So there was this guy who lived a long time ago. His name was Naaman and his story is told in the book of 2 Kings. He was a warrior, a valiant soldier. He led his army to victory and was highly regarded by the King of Aram. A pretty big deal, right? A famous war hero, one of the king’s most trusted commanders. Life must have been pretty sweet for old Naaman. Except one thing, he had leprosy. According to WebMD (which Naaman didn’t have access to at the time): “leprosy is an infections skin disease that causes severe, disfiguring skin sores and nerve damage in the arms, legs, and skin areas around the body.” The article goes on to say that leprosy isn’t terribly contagious. However, as I previously eluded to, the folks in bible times didn’t have WebMD and they were convinced that they could contract leprosy simply by being in close proximity to someone who had it. Thus, lepers were treated as outcasts.
Elisha the prophet heard about the whole matter and said to the king of Israel, “Send that leper my way.” So Naaman went. And the prophet gave him this treatment plan: “Go wash in the Jordan River seven times, then you’ll be good to go.” This made Naaman MAD. He was all like, “I was expecting this prophet to come to me and call on the name of God and wave his hand and, all magic like, make my sores go away. He wants me to wash in the Jordan River? Ew. No.” Then he stormed off in a temper tantrum.
His servants followed him and said (I imagine very cautiously), “Um, so, we know you were expecting something big and fancy. And we are pretty sure if the prophet had told you to pay a million dollars or arm wrestle a bear or something you would have done it. I mean, if you would have been willing to do something big, why not try this small thing? What do you have to lose? You know, if you want.” And so Naaman did it. He marched himself to the Jordan and dipped in it not once, not twice, but seven times, just as the prophet had instructed. And do you know what? It worked!! Naaman was cured, his skin as clean as a child’s.
How many times have I found myself in the same scenario? I mean, not with leprosy but with a problem that needs to be fixed. I’ll be all twisted up about something. A problem or dilemma. I will wrestle with it, talk about it, worry a bit, turn some molehills into mountains, then (usually) remember to pray about it and search God’s Word for answers. More often than not, the solution is simple. Rest. Forgive. Persevere. But those answers seem too easy…so I complicate things. I take a little marble that could easily be picked up and put in my pocket and I turn it into a boulder that I couldn’t possibly manage.
Or this. I will take something that I’m pretty sure God has placed on my heart. To write things, for example. And I somehow manage to make it complicated. “What should I write? Who is my audience? A blog? A book? Do I aspire to be a published author? Do I need an editor?” SELF, stop and breathe. Don’t make things complicated. Just do the thing. In it’s simplest version. Take the words in your head and write them down.
Want to change the world but the task seems daunting? Do you think you’d have to join the Peace Corps or become a missionary? Mother Teresa says it like this, “What can you do to promote world peace? Go home and love your family.” It ain’t glamorous and requires way too much laundry and too often involves cleaning up vomit and gross stuff but it is an important work.
Guys, we don’t want to be like temper tantrum Naaman, expecting some big grandiose plan, disgusted and arrogant and angry, and STILL COVERED IN LEPROSY. We want to be like humble Naaman who swallowed his pride and did the thing that seemed beneath him because that is how HE WAS CURED. That is how Naaman became whole and healthy again. That is what we want too, isn’t it? To be whole and healthy. It turns out the cure for Naaman’s open sores was found in an open heart and an open mind. So, let’s quiet ourselves and open our own hearts and minds and listen to the small, still voice inside us. Then let’s step out in faith and do the work we were made to do!
Ever made a mistake? A real whopper? A magnificent mess? I have. More often than I care to admit. But there’s one in particular that haunts me. It is hard to admit and has, sadly, hindered me from doing some good stuff. I dropped the ball and it backfired epically. And I’m going to tell you about it.
About two years ago I was volunteering at a local homeless hang out and met a family who tugged at my heart. Mom, dad, a sweet 2 year old boy, and his baby sister. I reached out and they accepted my offer to help. I bought diapers. I met them at the hospital when mom had a health scare and needed someone to watch the kids. I bought birthday gifts.
Before long, mom and dad lost custody of the kids, due in part to their unsuitable living situation. The state requires certain standards of living for its children and homelessness doesn’t meet the criteria. I still don’t know how the state got involved. Doesn’t really matter, except that it wasn’t me who involved them. I was FOR THIS FAMILY. I wanted them to succeed.
It was a strange relationship. I wanted to help, obviously. But I didn’t understand their lifestyle, clearly. I was pretty fuzzy on what “helping” them looked like. So, when they told me that all they lacked to get their kids back was a deposit on an apartment I (after consulting with my husband) wrote a check. And I petitioned my friends for donations to help them set up their new home. And we helped them move. And bought them groceries. And then I patted myself on the back and walked out of their lives.
What a nice, happy ending.
Mom had/has a serious drug addiction.
At a chance encounter last Christmas season I ran into the kids, along with a new baby, at an event for kids in foster care. Mom and dad were both in jail and the kids were being adopted. Their time in their new apartment was short lived. And probably not amazing.
In a really jacked up effort to help, I had really REALLY mucked things up. I had great intentions but missed the mark on what this family really needed. Friendship. Not a hero, just a friend. Someone to stick with them for the long haul, to be close enough to recognize that something was majorly amiss, to intervene on behalf of the kids involved. I dropped the ball. A big freaking ball.
And so, I’ve been gun-shy. I have a lot of irons in the fire right now and I just can’t be the kind of friend that I should be. Thus, I’ve given myself permission to do very little. If I can’t be ALL IN, why bother?
Because. Every little bit I can offer matters, if done properly.
I cannot pretend to come alongside someone and make their whole life better. But I can try to make this day better.
I cannot/should not buy houses and furnish them. But I can buy water and coffee and offer them.
I cannot appreciate enough the folks who are dedicating their lives to befriending the local homeless population. They are my heroes. They are doing it right.
I cannot allow a fantastic foul up to keep me from doing the good that I know I can do. And neither should you. Don’t allow your past mistakes to keep you from doing the good that you can do right now! Don’t be afraid to do something just because you might not get it exactly right. Don’t allow yourself to be frozen in fear because of your own fantastic foul up.
When I was in labor for the first time I experienced the magic of an epidural. Let me tell you, it was amazing. I was able watch the monitor and I see the little line rise up to indicate I was having a contraction but I couldn’t feel a thing. I was blissfully numb. It wasn’t a bad way to labor. Until it was time to push. I had zero sensation, but the doctor said it was time, so I put my chin down and pretended to know what I was doing. I felt like an actress playing the part of a woman in labor. I asked the nurse, very quietly, if I was doing it right. She assured me I was and a few minutes later my beautiful, squealing baby girl arrived on the scene.
Fast forward 11 years. Summertime. Baseball season. All three (THREE) of my kids are playing summer ball. My husband is in hog heaven. He is a natural athlete, very competitive, and loves the thrill of the game. Me? Meh.
I’ve become fluent in baseball vocabulary mostly by mimicking my husband but also from faint memories from my childhood of my dad listening to baseball games on the radio on our way home from church.
I mutter to my husband, “Am I doing it right?” I feel like an actress playing a mom watching her kids play ball. I don’t get it. But they love it and I love them so I’ll just keep playing the part.