There are those people.
You don’t know them particularly well, but they are woven into the fabric of your life. The service station guy who watches your kids learn how to pump gas, takes their twenties when you send the little nippers in and gives them back a lollipop.
The Dime Store owner who patiently helps your elderly mother choose just the right hair net. For thirty solid minutes. And still greets her sweetly the next time she comes in.
The high school campus life minister, who provides safe haven for the outcasts at lunch. Arranges mission trips. Liturgies. Service projects–fun ones, meaningful ones. Retreats. Peer counseling. A sympathetic ear. Encouragement. Anything a kid could need.
I’ll bet these people think no one cares about what they’re doing.
Have you read The Hunger Games?
Chapter two, page 24:
“Then something unexpected happens. At least, I don’t expect it because I don’t think of District 12 as a place that cares about me….At first one, then another, then almost every member of the crowd touches the three middle fingers of their left hand to their lips and holds it out to me. It is an old and rarely used gesture of our district, occasionally seen at funerals. It means thanks, it means admiration, it means good-bye to someone you love.”
The campus life minister at my kids’ high school had emergency cancer surgery over the Easter holiday–that’s how serious it is. We know because the mother of one of Freckles’ friends is a close friend of the minister. He told the kids he knows, and the word spread from there. A website set up for the patient has had one thousand visitors in three days. I can only imagine what will happen today, the first day school is in session, when a formal announcement is made.
The minister and her family are overwhelmed by the support they’re receiving. They shouldn’t be.
They’re woven into our families’ lives.