Betty

"Wrist Slap" has generated some heated off-blog discussion and I hope that my responses to the comments posted on-blog aren't too strident, too certain. I wonder if I tell you Betty's story it will help to clarify where I'm coming from?



Betty showed up on our doorstep on a chilly winter Friday evening sometime last year. January, maybe? Or February? We had a house full of teenagers at the time (Despite our absence from church, our boys are still involved in Friday night events.).When the doorbell rang I opened the front door to find a diminutive, harshly-aging, tired-eyed woman.

Thin, dry, badly colored hair crowned her life worn head. She was so small. So done in. She held a wicker basket full of various loonie-store wares. She'd clustered used tea-lights and holders into one bundle and tied it with a worn Christmas ribbon. Foil wrapped Christmas chocolates were pulled together into another small, brightly colored package. An assortment of patch sized Christmas fabrics was tucked between several other mismatched oddities.

Would I, she wondered, be interested in buying some of her wares?

The house was throbbing with energy and activity behind me. One of the youth mom's was sitting just feet from me on the living room couch. The timing was bad and the situation so peculiar. The woman was so obviously embarrassed by her own request. I couldn't imagine that she'd had any success in peddling her used and outdated items anywhere else on the street.

I asked her to Wait right there, okay? while I went in search of some cash.

As I ransacked the giveaway tin, yanking out a few not-enough bills for my new acquaintance, I was rapid firing questions toward Heaven. What to do? How to help? Was this enough? And why on earth was this woman on our doorstep, of all places?

I met the tiny woman at the door and asked her name. Betty. The name suited her somehow. Petite. Feminine. From another time.

How did you come to be on my doorstep, Betty? I wondered as I rifled through her basket, choosing the used tea-lights and their colored glass holders.

Just drove. I don't even know where I am...Do you know where I am?

I tucked my bills in amongst the bits and scraps left behind in her bin. I asked more questions. Questions about where she'd sleep (she had a home in the trailer park) and if she had food at home and what more she might need.

Betty told a heartbreaking story of a cross-Canada flight from a cruel husband. Two of her children, she said, were dead and the living one lived far away. She was alone. She was alone. She was alone.

I asked if she need clothing or a hot shower. No to all.There was nothing left to ask and nothing more to offer. Betty, I fumbled, the few dollars I've given you today are not enough. They cannot touch your heartache or help you in the long run. I'm going to just go grab a little more cash, and then, would it be okay if we talked with my God together?

What was she going to say? One of the indignities that comes with reliance on the gifts of another is that you are obligated to abide by their conditions. I wrestle with this aspect of giving every time. But I scuttled back to the giveaway tin, grabbed a larger sum this time, and slipped it underneath her remaining merchandise.

I held out my hands in an offer of touch. Betty took hold of my two in her tiny one. She hung on so tightly. So tightly. And I talked with Jesus while she stood on my front porch and wept.

I offered an embrace as I said a mumbled, Amen. Betty clung to me, thanked me effusively, and was gone.

I wrestled with the significance of that encounter for many, many weeks. Why had she found our doorstep that night? Where did she find the desperation and the courage to bring her second-hand goods to the door to sell? Did God meet her that Friday night? Will He pursue her? Love her? Rescue her? Was her story true? Does it matter? At all? Was I faithful to my Jesus?

I was ruminating on her story, still, a long time later when I chanced to mention it to my friend, Trina. If you know Trina, then the next bit of wisdom will not surprise you at all:

Sandi, she said as I finished my tale, can't you see that Betty is us? She's just exactly like us. Eyes moist with tears, she ably contained the sadness, the frustrated anger, the intensity behind her own words.

She continued, We go to God with our "gifts," our offering, our goods-for-sale and ask if He'll please accept them. Because they're the best we can give at the time. They're all we have. And He doesn't poke fun at what we're bashfully offering in our worn wicker baskets. He doesn't slam the door in our face or turn away in embarrassment Himself. He takes that basket in His own hands and accepts every bit we've given.

Betty didn't arrive on my doorstep so that I could help her. God put her on my porch so that she could help me.

In Betty were embodied lessons in humility and honesty, servanthood and grace. She was a living picture of how freely accepted we are by our God. The One who gives Life, gives Grace, gives Freedom does so without scorn or favoritism or arrogance. He gives because He is Love.

The gifts I offer Him, my "goods for sale" are antiquated and shoddy. They don't warrant a passing glance. But He takes them in hand, acknowledges their craftsmanship (knowing the artisan so well as He does), and says, Yes, Little One. These are lovely. I'll take them all. I'll pay full price ~ I'll pay the ultimate price.

This lifestyle of listening and giving is all about learning, I think. As you have so generously responded with your thoughts on when to share and when to withhold, I am reminded that we all have something to contribute to each other's process in this. And we all have bits that we need to learn because, like Betty, our offerings could use a little work. But Betty is where I'm coming from.

The Jesus we are growing to know and love gives to us without any assumption that we'll do right by Him. In fact, He knows we'll likely abuse, ignore, even scorn His gift. And He gives it anyway while accepting the meagerness that we give Him in return.