A few months before Olde John Croan died, he invited me to his house to watch a recording of him talking about his time in WWII. We sat downstairs, eating ice cream on TV snack trays and watching the video together. Periodically, I would look over at him, and he would be nodding his head in agreement about the words he was saying on the video. He was beginning to struggle to find his words in life, but he could follow everything he was saying on the television.
After the video finished, he and I both were crying, and I asked him if what we had just watched was what he had been trying to share with me, something he couldn’t ever forget. He had once jumped from an airplane with several of his friends on a training mission in Alaska during the war. The plane was having problems, and they each agreed that the good news was they would be allowed to keep the parachute. They would each send it home to their moms with a letter saying they were okay. This was something these still-teenagers had been told in basic training.
After they jumped from the plane, Olde John landed, began to gather up his parachute and look for his friends. None of their shoots had deployed quickly enough and they had each hit the ground too hard for survival. Olde John took his parachute, sent a letter to his mom and continued serving in the war, never receiving any follow-up therapy or conversation.
Now, all those years later, he sat in his living room with his pastor, both in tears. I dried my eyes and put my hand on his arm and said, “Olde John, I can’t imagine how hard that was; you were so young. I am so very sorry you had to go through that.” He nodded in agreement. “You must think about them every day.” He nodded again. We sat together for a long time afterwards. He’d been carrying that story for so long, only telling it a few times.
Human beings go through life carrying stories. Some we share, some we keep close to us, but many stay with us all our lives.
As I reflect on what it must have been like to be with Jesus during his days on earth, I wonder if folks didn’t share those deep stories with him, because it was safe, because someone could make the space for them. It’s never lost on me that Jesus simply listened.
That’s what I see in God’s beloved community: safe space, to be heard, to have someone say, “I’m sorry; that must have been so hard.” And friends, it’s part of our call.
I pray that we continue to make that space for one another and for others. Walking through the door of any church is hard for many folks for so many reasons. Creating the safest possible welcome and acceptance is the work of being disciples. We can never know the story someone else carries with them, but we can welcome, and we can listen without judgment, and we can just be with them.
Because where two or more are gathered, God is in their midst.
In Gratitude,
Leigh
