Yesterday morning, before a three hour afternoon of summer planning with five people and our nine children and a two hour dinner with thirty people in my house, I made the coffee and helped unload the trailer at the church with more people. I then made a mad dash across the railroad tracks to pick up people for service and upon returning, I had a moment of brazen humanity in the middle of the children’s ministry room.
“I don’t like people today,” I said to a friend. “I don’t want anyone else to talk to me or touch me or sit in my personal space. I don’t want to hear one more hardship or one more need or have one more person ask me for anything. I’m a dead woman walking. Look at me. I haven’t been alone for five minutes in three weeks and I have absolutely nothing else to say or one more thing to give.”
She looked at me, sorta wild-eyed and I couldn’t blame her. What could she say to the pastor’s wife, with three tables in the front yard, whose entire life’s message is Love Your Neighbor?
But I meant every word of what I’d said and every word that I hadn’t been brave enough to say.
I. Was. Done.