One summer evening I encountered a stranger. She stood on the sidewalk wearing soiled and fiber worn tennis shoes, her feet pushing to the tip of the rubber, revealing imprints of curled up, cramped toes. My heart was stirred, recognizing the contrast of my perfectly fitted heels, as I stood comfortably beside my car talking with her. Between her sobs, she told me a story about her nephew who was killed on the opposite corner of the street in a gang fight two nights earlier. I watched her eyes as she talked about her love for her murdered nephew and her dismay over the plight of the neighborhood kids.
“I haven’t been able to sleep since the murder happened.” She pushed each word through crooked teeth; her warm breath stirred a fire of passion within me. But what could I do? I had no words to ease her pain, and even if I thought I did, I kept them to myself. Her grief-stricken heart needed to unload, and I just needed to be a loving listener.
What could I do? echoed in my mind. I’d come to this neighborhood, after all, wanting to do something. I looked over her shoulder to the back-ally door where I had just spent the evening in the final local board meeting for a teen outreach shelter that serves homeless youth in Sacramento.
“I live in that yellow building,” my new acquaintance pointed a block away, the contrast between her world and mine clear once more.
And yet, in many ways, we were alike, women who genuinely love our children and are invested in their well-being. We walked together as she hobbled to the corner and crossed the street to her apartment. Do I hug this stranger? I was unsure about what sort of comfort she was open to receive. I felt the awkwardness of a critical encounter that had come to an end, and I didn’t know how to part with her.
“God bless you,” I said, “Be safe and well.”
Even as I said them, and left, I knew my words were a cop-out. I could have offered to pray with my new friend. I could have offered to come back and visit with her. But I allowed my fears about failing her or saying the wrong thing during her tender need to steer my response, providing a meaningless token phrase.
I realized that I’d bought into the same fear as the other board members when I tucked my keys in between my fingers and swiftly walked back to my car. I suddenly knew what I could do. “I’m going to buy her a pair of shoes and bring them back to her.”
As the weeks rolled by, good intentions hung over me like a storm cloud, reminding me to buy the shoes, chasing me to take care of it before the rainfall of family responsibilities kept me from bringing an idea into action. “Good intentions are not good works.” Dr. Currie had written across the chalkboard in my college class decades ago. Those words remain etched in my mind, speaking a tough love to me. Another week passed, and then two, and I allowed my busy agenda to take priority over the Lord’s prompting to revisit the woman. One more good intention never brought to fruition, and as I knew, faith by itself is dead.
James writes of what faith looks like when it is not paired with good works. “What good is it, my brothers, if someone says he has faith but does not have works? Can that faith save him? If a brother or sister is poorly clothed and lacking in daily food, and one of you says to them, “Go in peace, be warmed and filled,” without giving them the things needed for the body, what good is that? So also faith by itself, if it does not have works is dead.” (James 2:14-17, ESV)
When we blunder, it is good to search our souls over what it will take to put our faith in action the next time the Lord prompts us. Lord, help us figure out how to be faithful with our daily tasks and relationships, while available to extend our time or resources for someone else’s need You are prodding us to live with abandon, in step with our faith.
Any words offered to, “Go in peace, be warmed and filled,” according to James, is, in reality, a refusal to help. I let the situation with the woman who needed shoes to slip by, but I don’t need to let my good intentions go unfulfilled the next time the Lord prompts me. Grow me, Lord. Help me live this Christ-following life: risking any awkwardness by taking you up on your adventures. Embraced by His gracious presence, He invites me to keep discovering how to live and love like Jesus.
He revealed my uneasy feelings inhibiting me from any action and urged me to embrace my awkwardness. When we recognize our inability to know what to say or how to act precisely, we can rely on the Holy Spirit to direct us at that moment. Truly loving someone means stepping into the unknown, awkward spaces, and experiencing what God will do.
I determined to do that, next time.