Opening the Door

Last week I met a visitor at the church that I haven’t been able to get out of my head.   I was attending a women’s group meeting in the parlor when I heard the door buzzer ringing.  Whoever was out there was ringing the bell repeatedly and urgently – so I thought I better see what was up.   The person at the door said hello and asked me if they could come in a pray.  I was kind of caught off guard since this doesn’t happen much at a Presbyterian church.  I asked the person if she would like to come back on Sunday.

“No.“

“This is God’s House. It should be open.”

“ And I need to pray now.”

And then she started to cry.

So, I invited her in and showed her into the sanctuary.  I asked her if she wanted to be alone and she said she wondered if I could sit with her. She explained to me that she was going to pray in her home language and that she also likes to pray in French sometimes.

 And she began to pray.
And cry.
And sob.
And argue.

 When she finished praying I asked her if I could get her anything. She said she just needed someone to sit with and to not feel so alone.

She then began to talk and told me the reasons she stopped at the church on this particular day. She said she was walking by and the church “called to her” to come in and be comforted.  She confided in me – a total stranger- all the many reasons for her deep sadness.

She was tired.
Angry.
Frustrated.
Broken.

She was in the country visiting relatives in Pittsburgh for a few months and things in her life were just as bad as they could be. She had suffered loss and pain and was so angry with God.  She wondered out loud why God would continue to allow bad things to happen to her family members when she already couldn’t endure anymore.

Her problems were complicated.
Her sorrow was deep.
And her grief was palpable.

She said she would be returning to her home soon and she was looking forward to that a little.  She said she also was filled with such loneliness that she could hardly breathe most days.

I (for the first time probably in my whole life) barely said a word. I did not ask any questions. I did not offer any advice.  Quite frankly, I was at a total loss and had no words to offer her.  I know what I should have said. I know what I was supposed to say. But I just put my hand on her shoulder and kept listening.  When she was done talking we headed outside so she could smoke a cigarette.  She kissed, hugged me and told me how kind I was and how much I had helped her.

And I had not even said a word. 

She said she might come back to say hello – to let me know how she was doing. But she hasn't yet.  And she probably won’t.

I am not sure how I helped her. But I do know that because I opened the door and let her in she probably felt welcomed and comforted for the first time in a long time.

And for the very first time in a long time I was completely speechless. God keeps finding ways to remind me over and over again in my life that it’s not about me. It’s not about me saying the just the right things and offering just the right resources.  This woman reminded me that sometimes people just need to cry and sob and we all need to argue with God.  

She had suffered enough to just want to give up, she said.  Despite all this, she still found it in herself somewhere to come inside and pray.  She could have kept walking. She could have ignored the church that was “calling to her.”  But she insisted she needed to come inside.  And I needed to let her in.