God is always at work in our lives; in the lives of the good, the bad, the just, and the unjust. It’s not ours to judge how He works, or why. We just don’t know, and often when we think we do, we’re wrong. Here are a couple of experiences I’ve had which have vividly demonstrated this to me.
The first is that of Pamela and her mother.
I first met Pam’s mother, Liza, when I was in my car outside my storefront church in St Louis listening to the tail end of A Prairie Home Companion on the radio before going in to prepare for Vespers. A woman came to the car window and knocked softly. I rolled my window down a bit, and she said “Do you want a date?” When I turned towards her, she could see my priest’s cross and she was humiliated by having approached me in such a manner. She apologized and said she was sorry, and also that she needed help because she was a drug addict. Liza disappeared into the night. I recognized her from the neighborhood and knew her house, as it was often missing a front door and was frequented by crack dealers.
Later that year, I was standing on my back porch, which overlooked the sidewalk, drinking coffee before work, around 6:00 am. I had often seen a sprightly young girl of around 15 walking down the street, carrying a flute case and a backpack. After observing her every morning for some time, I asked what her name was, and she replied, “Pam.” By her last name and the direction she was coming from, I knew she must have been the daughter of the woman who had approached me. I knew where she lived.
Pam and I would chat sometimes in the morning. She said she had to ride for over an hour on the bus to get to an elite school in the suburbs. As time went on, we became friends. After a couple of years, I had the pleasure of meeting her grandmother, who came by my house, saying that she knew I was Pam’s friend, and could I help her? Would I buy her a prom dress? They had no money, and Pam wanted to go to prom with the rest of her, mostly well-off, classmates. I said that I would and went down to the Famous Barr department store and got her a dress and shoes.
As the prom day drew closer, Pam’s grandmother came by again, this time asking me to drive her to the prom! She didn’t know anyone else with a car – there wasn’t anyone trustworthy. Of course, I agreed. I dropped the girl off and waited in my car until the prom was over. (I suppose I took a nap.) When it ended, I saw Pam walking towards me, looking radiant. Only then did I fully realize the value for her in being able to be a full participant in the so-called “normal” life of her school. And although I’d never been one for proms, personally, I could see that having a time away from her everyday difficult circumstances, at an event where she could feel good about herself, made all the difference in the world for Pam.
That was her senior prom. The next year, she went off to the University of Missouri, where she was on the cheerleading squad, of all things. She graduated, was accepted into law school, and now practices in Chicago. We keep up with each other occasionally through Facebook. God was at work in her life all along, guiding her and steering her away from the demons that lurked around every corner. God was reminding her that she did not have to end up like her mother.
My friend, Pam, lived in the crack house without the front door.
Here’s the story of another, very different house.
A friend wanted me to meet her godmother in Tulsa, OK. As we drove through the neighborhood, an upper middle class suburb, I began to paint a mental picture of who this woman might be – elderly, Eastern European, white, from a privileged background.
We knocked on the door, and after a while, the lady came to open it. When she saw me, her face was quite joyful. She put both hands on my face and said, “It’s a black boy!” She was Russian, and had quite a story. She had been in Auschwitz concentration camp, suffering harsh treatment. She and her sister had escaped into the woods by miraculous means. I fell in love that day.
There was a most wonderful icon of the Theotokos “Unexpected Joy” (to which our church is dedicated) on her wall. She said she always had a special feeling for that icon. When she had come to Springfield in the early 1950s, not too long after the war, there were few places for her to buy icons. She was going down the street one day and saw a yard sale, and as she browsed the items, she came upon a hand painted icon of her beloved, “Unexpected Joy” with a silver and gold plated riza for a very small sum – a few dollars.
I visited her several times before she passed away, and every time, she had a catered lunch for me and whoever else had been invited. She would tell us stories of her life. This, of course, reinforced for me the need not to judge people by outward circumstances.
Her house had a very fancy door, but the lady behind it wasn’t anyone I expected.
We make assumptions about each other all the time. When I have speaking engagements, people often refer to me as “Dr. Berry”, when, in fact, I’m not a high school graduate (I hope this doesn’t give you cause to further judge me!) Let’s try to see each other a little more like Christ, born in a manger, sees us all – His beloved children.
2 thoughts on “Who lives in that house? God is everywhere present and fillest all things”
Yes, his beloved children. There are stories to tell and to listen to. Let us take the time to do both and learn valuable lessons from it all.
I am learning this lesson in my late 60’s…I am learning that God even lives in that church that I always thought was “white bread” and watered down, bearing little real fruit. When my Orthodox Monastery had to relocate to a far distance, I had no church to attend and wouldn’t consider the “white bread” establishments. God couldn’t really live there. One Easter I attended just because I had met the minister who was gentle and kind. Voila, after attending for 3 years, I finally (I am a slow learner) saw God living there in the hearts of all the ageing congregation, those who sang mainstream Protestant hymns, those who sat instead of stand, those who chatted during the “Peace”. Those who ate store bought cookies at the coffee time….etc. It took me all those months to “see” the people I had dismissed as “low flying” Christians. But when I experienced their devotion, their commitment, heard their stories, and felt their gentle love, I finally admitted that God lives in their house of worship, absolutely.
Ironically, I resisted visiting an Orthodox church in my youth, as I believed that God only lived in my spiritual community, never in the established organized Church. What could they know of the Secret Teachings of the Divine Master?
Thank God, that my hungry soul was able to reach for Food, spiritual sustenance in a House foreign to my preconceived ideas about God’s true people, and God, period.
I love my Orthodox Home, but now know that God lives wherever “Two or three are gathered in His name”, whether they eat white bread or not !