As soon as the strap hit my shoulder I knew something wasn’t right. Heart racing, I unbuckled my bag only to find that my wallet had been stolen. Stolen? Yes-stolen. I was heart-broken; it was most likely pocketed by one who came to our office seeking shelter, funds or food.
The church’s community meal was the next day and unlike previous shifts, I was not feeling this one. My heart was bitter. Needless to say, the disappearance of my wallet gave me a resentful filter through which I viewed the entire evening. My usual common courtesies of small talk or topping off waters were non-existent.
Despite my sullen mindset, I remained faithful to my volunteer hours. The following week was Christmas, and each family would receive a gift from us. With my prickly attitude and low expectations, I began lining up these twenty-plus bags of groceries.
The fake Holiday-cheer of mine quickly faded with the first person who fought me on the “one-per-household” rule. It also did not help my morale when families would send different children through the line to get an extra bag.But I remained faithful. I kept showing up to serve.
My infant daughter joined me at the following meal. I wore her in a carrier. She and I weaved through tables giving refills and taking trays. Similar to before, I was not emotionally present until a voice shook me out of myself. “How old is your baby?” I turned around to see a round-faced, brunette in her mid-twenties with a messy pony tail and pastel sweats. She was surrounded by a flock of children.
Our paths had crossed before, but the extent of our conversation was her prefered amount of gravy. “One,” I said. “She walkin’ yet?” She asked. “Yes. On Christmas day, she just decided to take off,” I replied. After sharing a chuckle, she did something unexpected. She went around the table and shared the early milestones of all of her children. Sharing at great length, she spared no detail. Her cup over-flowed with pride and love.Her memory far surpassed mine and I only had one child. Prior to this moment I had sinnfully doubted her competency as a mother. In fact, since the wallet situation, I had been viewing all of the guests in a disrespectfully inferior way.
Shame for just showing up with my low expectations of her and the others overtook me. As I walked back into the kitchen, the Holy Spirit humbled me. My heart was convicted at the thought that while my lens was temporarily tarnished, God’s perspective is always grace-filled. He looks at me and her in the same exact way. Regardless of social-class, He sees through a filter of love. Instantaneously, my negative lens was wiped clean, and my bitter dehumanizing thoughts vanished.
Before any conversation regarding the education or accountability of the poor can begin, we must first assure that we are viewing each unique situation through a grace-filled lens of understanding and acceptance.
The church’s community meal was the next day and unlike previous shifts, I was not feeling this one. My heart was bitter. Needless to say, the disappearance of my wallet gave me a resentful filter through which I viewed the entire evening. My usual common courtesies of small talk or topping off waters were non-existent.
Despite my sullen mindset, I remained faithful to my volunteer hours. The following week was Christmas, and each family would receive a gift from us. With my prickly attitude and low expectations, I began lining up these twenty-plus bags of groceries.
The fake Holiday-cheer of mine quickly faded with the first person who fought me on the “one-per-household” rule. It also did not help my morale when families would send different children through the line to get an extra bag.But I remained faithful. I kept showing up to serve.
My infant daughter joined me at the following meal. I wore her in a carrier. She and I weaved through tables giving refills and taking trays. Similar to before, I was not emotionally present until a voice shook me out of myself. “How old is your baby?” I turned around to see a round-faced, brunette in her mid-twenties with a messy pony tail and pastel sweats. She was surrounded by a flock of children.
Our paths had crossed before, but the extent of our conversation was her prefered amount of gravy. “One,” I said. “She walkin’ yet?” She asked. “Yes. On Christmas day, she just decided to take off,” I replied. After sharing a chuckle, she did something unexpected. She went around the table and shared the early milestones of all of her children. Sharing at great length, she spared no detail. Her cup over-flowed with pride and love.Her memory far surpassed mine and I only had one child. Prior to this moment I had sinnfully doubted her competency as a mother. In fact, since the wallet situation, I had been viewing all of the guests in a disrespectfully inferior way.
Shame for just showing up with my low expectations of her and the others overtook me. As I walked back into the kitchen, the Holy Spirit humbled me. My heart was convicted at the thought that while my lens was temporarily tarnished, God’s perspective is always grace-filled. He looks at me and her in the same exact way. Regardless of social-class, He sees through a filter of love. Instantaneously, my negative lens was wiped clean, and my bitter dehumanizing thoughts vanished.
Before any conversation regarding the education or accountability of the poor can begin, we must first assure that we are viewing each unique situation through a grace-filled lens of understanding and acceptance.
Resources to assist us include: Ruby Payne’s Bridges out of PovertyandCIRCLES USA