Wednesday, November 29, 2006

Dear God,

Somehow my record of service as a United Methodist pastor has been messed up; our Conference has an inaccurate ministry beginning date. This information started me down a path of wonder.

I called my first church, the one who welcomed a "foreigner" (I lived 33 miles away) into their midst. There was never a more warm, loving congregation. I was accepted immediately and felt a sense of belonging in my earliest days.

A few days before I had left a voice mail. Yesterday the secretary called me back. We laughed as we remembered our time together. I was only there for two years; but we had a good time. Our lives were handknit together.

"This is gonna cost you!" Linda told me as she talked about getting into the archives to find proof that I served First Church. "I'm certain of that!" I retorted.

As we were concluding our conversation, I told her to give everyone in the congregation a big hug from me. "Andrea, when I think of you, I think of Wanda. Do you remember Wanda?" She asked me. "I sure do." I said fondly.

Wanda walked the streets in the town. She was one of those persons that people avoided. It was clear from her appearance that something had gone wrong early in her development. She was on Disability and could only do odd jobs. She could swear like a sailor. It's how she coped.

I don't know how I met Wanda. I just know I loved her from the beginning. Always one to bring the friend home that other people made fun of when I was a child, Wanda was my personal project. I befriended her or more importantly, she befriended me. I would pick her up, take her places, invited her to church. She was hesitant, reluctant; but she came anyway.

During my stint Wanda and I became friends. She opened up a little bit, had to figure whether she could trust me. We exchanged Christmas gifts. We both cried when I left. I think she was afraid.

But this week I thought of Wanda. I remembered how the cold winter winds chafed her cheeks making them bright pink, how her eyes watered and her nose ran when she had to be out in the brisk weather too long. I smiled inside, reflecting upon our friendship.

I remember promising to pick her up from work one day. I can't remember what we were going to do, but I forgot. When I recalled my promise, I ran down the church hall, shouting, "Wanda, Wanda, Wanda, I forgot Wanda." As I drove up where she had been standing for a while, she gave me one of those looks that makes you feel two inches tall. I begged forgiveness and she gave it.

"Andrea, Wanda is going to be one of the Women's Circle Co-Leaders next year. She has made such a contribution to our church. Our congregation has really embraced her and two of our women drive her to church every Sunday. They regularly go out for coffee together.

My heart warmed. Wanda, in the arms of God's own children, no one picking on her, making fun, or worse making her feel like a freak. No need to cut loose with some of those words she had picked up. Wanda, in the arms of God's own children.

Wondrous and Amazing God,
Wanda,
Wanda, Wanda, Wanda,
your very own child.
How wonder-full you are.
Your children welcomed your own.
Love.
It was love that reached out;
love that reached back.
Wanda.
Your miracle of love
extends way beyond our own.
You prick our hearts,
scratching a little place,
like a TB test,
and you put a dab
of your own DNA
on that lonely heart
and those cells
begin to grow
like those in a petri dish.
A miraculous act
that makes no sense
to a novice.
And that love,
it spills silently,
outward
onto others.
But nobody notices;
until one day...
love cries out.
A beautiful spirit is born
and
God smiles.

Forever and always, Andrea