That Was Nice

I had just walked out of the store and was heading toward my van, feeling just a bit guilty that I had parked at such a strange angle. I was within the yellow lines, though, so it really wasn't bad that I parked weird; it was just messy looking, careless, like I don't know how to park or was in too much of a hurry to do it right. These kinds of thoughts nag at me, are part of my desire to be the poster child for good Christians, large families, homeschoolers. I have to be careful. I have to make a good impression. Can't let someone make me the example over the dinner table. "This lady, called herself a Christian, but you shoulda seen the way she parked. Them Christians don't care about nobody but themselves..."

This is what I was thinking about when I heard a voice calling from nearby.

"Ma'am!" The voice said. I inwardly cringed at the chastising I was about to receive. My bumper was too close to her bumper. My front door was too close to her front door. I should be more careful. I should be less selfish. Was this my paint on the body of her car? Regardless of the lack of real fault on my part, I've seen those kinds of arguments unfold, and they aren't pretty. I heard the voice call again and looked around. The voice was coming from behind me, from the next aisle over.

"Could you get my walker for me? It's in the trunk of the car." The voice belonged to a middle-aged woman with shoulder-length salt-and-pepper hair. She was seated in the driver's seat of a white Lincoln Towncar, her feet swung out onto the pavement of the parking lot. I must have been dazed. I had to switch the gears in my head. I think she repeated herself, or maybe she just explained.

"I should have had my kids get it out before they went in the store, but I didn't. Could you get it for me?"

"Sure!" I answered, maybe a little too enthusiastically. I walked across the aisle and looked into the trunk where I saw a wheelchair on top of a silver walker. I pulled the wheelchair aside to wrestle the walker from its place. It felt strange. I felt like I wanted to do more, not just pull the walker out and hand it to her. While she may have felt that she was imposing on me, that I was doing her some big favor, I felt just the opposite. I felt honored, priviliged. I felt...needed.

As I handed her the walker, she thanked me. That was it. Just a pure, sincere thanks. I resisted the urge to help her into the store, to follow her around and help her with her shopping. This "feeling needed" was good, but it could definitely go too far, turn quickly into being a pest. Me, not her. I settled for, "Would you like me to close the trunk?"

"Yes, if you would, please!" She responded. And I did. I made sure to close it just right. And while I've probably closed hundreds of car trunks hundreds of times, I was very aware of how I should close this one, kind of like when you're driving along familiar roads carrying a passenger that you barely know or want to impress. Suddenly it all slows w-a-a-a-y down and you want to make sure that you take every curve, every turn, ever stop just precisely, exactly right.

And do you know that I thought I messed it up? It didn't look to me like the trunk was completely closed. I pushed on it a couple more time, vaguely aware of the woman's presence a few feet away from me closing her car door.

"Did I do that right?" I asked stupidly. She assured me that I did, that it was indeed closed.

I crossed back to my crookedly parked van, nearly getting run over by an oncoming vehicle who was gracious enough to stop for me. My thirteen-year-old son, Houdin, was still standing beside the van.

"That was nice," he said, echoing the thoughts in my head. Yes, it was nice.

But I'm really not sure if he was referring to what I did for the woman with the walker, or what she did for me.

Acts 20:35 (The Message)

In everything I've done, I have demonstrated to you how necessary it is to work on behalf of the weak and not exploit them. You'll not likely go wrong here if you keep remembering that our Master said, "You're far happier giving than getting.'"

The Message (MSG) Copyright © 1993, 1994, 1995, 1996, 2000, 2001, 2002 by Eugene H. Peterson