

I think I’ll give her a call.

“Don’t forget to do good and to share with those in need. These are the sacrifices that please God.” (Hebrews 13:16)

What’s required?

 Most of us can tell interesting tales of our very first jobs. Mine was waitressing in a small California diner in 1966. I was 20 years old and living with my cousins for the summer in a tiny desert town above Los Angeles.

Cousin Gloria and I were hired together by Mary, the owner of “Mary’s Kitchen.” She was a one-woman show who did all the cooking, bookkeeping and food management while training two green waitresses.

Mary’s requirements were simple:

  • Buy a white uniform, and wash it daily.
  • Show up on time, and never miss a shift.
  • Serve drinks first.
  • For everything else, ask me.

 Although Gloria and I made some major mistakes, Mary sensed we were trying hard and gave us endless grace. The day I dropped a tray of 20 water glasses, breaking them all, she rolled her eyes but only charged me a nickle a glass. When I spilled hot coffee at the counter, burning the ankles of those seated on the stools, she lectured me sternly but forgave me.

One Sunday morning about half way through the summer, Mary had just unlocked the front door at 7:00 am when the sound of approaching motorcycles made us both look toward the front window. Fifteen disheveled men pulled up on massive Harley bikes, and I heard Mary mutter, “Oh no. Hells Angels.”

I’d heard about this gang of trouble-makers with a death-head logo on their jackets and violence on their minds. They’d been credited with dealing drugs, trafficking stolen goods, extortion, public brawls, even murder.

My instinct told me to bolt for the door and throw the lock, but Mary said, “Better let ‘em in.”

They burst into our little dining room spewing language that burned my ears and roughly rearranging the tables with boisterous bravado. From their conversation I could tell they’d spent the night in the foothills and were ravenous.

Mary called her husband who quickly arrived on his own Harley with a gun in his pocket. His presence in the corner reassured us both as we pretended nothing unusual was happening.

Mary miraculously produced the requested dinner plates of meat and potatoes rather than breakfast eggs, and the men ate so much we wondered if they’d pay. In the end, some did, some didn’t, but the loss was offset by our relief in seeing them drive away.

Ever since then I’ve wondered about those men. Each had a life-story and a reason for joining the Hells Angels.  Requirements for membership are complicated:

  • Become a “Hang-around”, attending only certain get-togethers.
  • Move up to “Associate”, waiting a year or two.
  • Become a “Prospect”, participating in some meetings.
  • Gain “Full-patch”, wearing the insignia and voting.

 They call themselves a motorcycle club but are most proud of their strong bond of brotherhood. Maybe this “family” connection draws them more powerfully than their love of motorcycles or escapades.

The desire to belong is strong within all of us, because it’s God-given. That’s why the Lord offers membership in his family to not just a few but to everyone. Requirements are simple:

  • Believe Jesus is the Son of God.
  • Receive him as Savior from personal sin.

 Unlike riding with the Hells Angels or even working at Mary’s Kitchen, belonging to God’s family is for everyone. None are excluded.

To all who did receive him, to those who believed in his name, he gave the right to become children of God.” (John 1:12)

Say it in words.

Once in a while Jack will walk up to me and quietly whine. If he’s been walked and fed, I’m not sure what he wants and wish he could say it in words, so I could help him.

Little children have a similar problem. They’re born with needs and opinions but can’t talk for a couple of long years. Parents are left to interpret the different nuances of their cries and behavior, hoping they’ll understand.

Recently when my five grandchildren were here, all of them were sick. When they didn’t feel good, they’d whimper and cry, but four of the five couldn’t use words to say what they were feeling. Sore throat? Clogged sinuses? Tummy ache? Headache? We could only guess.

During those weeks, there were several other reasons we wished our little ones had words: important items began disappearing. One day a baby monitor we’d used in the morning was nowhere to be found by afternoon. About the size of a cordless phone but white and with an antenna, it should have been easy to find.

All of us hunted with diligence, becoming increasingly frustrated not to find it. A day of searching went by and then two. We even prayed about it, not so much for the intense need of the monitor as to know where it went. “Lord, you see it right now. Won’t you show us?”

Of course we asked our small fry, using the other half of the monitor-set as bait. “Do you know where one of these is? Where did you put it?” Only half joking, we said, “Just say it in words!” But of course they couldn’t.

Many times Nicholas or Skylar would dash off, acting like they knew, raising our hopes of finding it. Sadly, though, after several days, we could only conclude it had gone into a local landfill by way of our trash.

Why didn’t God answer our prayer and show us the monitor? It would have been easy for him, yet he refused. I find this exasperating yet symbolic of many of our unanswered prayers. It’s as if we pray, “Just say it in words, Lord! Tell us where to look, what to do, which to choose.”

I can’t count the times I’ve prayed the “tell me” prayer. Right now I’m asking about my phone charger. I put it someplace safe before the kids arrived and now can’t find it.

Why doesn’t God usually answer these prayers? Maybe he wants us to:

  • practice waiting
  • increase in patience
  • learn to be careful next time
  • learn to handle frustration
  • order our priorities
  • find humor in the situation

 

Apparently our family needed to learn those things, because we never found the monitor…

…until today.

While cleaning out the candle cabinet (a child-high, double-door cupboard), there it was. Little hands had hidden it in the back. Maybe we’d learned our lessons after all.

And interestingly, God didn’t use words to answer our prayer.

“ ‘Can anyone [or anything] hide from me in a secret place? Am I not everywhere in all the heavens and earth?’ says the Lord.” (Jeremiah 23:24)