There is no way to measure the impact a kind, accepting smile can have on the lonely desperate heart. That's a lesson I learned 4 years ago when I walked into the church that has had the biggest impact on my adult life. That first service I visited Johnson Ferry Baptist Church, I was facing obstacles like I had never faced before. Separated from my husband, divorce papers filed, questions looming over Jackson's developmental delays and physical problems, plus struggling to accept a pregnancy that threatened to derail what little security I had left. Friends I had loved and trusted for years, spiritual leaders I respected and looked up to, even my family kept their distance. This post isn't meant to lay blame or make accusations. Knowing how to love the hurting is something we all struggle with, especially when we've never experienced what they're going through. I can look back now and see what a daunting task it must have been to have a conversation with me then. I've often wondered how I would have handled the situation, and I'm sure it wouldn't have been much better. Do I ask her how she is? What if she tells me the truth? Which problem do I address first? I don't know what to say. Do I tell her what I really think? Now that I'm on the other side of those obstacles, or at least making progress overcoming them, I want to share how God used His people to keep me from giving up on it all.
[And just for your information the answers to the above questions: "Do I ask her how she is?" If you love her, yes! "What if she tells me the truth?" Listen. "Which problem do I address first?" Her desperate need for love and fellowship. "I don't know what to say." Pray for her and with her. Those whose words had the biggest impact on my life then, were the ones who knelt and wept with me allowing the Holy Spirit to speak the words I needed to hear the most. "Do I tell her what I really think?" If you have scriptural or experiencial truth you feel the Lord leading you to share, then share it in love. If not, keep your mouth shut and pray.]
That first service, we were late. I was stressed and struggling. I remember the smiles on every face as we walked in, like little rays of sunshine sent to brighten the darkness that seemed to surround me. Jackson (only 2 and nearly nonverbal) didn't do well, and I had to come back to get him in the middle of the service. When I came back to get him, a parent volunteer explained that they couldn't get him to stop crying and wanted to call me to find out what to do. That's when I met Melissa. She overheard my conversation with the volunteer about him possibly having autism. I was nearly in tears feeling things like embarrassment and disappointment. I remember wondering if I would ever be able to worship in a service again. It's almost like she could read my mind. She introduced herself to me and to Jackson. She got on his level and made a connection with him I cannot explain. She told me how much she hoped we would come back, and that if we did, to look for her. I tried other churches, but something kept pulling me back. The next service we attended, Melissa saw us coming and came to welcome us. How she recognized us in a church of thousands with hundreds of kids coming through the preschool doors every week, I'll never know, but I'm glad she did. Once again, she got down on Jackson's level and asked him to come with her. He took her hand without hesitation. I'll never forget what she said to me. With a kind, accepting, real smile, she said, "He'll be fine. You go ahead." Walking toward the sanctuary, I started to feel lighter with every step. It is very hard to explain to those who have never felt it, but the burden and worry over Jackson's attachment to me and only me, feeling the need for worship but never being able to participate was like being a wild bird locked in a glass cage. I can't remember what the sermon was about that day, but I can remember the peace and the overwhelming feeling like I had found somewhere that wanted me AND Jackson there. Melissa stayed with him in his class the whole service. When I returned for him, he was calm and happy. I nearly burst into tears right there. She smiled again, hugged me, told me he seemed to have a great time, and said she would look for us the next service. And, she did. She was there for Jackson every service until he got acclimated to the regular class.
Things began to change rapidly in our lives. Over the next few months, the divorce was halted. My husband and I were now living in the same state, but were struggling with the challenge of rebuilding a completely broken marriage. More evaluations for Jackson, more questions about his care. More problems with his diet. I was now happy about the surprise pregnancy, but terrified that we would be facing autism and food allergies for that baby, too. More struggle, more progress, more pain, more peace. The one thing that stayed the same for us was Johnson Ferry. We were attending church as a whole family at this point, something that hadn't happened since before Jackson was even conceived. Jackson (and my older son) LOVED going to church, and I loved being able to worship freely without worrying about leaving him in someone else's care. Every Sunday, my heart was touched by Melissa and others that served our family with such compassion and understanding. Every Sunday, the welcome I felt, the smiles sent my way, it was like little messages from God sent through His people, "I'm still here, and I still love you."
We are now settled, together, in a new home 45 minutes away from the church. We know God lead us to this home and this area, but have struggled for nearly a year over what to do about church. Leaving Johnson Ferry seemed so terribly frightening, I didn't even want to consider it. Every Sunday, I would fuss over the drive on the way there, but on the way back, I would tear up at the thought of ever leaving this church.
Over the past few months, however, it has felt like God was pushing us out. Our kids, including Jackson, were asking why we weren't able to do all the kid stuff. Staying involved from so far away didn't seem possible, and I felt like we had fallen into that dreaded rut of attending but not contributing. When we first started going there, we were in such desperate need, that was all we had in us. Now, there is a call to more.
Looking back over the past four years, I feel like God used our time at Johnson Ferry to build a bridge over the tumultuous waters of our failing marriage and Jackson's diagnosis. I feel like every member He used to touch our lives laid a brick or two for us. It's a beautiful bridge, strong and sturdy, paved with those golden smiles and surrounded with vines of friendship and growth. It's finished, though. Spending any more time on it would be wasteful. It is now time to cross over. What is waiting on the other side? I'm not completely sure yet, but I do know that it's time for us to help build someone else's bridge. I know the bridge God built for us at Johnson Ferry will stand for years to come and serve as a monument of God's faithfulness in our lives.
Even when those we love the most leave us to hurt alone, even when the obstacles we face seem insurmountable, even when we've lost all hope for a better future in this life, God is still there. He will never leave us. He wants to use His people to show His love, building bridges and crossing over, moving ever forward until we cross over that last bridge into forever with Him.
