Divinity School
PhotoGraphics@Campbell

 THE GIFT

 

     Are you anxiously wading through the demands of end-of-semester assignments, frustrated that your decorating and shopping are way behind schedule? That panic-mode threatens to overtake me too, even though I’m not dealing with exams and papers this semester like you are. As I made my umpteenth list last night of things to be accomplished in the next two weeks, I remembered this experience from a couple of months ago. May it calm your anxieties, slow you down, and remind you the best gifts this Christmas are free.

     The phone rang yet again on that busy day at work. A woman I’d never met was calling to ask if I would lead a weekend retreat for women in a few weeks for a Baptist congregation.

     “How did you get my name?” I asked, not particularly gently. I learned my name had been referred to the woman from a mutual friend. My mind raced; how could I say “No?” What white lie could I make up quickly? “Too busy?” “Unprepared?” “Still recuperating?” My mind raced to find the appropriate reply.

     “Tell me about the group,” I inquired, hoping to stall a bit until I could clear my mind. As the woman talked, it occurred to me I really could do this with relative ease if I could use a study I’d led several other times – a United Methodist Women study entitled “Jesus and Courageous Women.” It could easily be spread over several sessions. And I really could add something about intercessory prayer, since this was a prayer retreat. And, oh, yes, that beautiful and sacred hand-washing service I’d participated in several times might be just the thing to end with, as these courageous women of today committed themselves to service. “OK.” I replied. “I’ll do it, if you think this study would be appropriate.”

     How many times during the next few days I wished I’d been able to say “No, thanks.” I didn’t need this extra pressure right now; just getting back into the swing of things and clearing my mind of all the drugs I’d been on since my surgery was enough! Yet, I prepared…and worried…and regretted my commitment.

     The weekend came. I drove off, wondering what this group of women would be like, a group of women I’d never met. We started our first session by answering the question, “Why are you here this weekend? What do you hope to gain from this experience?” The responses were varied and expected. Then it was my turn. “I don’t know why I’m here,” I said. Then I shared a little about the experience of being asked and my reluctance to respond. “I do know one thing,” I told the ladies. “By the time this weekend is over, I’ll know why I’m here.” I did believe that!

     The weekend went beautifully. What a wonderful group of Christian women! Church staff, mothers and daughters, a recent widow, the “preacher’s kid.” We finished our study and did an exercise with intercessory prayer. Would we have time for the hand-washing service? Would it be as meaningful to these women as it had always been to me? Should I just leave it out? “No, go for it,” came the silent reply. I invited the women out onto the wooden deck where we could see the calm waters of the sound across the street.

     In silence I began the ritual: pouring clear, cool water from my mother’s old pitcher, gently rubbing the hands of the girl beside me, drying them with a snow-white, soft towel, looking into her eyes as I held her hands in mine, silently wishing her God’s blessing as she departed to serve in Christ’s name. Around the circle the ritual was repeated in silence. I could feel the Spirit surrounding us as the pitcher and towel were passed on and on. The last woman was washed, and then she turned to me. Was it significant that the aging, wise, gentle widow was the one to wash my hands? I wasn’t sure. The woman poured water on my outstretched hands. And then she began to rub. She rubbed and rubbed. I began to wonder if her persistence came from years of scrubbing dirty children and grandchildren in a tub after a long day of play. My, she was really getting into this! It was becoming a little embarrassing. When would she stop? Very quietly the woman spoke from the silence of the group, “I’m washing these hands really good because they have a lot of important work to do.”

     Even as I write my eyes fill with tears, remembering the emotion of that moment. This gentle woman had given me a gift I desperately wanted—affirmation that my cancer was behind me, that God wasn’t through with me yet, that I was still whole enough to follow his call, that all was right with my world again. Looking at her with tears flowing, I replied, “Now I know why I came.” Thank you, God, for this gift. Thank you for affirming me. Thank you for using this simple widow to speak to me with encouragement and reassurance. Thank you for still needing me to serve you.