Food bank volunteering was fun yesterday. I didn’t think it would be; I searched my brain, deep and wide, for an adequate reason to justify my absence. Then Christine, my hardworking coworker who servant heartedly coordinated the event, expressed her frustration with the heighty number of committed bodies that bailed. And I felt the good conviction to be true to my word and attend the service project. We packaged noodles, spirally ones, for three hours. I laughed, chatted, and sang Christmas songs (only the good ones) with my sweet friend Annie and kept my brain busy, distracting her from recognizing the dread of the incredibly tedious task.
Because I didn’t drive my dangerously eldery Opal Car I had fun carpooling to and fro. When I returned home, though, I couldn’t quite pinpoint the reason for my low emotional condition. I couldn’t help but bawl in the shower as I cleansed the film that comes from Northwest Harvest’s latex gloves and hair nets from my scalp and my hands. Eventually, though, through prayer and reliance on the Spirit, I realized why.
I rode with three young, beautifully single ladies who are either pregnant and/or already raising children, enduring the pain that comes from boys pretending to be men as they bear the growing title of “Single Mom.” Because I’ve not ever experienced the sex I enjoy talking about it and proceeded to ask embarassingly naiive questions to prove my immaturity. I asked of them and they of me (the lack thereof) and while I didn’t share the beauty of Christ with them in relation to our female need for affection which is culturally and sinfully resolved with intercourse, I have prayed hard, hoping that they will soon experience the reality and truth of God’s love for them, fulfilling their loneliness and excessive pain. Alongside the guilt I’ve felt for not harshly and carefully confronting them with the gospel to communicate my love for them in regards to the conversation, I have since yesterday become very angry at knowing that these friends that I love are burdened by their sin in this way, shielded from God’s grace, living lives betrayed but welcomed by Satan’s beloved darkness.
God has been incredibly good to me, mysteriously maintaining my physical purity up to this point. I can consider his goodness and strength because I don’t know how I’ve not run away in hopes of being wooed by a gent, giving him my flower, if you will (that was a shout out to Monica Gellar – but since I keep calling it that, “no one’s ever gonna take it!”). I’m one of those pathetic chicks with daddy issues; most of my kind run in the direction of seeking the attention and fulfillment from another as it was not given by her most vital male figure. God used my sin which was committed in the opposite direction by loathing the male race to guide my stubborn bones away from the penis, soon after softening my heart to Himself and desiring a good relationship with a man who will hopefully one day be my hub. While I am incredibly undeserving of God’s grace and kindness given to me in Christ Jesus I am therefore eternally grateful and will strive (with much failure, obviously) to honor Him and commit my obedience to His goodness.
I am heartbroken for those, in this case those gals I learned more about yesterday, who know not God’s goodness as I do. As I continue to pray hard for their souls and those of their children, I want to serve them faithfully at Doxa. I wish for them to attend our little church and experience the beauty of God’s grace as I have. The gospel is that which motivates me to live beautifully and to experience the wonderful joys I’ve faced amidst the suffering I’ve been given. I’m surrounded by a body of Christians to express God’s character unto me, strengthening me and encouraging me to fight for what is good and true and worth fighting for and I want terribly for others to join us.
Since I know not how to do so otherwise, this is my desperate plea for you who are reading this peculiar blog post to come to Doxa Community Church
