Luke 8:43-48 (NLT)
A woman in the crowd had suffered for twelve years with constant bleeding, and she could find no cure. Coming up behind Jesus, she touched the fringe of his robe. Immediately, the bleeding stopped.
“Who touched me?” Jesus asked.
Everyone denied it, and Peter said, “Master, this whole crowd is pressing up against you.”
But Jesus said, “Someone deliberately touched me, for I felt healing power go out from me.” When the woman realized that she could not stay hidden, she began to tremble and fell to her knees in front of him. The whole crowd heard her explain why she had touched him and that she had been immediately healed. “Daughter,” he said to her, “your faith has made you well. Go in peace.”
Author’s Note: my apologies. Meant to include the following message with yesterday’s devotional.
This week’s topic- less than the least: reflections of my time with the Arms of Mercy (volume one) These passages came from a book I wrote about my experiences serving with Arms of Mercy. May you learn as much from reading them as I did from living them…
“How much ya wont fa one of ya burgas,” a thin woman asks sourly. She’s unhealthily thin, nearly emaciated, probably the devastating result of crack addiction. A grave countenance and a bony scowl masks what was once a beautiful woman a lifetime ago. She favors Angela Bassett, with a delicate balance of beauty and tenacity.
“They’re free,” I say tactfully.
With great exertion, she slings her arms at me, draping them over my neck and pulling me into an embrace. She breaks into a sob and slurs through an expression of gratitude. The volatile façade evident a moment ago crumbles. She says we’re an answer to prayer, she says “thank you” a hundred times, even peppering in some “thank you, God” sentiments for good measure. She says she hasn’t eaten in days. She asks if she can get some food now and I share with her our “fee” of a name and a prayer request. When she hears me utter this, the breakdown spills out again. Finally, she forces herself to gather her frayed emotions and says, “Grace. My name is Grace.”
“Well, Grace, let me pray for you real quick and then I’ll grab you some food.”
As I conclude with “Amen,” she weeps again. And, despite my best stifling efforts, I join her.
When I hand her the plate, she reimburses me with an enormous grin. “If I had a camera,” Grace announces from nowhere, “I’d took a picture wit ya so I keep this good memory.”
And then, I guess because of my odd Angela Bassett observation and the camera request, my next thought came to me. One day, when I’m blessed with an extravagant mansion (which realistically will be in heaven because, let’s face it, I’m a public school teacher in the state of Mississippi) my wish is to have pictures of myself with others plastered from top to bottom, side to side, smothering the walls. Framed. Maybe even signed. I won’t choose to be like the majority of people who decorate similarly, their pictures displaying them standing and gawking awkwardly and awe-struck with celebrities and politicians and athletes and artists. People like Barak Obama shaking my hand when he was but a lowly candidate for President. Or Aaron and Mike from the band Staind, their arms wrapped around my neck like brothers. I would rather my walls be hung with portraits of me and those I’m feeding on Nelson and Clay Streets. It would be a living testament, not to me, but to Jesus Christ. Each photograph capturing a moment in which heaven stood still, then applauds. Not because of what we had did, but because sinners repented, the weak became strong, there was hope for the hopeless. Each hurtful and hopeful eye watching over me day in and day out, reminding me what one poor choice could lead to. And yet also reminding me that Christ shows His love to us all, especially to the least of these. That could have been me. That was me. Not on Clay Street, but its older brother, the road of self-destruction.
“Hey, Jason, I don’t want to take advantage or nuthin’. But there be any way I get another burga’?”
Although unofficial, our policy is to only issue one plate per person. This ensures we serve the greatest amount of people and don’t garner a reputation as an “all-you-can-eat” restaurant. But I’ve witnessed Major and Everidge give extra portions as needed and, truth be told, I’ve done the same. I never hesitate. “Let me get that for you.”
Then, as swiftly as she appears, Grace vanishes into the night. In my heart I’m reminded that this is a seed planting ministry. Like someone more famous and gifted than myself once penned, “We’re just blowin’ in the wind.” My prayer is that Grace is blowing toward hope and recovery.
