A Spirit Not Of Fear

We come now to the long-awaited explanation (or, as is more likely, the Not-Awaited-in-Any-Way-Shape-or-Form Explanation) for the undoubtedly strange title of these recent posts. You see, it is a little phrase that I heard, once. Or twice. Somewhere. Or perhaps, Somewhere Else... but it is not the Where that matters. It is the What, and this is it:
 

If you recall (and especially if you don't), these recent posts were spurred by the memory of a lady who did little more than secure me a place in front of her in a very ambiguously-located line. Yet in doing so, she offered me an entire world of thought; thoughts for which I could not be more grateful. I can guarantee her forgetfulness of me; and if questioned at the time, I'm certain she could have guaranteed my own forgetfulness of her. Yet such is not the case. Praise God, I did not merely allow a brief thought about the woes of subjectively located checkout lines, and then cease to dwell on the matter -- for though some people may argue that I dwell far too much on many things, I would argue in return that those who dwell too little on the little things are far more likely to undervalue those things most often seen as important.

For I have come to question myself. It is with the greatest ease that I might live out my actions in a blind state of obligation, even an obligation that has little to do with my God and far more to do with the expectations of those around me. But that is not what I long for. My longing, my yearning, is that all which comes from me might be planted not by selfish, gain-seeking hands--hands which I have known all too well--but by a heart whose very roots and soil are watered by Love.

For that was ever the promise: from that to which life is given, more life still shall come. I need only be faithful in sowing my seeds — and truly, the apples are best left to Him.

Two little things haunt my steps: their names are Service and Courtesy. And they are two little things which I question. Really, I don't question how often we follow them. I question the motive of our hearts when we do. The human heart, if I have learned nothing else, is very selfish and frail a thing -- and no one could argue that laying down one's self does not, in fact, hurt.
 
No service may be rendered to us by the rendering of our own service. We can hardly hold open a person's door out of the hope that it changes their lives. Nor can we even feed the hungry in the hopes that they might remember the face and name of the ones who offered them food. And no, we can't do anything because maybe, just maybe, we’ll get mentioned on someone’s blog (let’s face it: it probably won’t happen, and if it does, we’ll never know it).

But perhaps—just maybe—the question is not of why I serve another. Not even of why I should want to do it. Perhaps, first and foremost, the question is of how I serve my God.

“Now that I, your Lord and Teacher, have washed your feet, you also should wash one another's feet. I have set you an example that you should do as I have done for you. I tell you the truth, no servant is greater than his master, nor is a messenger greater than the one who sent him. Now that you know these things, you will be blessed if you do them.” (John 13:14-17)

I said that How was important. But Jesus gave us something more. He gave us, precious gift that it is, a Why.

"A new command I give you: Love one another. As I have loved you, so you must love one another. By this all men will know that you are my disciples, if you love one another." – John 13:34-35

And so it is that, even in seeking to evade myself with a How and Why that comes from Him, it drives me ever back to... me. Yet in doing so, it drives me back to Him after all. For I am called to serve, no longer as a fragile reflection of myself; but instead, brighter and brighter,

(To be continued…)

A few weeks ago I went to the library. After spending a while camped out in my favorite section (seated on the floor, enduring the glances of fellow library patrons, mothers with toddlers clutching picture books, and library staff trying to figure out the kindest way to remove me from the aisle so they could finish organizing the bookshelves) I made my way to the checkout desk.

A few feet from the desk, I stepped past a woman standing with an armload of books to get into line. But as I stood there, it suddenly dawned on me that she, too, was “in line”. (The line is sort of a... er... subjective location at our library.) Apologizing, I stepped back and asked if she was already waiting.

She smiled and told me to go ahead. Thanking her, I stepped into line, and within three minutes my books had been checked out for me and I was on my way home.


So… a woman gave up her place in line for me. That’s it. End of story. Life goes on.

Right?

Well, it should have. Rather, it normally would have. But on the drive home, something about the encounter lingered with me. It didn't seem right, didn't seem normal anymore to ignore such little things. Do not ask me when it ceased to be my normal; I would not be able to answer you.

But something was special. And more than that...

I had the strangest feeling that all my life, I had been forgetting something.

(Continued in Part II.)