 |
| © David Hartman |
She wasn’t wearing a bra to the party. I reckon I should be embarrassed to say that’s what first caught my attention.
What she did wear that mid-December day was a thin t-shirt. Many stains and much wear from new, the once-white garment now wouldn’t pass even for off-white. Closer to beige, really. Sitting a table near mine at this community celebration of Christmas, she was flanked by noisy, impatient children who just wanted the meal to pass so Santa would come.
She was one of the guests of honor at the event. She and more than a hundred other folks from this low-income community north and east of Oklahoma City were gathered that day for a Christmas lunch, followed by gifts for the children. The party was a joint effort culminating the generosity of dozens of families and volunteers, spearheaded by a remarkable old lady who understands how God has blessed her life — a woman who has mastered turning gratitude into passion, passion into action.
After the meal, the dozens of anxious children would get their gifts. Large, wrapped boxes with new clothes, new shoes and new coats. No hand-me-downs today. And new toys.
So the woman’s wardrobe choice for this special event bothered me. Fifteen years later, I still can see that thin, dirty t-shirt like it was yesterday.
I was there as a reporter, an impartial observer to this incredible act of kindness toward folks more often overlooked than embraced by society. But I wasn’t really impartial. I was indignant, almost angry.
All this work, I thought. The months of planning and soliciting donations and the hundreds of volunteer hours that surely went into turning this dream into a good, filling hot meal and a big box of presents for her kids, and this broad can’t even bother to throw on a bra and a clean t-shirt for the party.
I remembered that t-shirt today because frankly I don’t think I can ever forget it. Not because of the stains or for what wasn’t worn underneath. It’s a symbol that reminds me of the moment I realized how little I resemble Jesus.
Her dirty shirt disturbed me because before I left home, I chose from one of several clean, pressed dress shirts to wear to the assignment. Around my collar dangled one of the dozen or more neckties that clutter an entire dresser drawer.
But what if?
What if, judging her from my comfortable, middle-class perspective, I actually misjudged her? What if the woman didn’t really pick the rattiest rag she had to wear to the party? Maybe she wore it because it was the nicest thing she had. Is it possible she didn’t wear a bra that day because she didn’t have one? This was an event to help needy folks, after all. What did I know about how “needy” feels?
Just maybe she really was as humiliated to be seen in public as I thought she should be. And maybe she came anyway because well, they’re her children, and this was a Christmas she couldn’t otherwise give them.
I remembered that party today during my Plan-B lunch. Grilled chicken breast and potato-bacon soup. Lunch was going to be my leftover Mazzio’s Pepperolis, which I brought to work in the takeout pizza box and put in the company fridge. You buy Pepperolis by the dozen. Six were last night’s supper, the other six would be today’s lunch.
During my morning break, I went to the fridge to sneak one of my six Pepperolis, just to tide me over. But there were only four in the box. Someone enjoyed the other two without asking. At lunchtime, I went back for the remaining three. The box was empty.
At first, it ticked me off. I called the thieves unsavory names under my breath. Steal a lunch, get caught, get fired. I plotted revenge. That bottle of habanero powder I keep in the cupboard could set a nice trap, I schemed. Wait a few days, leave some more Pepperolis dusted generously with habanero powder in a box in the fridge…and wait.
But sometime during that chicken breast, I remembered the t-shirt. By my standards, the last year has been lean. I was fired in March, spent months unemployed, and when I did get another job, it wasn’t at the pay grade I believe my years in the work force should dictate. Yet never have I been close to having to steal in order to eat. Maybe my lunch really was taken by some punks working the system like I want to believe. Or maybe it was taken by someone who really needed something to eat and had nothing. Regardless, I had eight bucks and change in my pocket, more than enough to buy another lunch better than the one taken from me. I won’t be hungry today, even for a few hours.
The t-shirt and now the chicken breast are reminders. They warn me that I still don’t see other people and situations the same way Jesus does. Too often I want to believe the worst about people. I want to ignore that there are so many who would give anything to have the “problems” I face.
God help me.
