(photo taken at Our Little Roses home in Honduras.)

When I arrived to set up, I was tired and short-tempered. One of my failings is overwork and, if I am not intentional about it, I overextend. Loading a 6-foot table, flats of water and about 150 pounds of blankets into the jalopy didn’t help. This morning we had a skeleton crew as several regular helpers were away tending to family and other business. Nonetheless, I reminded myself that things always come together, and any “void” in staffing often allows space for others. To my delight a regular congregant, who usually stays on the edge of things, stepped up and ran the Java Jalopy coffee service. Others took care of set-up and clean up.

As we were getting ready for church, two of our folks got in a loud “discussion,” about what I do not know. With less restraint than usual I inserted myself loudly: “This is church!” There were some opinions voiced back-and-forth about who started it. “Makes no difference to me,” I said. “This is church, and we aren’t having this today. That is more than I can handle.” I am not sure I would be so quick next time but the correction seemed to silence the argument and divert the congregants to other business.

Worship was meaningful, with prayers voiced throughout the congregation. At the end of the service, we prayed for four birthday folks and sang happy birthday to “all y’all.” Lunch and cake went relatively smoothly. But then came time to share blankets. I asked those who were housed to allow those sleeping outside to receive first, to make sure they would be covered. During this messy and somewhat chaotic process one of our homeless folks, who had just received a blanket, started fussing at someone who was in line: “You aren’t homeless. That’s not right.” Back and forth they went. I interjected: “We’ll have enough, don’t worry.” The homeless friend kept shouting, and I shouted back: “Let’s not do this!”

As he kept up with the fussing, something told me to go to him, to put an arm around him. As I did, he leaned against me and began to weep. “I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry,” he repeated as big tears landed on his slice of cake. “Its okay,” I told him. He voiced shame and sadness and grief. We found a shady spot where we could sit. He shared from his heart as he gave voice to the demons that plagued him. We prayed and laughed and shared. I am so grateful I stopped fussing long enough to listen to what was beneath the argumentativeness.

This is privilege in its highest form: to walk with others who are wounded and longing for connection just like me. This encounter was a gift. It taught me that, when I am short-tempered, I might go to place of curiosity rather than shame. It reminded me to listen to my heart and make room for untended needs.

Pause. Take a breath. Look around. Teachers are everywhere and grace abounds.