THE QUIET: the most important work
A man was attacked by robbers, stripped, beaten, left half dead by the side of the road.
A priest passed by on the other side of the road. A Levite passed by on the other side.
But a Samaritan saw him, came where the man was, took pity on him, went to him, bandaged his wounds and took care of him.
Taken from Luke 10v30-36
Sometimes, in real life, we get beat up.
Stripped bare. Left by the side of a lonely road.
All our dreams and work and wishes lay scattered around us, mocking the hope we once held so lightly.
We blame others, we blame ourselves, we blame God.
Where were You?
In that place of brokenness, He comes quietly. In fact, in that hurting place, our groanings outshout His whispers. We cannot hear Him and so we think He is isn’t speaking, that He’s left us wounded and alone, that God is silent in our suffering.
And yet… somewhere in the quiet of our souls we know He is there, He must be there. There in our mess and in our mixed-upness, He waits.
And He sends Samaritans. Not the uber-holy, super successful, got-it-all-together saints. Just the plain ones. The ones who’ve been hurt and wondered why. The ones who’ve blown it and failed and been put back together. The ones without answers.
They come with their oil and wine, the medicine of welcome. They see us. They change course for us, coming to where we are. They tenderly bandage the wounds we cannot bring ourselves to look at lest we faint from the hurt.
They take care of us, for God.
In the quiet this morning, I hear God telling me that this— more than anything else I might do— is Kingdom work. This is worth wearing myself out for, this being Jesus to one left wounded by the side of the road.
I hear Him whispering that bringing wine to refresh and oil to soothe is my calling.
Why me? Why can’t I be one of the priests, all holy and righteous, a shining example of perfectness? Why can’t I be one of those set aside Levites whose calling is all about order and doing things right and telling everyone how to be good?
I see the twinkle in His eye as He looks at me, and this is what I hear:
Your story, Di, is your beauty. The hurt, the brokenness, your failure, these are the tools I am using to carve you into who I want you to be— who I need you to be.
I know it’s true— the truest truth. That…
I am most useful to the Master when I am all His and all about Him.
Not when I am good.
Not when I excel.
Not when I am anything worth lauding or applauding.
I know, but I know, but I know that the Father needs a whole army of people who will speak for Him in the kindness of coming and seeing and feeling and bandaging and taking care of His broken ones.
Could that be your calling too? Might you, as you travel about your day, keep your eye scanning the side of the road just in case He’s wanting you to take care of one of His wounded ones for a while?
In the quiet of this morning, I say yes. I leave space on my list, a little extra room just in case. I tidy my home in anticipation of who might need the safety of this cottage in the woods. A friend? A stranger? A child?
I tell Him it’s okay to use my not-so-nice story even though I wish I’d been a better woman so I could say, “Just do life the way I do and you’ll be happy too.”
But I didn’t, so I can’t, and so I give Him who I am right now to use any way He wishes.
I wonder if your story is just the one He needs for someone laying beaten and robbed on the side of the road?
And I wonder what would happen if we all said, Okay, God, show me who and I’ll be there with bandages and hope.
From a willing heart,
P.S. Has someone taken care of you… for God? Or has God used your not-so-nice story to bring hope to a wounded one? I would love to hear how He is working.