On Biblical Community

Lately, I've been thinking about tattooing my forehead.

Here's my reasoning: I think, if we all walked around with our needs tattooed on our foreheads, we'd be much more apt to reach out to one another. Think about it. Downstairs in fellowship after church, you greet the acquaintance you chat with every Sunday. Instead of the standard, "Fine, thanks," you can see that what she needs is $50 to pay rent. Or babysitting so she can go on a date with her husband. Or even just a nap. We could, in a very straightforward manner, find needs we were able to meet and fill them.

Unfortunately, not too many of us would sign on to the tattoo idea. So what is the answer? I have a few ideas. First, prayerfully looking for areas to help. My mother is amazing in this area. In the last week, she's given Loren and I a date night, taken Abby shopping to get her out of the house and give me a break, cleaned out my fridge in the midst of my bouts with nausea. Amazing. Knowing exactly what I need without me saying a word.

Secondly, we need to be in Biblical community. Frankly, if we never get beyond the superficial questions and answers that seem to fill our conversations, we will never feel safe enough with one another to have the transparency necessary to not only ask for help, but know when to offer it as well. Our family has met once a week with the same group of people for about six months now. In that time, we've studied Scripture, shared our struggles with sin, laughed and cried about difficulties in marriage and parenting, and fostered friendships that I pray will last long after our group decides to go our separate ways.

Which is why today had me thinking a lot about the book of Acts. A dear, amazing brother in Christ from our group showed up with bag after bag of groceries for us. As far as I know, his family had no idea that a few days ago my grocery trip was rapidly aborted as I rushed home, throwing up, and lay crying on the couch, unable to even get the few groceries I'd managed to buy upstairs due to the migraine I've been fighting for weeks now. Yet here he stood on my doorstep, blessing me beyond words.

Biblical community. It's what we are called to, far beyond simply sitting in a pew on Sunday mornings. It is where we find the relationships that sustain us in the valleys, rejoice with us in the victories, and pray for us whether we think we need it or not. Which, I concede, makes much more sense than tattoos.

An Encounter With Grace

Today was bad, by most people's standards. It started at 6:30 this morning, taking the cats in for shots, microchips, and getting "fixed", rushing to get home before Loren left for Oregon for three days. It only went downhill from there, as we got more bad news from the mechanic, to the tune of over $400. Lily screamed and defied. I went through the juggling act of potty training, babysitting, and trying to medicate myself through the cycle of migraines I've been fighting for weeks, fielding phone calls from my doctor trying to schedule a neurologist referral. By the time I was on the way back from the vet, following yet-another tantrum from the two year old, I was queen of my own pity party, bemoaning finances, toddlers, and full time ministry. My prayer was simple: "Lord, redeem this day."

The answer was unexpected. As I pulled into McDonald's for my cop-out-dad's-out-of-town-dinner, a homeless man stumbled trying to step up onto the sidewalk, and lay sprawled on the frigid concrete. The first car whizzed by, oblivious to this invisible man. I pulled alongside him, compelled to stop. I was able to get out, help him up, and start to talk to him. He said he was okay, that I should just take care of my car, and that he didn't want to go to Union Gospel Mission. I asked a couple times if I could buy him dinner; reluctantly, he agreed.

I rushed through the drive through line, scouring my car for anything more I could offer him than a couple of Big Macs. My search turned up two hand warmers, a card for the mission, and five dollars in cash. I couldn't help but think of the loaves and the fishes.

Loot in hand, I made my way back to where he waited. Approaching him, I offered my pathetic gift and asked if I could pray for him. He told me his name was "Henry," said conversationally that he prayed all the time but I was welcome to pray for him too. I put my arm around his dirty frame and asked God to fill him with peace, comfort, and a saving knowledge of Him. Afterward, I reminded him of Christ's love (which he affirmed that some days was all he had), told him to take care of himself, and left the parking lot. As I pulled back into traffic, I burst into tears. This same street, traveled only a few minutes before, seemed so different. I drove a warm car, dressed in warm clothes, with my (relative) health and the family that loves me.

It's easy to pray for comfort. "Lord, bless my marriage." "Lord, help with our finances." "Lord, restore my health." I pray, though, that each of you would have your eyes opened afresh to not only how incredibly, obscenely blessed each of us already is, but also to how little those around us have. May we never be a People that reduce our Christian call to going to church on Sundays, patting those brave enough to venture out into the world on the back and labeling them missionaries. And perhaps, in doing so, we would not need to have the Henrys of the world fall in our path in the midst of our pity parties, but that instead we would seek them out, anxious to share our time, our resources, and the love of Christ.

Humbled and Broken at His Extravagant Grace,
Megan