Only two other people were in the small chapel that bitter winter’s day.
I often visited there, a quiet space to settle myself and pray, to ask God for help and direction.
As I was in silent meditation, my eyes and ears were snagged by red shoes walking up the aisle. Spiked high heels.
Next, I took in the woman’s worn parka, opened to reveal a low-cut blouse, the top of a black bra peeking above it.
This woman didn’t fit in with the suburban, ordinary folks who visited here. Something was wrong. But what?
She knelt in front of one statue and prayed. Then another, moving about the sacred space with quiet intensity.
Before she settled into the front pew, she gazed back at me.
Her eyes, sitting above her face mask, were filled with a tsunami of sadness. She saw that I saw. She lowered her head, as if in shame, and sat.
Now, I was asking God to guide me about this woman. If she needed help, was I supposed to do that? And how?
I quieted my mind and prayed for her, as her energy oozed out to me through the silence, spilling into words like homeless, addiction, prostitute.
I felt drawn to talk to her, to listen to what she might need. The pull in me was so strong I decided to wait until she was ready to leave, and then meet her in the foyer.
When she rose, I followed her and before I could ask if she was OK, she sensed my intent. She placed her hands out, stop sign style, and said in a clipped voice, “I’m fine. I don’t need any help.”
But she did need help. I could see that.
“I just wanted to make sure you were OK,” I said and smiled. Maybe this was all I was supposed to do. Ask. Maybe that’s all we could do at times.
With that, I went out to my car.
Then I remembered I had some items in the trunk that I wanted to donate to leave in the foyer. When I came back in and was setting the bags on a table, she came up behind me, surprising me and said, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be rude.”
Then, her story spilled out, jumbled, incoherent. I listened. Waited. Listened more.
Sometimes she made sense, most times she didn’t.
Drugs were a major issue, as was PTSD. She seemed to have some paranoia. Was afraid. Wanted me to listen and then told me she didn’t like people following her or asking her if she needed help.
I said nothing. Throughout, I kept mentally praying, asking the God within me how I could help her.
“Are you safe?” I finally asked. She hedged.
“Do you have a place to sleep tonight? It’s so cold tonight.” She told me she had friends she could stay with.
My heart went to this woman, and countless women like her throughout the world, who end up impoverished and alone because of an abusive partner. Or they have no family. Or they can’t find work or make a decent wage, which in turn, leads them down dark paths in order to survive.
I asked if she had a car. She did. But little gas.
I reached in my wallet and gave her what I had.
“I can’t take this,” she protested.
“You can,” I said, “and in turn, you can do something for me. Pray for my brother who has cancer.”
She asked his name and said she would.
I took a deep breath and said something to her I normally don’t say to others. I told her she was loved, by God. That she was valuable. Important. Needed in our world.
But those words seemed to fall flat around her. She was not in a place to hear them.
Later, as I drove home, my hope was that any words I said might sink into some crevice of her soul that she could find later for nourishment.
Even into the late hours of the day, I couldn’t stop thinking about her. She had settled on my heart with heaviness. Had she found a place to sleep? Had she eaten a decent meal? Had she been truly safe?
I don’t know why our paths crossed, but I do know meeting her was a gift to me, a wake-up call. I had been complaining to myself lately, having little pity parties, about the hardness of life.
I was shown otherwise. I have much.
And I came to understand how important we are to each other.
I recalled times in my own life when I couldn’t lift up my head in hope, and then, someone showed me a small mercy. A smile. A word of encouragement. Some financial help.
Those small mercies weren’t so small. They were life itself.
And sometimes I needed to be humbled and reminded — by a woman in a pair of red high-heeled shoes.
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(Blogger’s note: I love Steve Stapley’s music. I know you’ll enjoy his song below which so fits in with my blog post above. May we all show “small mercies” to one another.)
Steve Stapley- Small Mercies Lyrics Video – YouTube