Blessed Like Jane

Tuesday morning. My alarm is screeching at me as the sun beams through the cracks in my blinds, forcing me to open my eyes that are heavy and weary from yesterday’s responsibilities. I beg for a few more hours of sleep, knowing my want is in vain: I have a meeting at a client site on the north side of town that will require me to leave my house by at least 7. “But I am only twenty-five” I argue with the fictitious villain that (in my head) is the cause of this seemingly unfortunate plight. Single, alone, working 60-hour weeks for nothing I really believe in… this is not exactly what I had hoped for. The last time I checked, I was still missing my black lab, my Godly husband, and my white picketed fence.

I roll to the empty side of the bed, hoping that in the silence an emotion will stir as I pray, once again, for passion, purpose, and direction. Instead, I find myself trying to reconcile my desires with my reality: the promises of the Word with deferred hope, the abundant life in Christ with the abundant life my blackberry offers as it buzzes with reminders for meetings and appointments. After several minutes of lazy petitions, I stomp out of bed, cursing what I know is a blessing because today my heart hates the impostor to my dream, the consolation prize to what I desire.

By mid-morning, I have ordered my day without any regard to the Lord, ignoring any and all opportunity to serve, honor, and glorify. Instead, I complain about my boss and throw my disappointments on anyone who will listen, knowing full well that no one can carry the exhaustible weight of the dissatisfied. When Kathryn asked if I wanted to go to lunch with her, Ashley, Ginger, and Marty, I obliged and was excited at all of the venting and complaining I would get to do. I began to tally in my head everything I hated about our profession, and could not wait to invite everyone at my table to join me in my disgust.

Before lunch, I walk into Parisian’s to buy some make-up—something to hide the zits on my face and make me beautiful. As I walk in to buy my $90 chance to fake and impress, I see her out of the corner of my eye. She is in a wheelchair, but not the ‘normal’ kind. This was one of those obtrusive ones with all sorts of buttons and bars and belts to hold in arms and legs that are supposed to hold themselves. I do not let my eyes go her direction, because I do not want to stare, so I practice an art that I have unknowingly perfected, the one my friends continue to point out in me: I stiffen up and become rigid, fixing my eyes straight ahead, and proceed towards the make-up counter. Once I am about five feet in front of her I hear a mechanical, robotic voice say, “Hello, how are you today?” Suddenly I am aware of why she had been writhing and flailing an uncontrollable arm as I came through the doors; it was so she could push a button to greet me as I raced to indulge my vanity.

The woman working in the shoe department walks over to her, puts her arm around her shoulder, and begins to talk. I am curious to their conversation, so I walk behind them both, pretending to admire a pair of men’s loafers.

“Jane—how are you today? We sure are glad you’re here.” Jane types on a keyboard, and out of a speaker came “I am blessed.”

I wander around the make-up counter several times, pretending to look at different shades of shadows and lip sticks, pushing back the tears that are welling in my eyes. Really, what I want to do is fall to my knees, completely humbled by the woman who greeted me at the door. Nothing in me feels sorry for her; rather, I am sorry I had missed it. I had missed the point of my life and career—it is to serve the Lord with all of my heart in whatever capacity I am able, wherever I am. Regardless of how I feel about my circumstances, I am to serve where He has placed me, just as Jane did. Because just like Jane, I am blessed.

Jane’s “handicap” is easy to see. She cannot hide it or dress it up. Even still, she places herself at the front doors of the Parisian’s at one of the high-end shopping districts in Birmingham. With a crooked smile on her face, all are honored by her greeting. She is blessed. I, on the other hand, have dressed my “handicap” up in flat ironed hair and high heels. I rant and rave at what seems unfair, and spend my mornings lamenting over feeling unloved, unsought, and unwanted. Oh, what lies the enemy has whispered to me. The Lord Jesus Christ has redeemed me and given me hope. He has placed me, with divine order, in this job, at this moment, in this generation, to make His son Jesus Christ known. I shudder to think of the missed opportunities to glorify Him—all because my present does not look like the future I dreamed of when I was eighteen.

Nothing about my heart or attitude has resembled a life redeemed from the pit, a heart rescued from darkness. Just as He would have it, though, in His sovereign mercy He brings me Jane. Thank you, Father, that just like Mephibosheth, we all have a place of importance at your table. Thank you for your grace, so that even on broken bones, we all shall dance.