So Thankful...

Okay...so I got a call last night at 9:30 from the director of DHR. He asked if I'd like to volunteer at a shelter for the hurricane evacuees today. I jumped at the chance. So this morning at seven, I was at the Snead State Junior College coliseum. I wasn't really sure what to expect. Pictures of the Superdome from Katrina kept flashing in my mind. Of course, I knew it wouldn't be that extreme, but still...I was nervous.

I drove up, parked my car, and started to walk in. Immediately, I was met by a volunteer worker asking me to speak to a woman experiencing severe anxiety about the whole situation. I rushed to her and asked if we could sit outside and talk. Reluctantly, she came with me.

She began talking before we even sat down. She spoke of her three children...two in Oklahoma and one in Atlanta. All were in their 30's and she in her 50's. After Hurricane Katrina, her children left New Orleans for good and have never returned. She went back to try it once more and had just finished remodeling her home...everything was paid for. About five minutes into the conversation, she began crying and said, "I don't want to experience another Superdome."

No wonder she was experiencing such anxiety! She walks into a Coliseum, is herded through numerous lines, marked with a wristband, and given a slip of paper that would inform her of her row and cot number. All of it seemed too familiar to her. I continually assured her this would be no "Superdome experience" and asked what I could do to make her feel more safe. To my surprise, she began speaking in detail about the Superdome.

"There was no heat. No lights. It was me and my four grandchildren. I couldn't even find my children. There was no cell phone service and no way of getting in contact with my family or friends. The day time was severely hot and the night time was severely dangerous. Everything I had was stolen. I lost everything." Before I knew it, effortless tears began streaming down my face. All the sudden, she said something that shocked me. "I'm thankful for it all. I regained my Faith."

Later on in the day, I came in contact with Tyrone. His fiancee' had just been taken to the hospital because her ankles were so swollen she couldn't walk. They had been on a bus for 24 hours straight. Tyrone and Francis were both in their 50's and had just found each other. "I used to live my life on my own terms," Tyrone said. "The Lord broke me down through so many experiences. Those experiences made me humble. I would experience all the loss all over again."

What? These people lost it all...their families, their homes...everything. Are they really saying they would experience it all over again? How can they say that? All that hurt...all that pain...to say they regained their Faith and would do it all over again...amazing.

Just two days ago, I was concerned about the Auburn game. Yesterday, I was worried about the students remembering their parts in a drama. This morning, I was reconsidering even going to the coliseum because I was so sleepy. These people picked out one set of clothing, a few pictures, and deeds to their house and were completely prepared to live with nothing but those few items. They had prepared themselves to go back to nothing.

Today, I remembered what Ministry really is. It's not about making sure everyone plays and sings the right notes. Who cares if the video skips? The lighting doesn't matter. The staff badges aren't a priority. It's not that those things can't and don't play an important role in effective Ministry. I understand that everything should be excellent and being relevant is crucial. However, there's a beauty in being stripped of everything but Loving words, sweet hugs, and a kind handshake. Somehow, it causes a harsh reality to slap me right in the face.

I applaud the sermon that drives me to be where the hurting people are. I weep when I hear about the victims of abuse, abandonment, loss, and addiction. I stand and support the programs that teach a better way, encourage the depressed, and Heal the brokenhearted. My heart is there. I know it's the right thing. But, am I really willing to shake the hand of one whose hand could be infected or dirty. Am I seriously ready to hug the neck of the man or woman that smells like alcohol or cigarettes. What if that smell gets on me and someone thinks I've been smoking or drinking? I'm embarrassed to say it, but those have been my thoughts many, many times.

I firmly believe we are living in a time where people want the "real." Sister Ginger Sheppard and I have talked about this in length several times. Big screens in the Sanctuary? Almost every church has those. Perfect microphones, awesome sounding drums, monitors that sound crisp and clean? That's typical these days. Words on the screen and motion backgrounds? Yeah...got 'em. Sound booth that has the most recent soundboard and a lighting system that'll blow someone's mind? Yep...got that, too. As awesome as all those things are, they can't hold a hand or hug a neck.

What I believe people want now is to know they matter...to know someone will leave that soundbooth just to come and shake their hand, show them around the church, and to leave their little clique just to come and sit with them during the whole service. I could see it in her eyes this morning...she just wanted someone to hug her. All I did was ask Tyrone how he was doing and if he needed anything. It was as if I had asked the magical question because he began talking about his whole life story. What did he need? Someone to listen. How simple.

So, yeah...I learned a lot from the evacuees. They didn't need the perfect Worship song or a great sermon. All they needed was me. My handshake. My hug. My ears to listen. My voice to say, "I Love you. Let's Pray." To have someone sit next to them on their cot and all their belongings in the world, grab their hands, Pray a simple Prayer, and to hug them...someone to actually spend more than five minutes with them. That's all they wanted. That's all they needed.

I'm thankful for the evacuees. They thought I was helping them. They just didn't know how bad I needed them.