She sits across the table from me and we talk work and family.
We dance in small talk and laughter. But really, it’s not the small talk we’re after. Life is short and we are crumpled women in desperate need of the same thing.
“I don’t know how to get there,” she says. “That lady has a prayer bench, for crying out loud.”
I listen as she fills the space between us with the deepest parts of her soul.
She’s talking and I know she is opening her hands to me, to God, to the waitress who can hear bits of sentences here and there.
And it’s beautiful and she’s brave and I know the heavens are erupting in song and dance and I smile at her.
“I don’t even want to read my bible. It’s just too much.” she says, wiping her eyes with her hands. “What does your quiet time look like?”
I stir my tea with my straw and I exhale.
“I don’t really have a quiet time, not like what you’re thinking anyway,” I say, with just an ounce of bravery. She nods politely, eyebrows raised.
I smile because I remember raising my own eyebrows just like her, when another pastor’s wife told me the same thing.
“I just do what I can. I read when I dry my hair in the morning. I think on a verse or short passage of scripture when I change diapers and wait for the kids to finish their school assignments. I pray without ceasing as the Lord brings faces to my mind. And I pray with my eyes wide open, while I’m spreading peanut butter,” I say.
I look at her while she chews on my illogical way of seeking the Lord, wondering how she’ll receive the news that I don’t start my day with Jesus at 4am.
“So you just think on one verse sometimes?”
“Yep. And I dance to music while I cook dinner. I also sing until the kids ask me to stop.” I laugh because every word is true and I realize I realize that I am crazy. Just plain crazy.
She smiles. “That’s good to know. I can do one verse,” she says.
The waitress pours more tea and my eyes meet the ones belonging to the broken mama across from me. I smile because I know her heart. It was mine for more years that I can count.
We pencil in next week’s breakfast together and I know this is the beginning of something beautiful for her.
She will learn to walk with the Lord in all the moments of her day and she will begin with one verse.
And one verse will grow into two and one day when her babies are older, they will ask her to stop singing in the kitchen.
And this is grace…
That the Lord would choose to dwell in us, through crumpled as we may be, and make Himself known, one spoon of truth at a time.