Living Between the Lines

Happy Wednesday, Folks!

If this is the first Wednesday you’ve dropped by here in a while, let me fill you in on what you’ve missed! A little over a month ago, my pastor/blogger/musician friend, Jason S and I started a series on overcoming burnout in ministry. We gave away a handful of copies of Anne Jackson’s excellent book, Mad Church Disease: Overcoming the Burnout Epidemic. And now, we are on our fourth weekly discussion about burnout. If you missed a discussion, please go see them here:

Chapter 1 – Comparing Mad Cow Disease to Mad Church Disease

Chapter 2 – The Emergency

Chapter 3 – Internal Risk Factors

And today, we move on to Chapter 4, which talks about External Risk Factors.

As I was reading Chapter 4, the overwhelming thought I had was: How many of us have lost track of Who we are serving and why?

Last winter, just before I crashed-and-burned, I remember realizing that I was coming close to burnout. After a period of several weeks of working in ministry all day, then driving 45 minutes from work to my church for choir, praise team, and/or drama team rehearsals, we had opening night of our Valentine’s dinner theatre. Sitting backstage, waiting for my cues, I confided in another choir member that I felt overwhelmed. He suggested that I take a little time off, but I balked at the idea saying, “But Richard, if I don’t do these things, who will I be?”

Richard heard his cue and headed for the stage without finishing the conversation. But I knew that it was something I was definitely going to have to talk to God about. I had stopped finding my identity in God and had begun finding my identity in work.

Along those lines, there were two quotes of Anne’s that made me stop and think.

When we think that our calling is to be the biggest, the most creative, or the best, we have completely lost sight of the only important fact. We are called. (p. 77)

I’ve also realized who I really work for. I work for God. (p. 87)

Today, while I was driving home and pondering this chapter, I had a visual image pop into my mind. I was thinking back to some movies I saw as a child where a person would get trapped in a room and then the ceiling and walls would begin to close in on them. I don’t know about you, but that’s how I feel sometimes. Every time I take on one more responsibility or say yes to one more favor or bring home another briefcase full of ministry work, the ceiling gets lower and the walls begin to press in.

I love ministry. I love being at church and doing God’s work. I feel fully alive when I’m ministering. But each time I take on a load that God has not assigned to me or I try to do a task in my own strength, the box begins to shrink. And it happens so slowly that I don’t notice until I suddenly realize that I’m entombed in my own work and no longer know how to reach the tasks that God has assigned to me.

This week on Twitter, a person asked the question: “How do I know when I’ve taken on too much?”

My answer: if you have to ask, that’s a pretty good indication.

I know in my heart what the answer is. Whenever a task presents itself, I must ask God if I’m to take it on. Then, I only take on those tasks that God has assigned to me.

My problem is that I don’t naturally think like that. When I’m asked to do something, I use my likes and dislikes as a barometer. Or what the pastor or other leaders will think of me. Or that I feel guilty that I said no to that person before. Or that I should because I’m single and childless, so I have less responsibility than the poor lady with six kids that will be stuck with it if I don’t do it.

You see how I got sidetracked there? All of a sudden, it wasn’t about God or what He would have me to do. It was about people. It was about ME.

How do we keep from getting sidetracked? What are some of the thoughts/emotions/other things that sidetracked you? How do you deal with those?

Today is our regularly scheduled One Word at a Time Blog Carnival. Today’s topic is the fruit of the Spirit: Goodness. If you have written something on your own blog that you would like to enter in the carnival or if you would like to read the other entries, you can do that by visiting my friend, Bridget Chumbley’s website.

I never panicked about writing a post about Goodness. I mean, it’s not a taboo subject like some of the ones I write about. But while I wasn’t worried about it, it wasn’t until Sunday that I knew what I was supposed to write.

Sunday morning’s service was a really good one. From the minute I choked up during the Apostles’ Creed, I knew that it wasn’t just going to be “church as usual”—even in the sedate, non-Charismatic church where I was visiting. Although there was no dancing or clapping or whistles or fanfare, I could tell that the Holy Spirit was there and that He was up to something. I tearily whispered my way through the Creed, had to clear my throat a little during the Doxology, and the sermon—though not a shouting, stomping, hell-fire-and-brimstone type—was very inspiring.

And then, the preacher seemed to slide off his topic.

It happens to the best of us. I didn’t think much of it as I heard him say that Jesus had asked God to forgive His abusers and so we must also forgive our abusers. He went on to say that the Bible says that if you won’t forgive, you won’t be forgiven. I nodded. I know the truth of all of that (though I occasionally struggle with it). And before I could even wonder why the preacher had gone off topic, he jumped back on topic and finished his message.

We stood to sing the final hymn and I noticed that two older couples went down to the altar for prayer. We sang through the hymn once and the folks were still praying at the altar, so the pianist started back at the beginning of the hymn for us to sing through it again. About two-thirds of the way through, the two couples stood and made their way back to their seats. The pastor said a benediction and the bells chimed the end of the service.

As I turned to retrieve my crumpled bulletin from my seat, I felt a hand on my back. I looked up to find one of the men who had been at the altar. His eyes were moist, but peaceful. I reached up to hug him, but he didn’t immediately let go. His voice rumbled in my ear, “Twenty-seven years ago, my nineteen-year-old son was killed by a drunk driver. Today, I forgave him. I forgave the man that killed my son.”

That is the goodness of God. He gives the ability to forgive and to start again, no matter our age and no matter what we have done. His goodness is in the second chance. His goodness is in the power to be forgiven… And to forgive.

I’m road tripping today– all the way to South Africa this time!

I’ve been blogging for almost a year and in the beginning, I only had a few faithful readers. But not long after I began my blog, this very kind orange fish showed up in my blog comments… Once I got over the fact that a fish had, in fact, left me a comment, I realized that the man behind the fish was a pretty wise fellow. I’ve enjoyed the posts I’ve read over at his blog. I’ve appreciated the comments he has left over at our friends’ blogs. And I was very honored when he invited me to post on his blog today. So please, swim on over to Shark Bait’s Reef, read the post, leave a comment, and be sure to tell him that I sent you!

It’s Friday again! And it’s time for another installment of For Girls Only.

Gentlemen, if you feel a need to stay, please know that sensitive For-Girls-Only topics will be shared here. This may not be suitable material for you. You’ve been warned!

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I’ve always been a rule-follower. I suppose that’s because I grew up in a world that seemed to be filled with rules. There always seemed to be someone around to tell me that I should talk more quietly or act more ladylike or be a little less or do a little more or just be quiet and stay out of the way. And sure, for the most part, they meant well. And for the most part, I listened and obeyed. I sat with my ankles crossed (because nice little girls do) and kept my elbows off the table (because that’s mannerly) and put my fork down between each bite (because you know you eat less when you do it that way).

In the beginning the rules were good. They taught me manners and grace and poise. How to be a good little girl. A good preacher’s daughter. And I thought that if I followed the rules—if I sat straight enough and smiled sweetly enough and said yes enough—that it made me a good Christian.

The big problem with living by rules is that when someone changed the game, I didn’t know how to play anymore. But by that time, there was no way out of the game for me. When two older boys from the neighborhood took me to an abandoned house and started taking my clothes off, there was nothing that I had been taught that would help me out of that situation. And just like that, a lid was slammed down on my life.

I can’t tell you for sure, but I think that’s when I started gaining weight. After that day in that abandoned house, when I stood clinging for dear life to a dirty curtain to hide myself, I took every opportunity to use anything I could to cover my shame from the world. But that backfired too.

My evangelist friend, Ken Helser, once told me that ”the walls we build to protect us, imprison us.” The seven or eight or nine- year-old me didn’t understand that. But the thirty-two-year-old me does. All of these years have passed and every time I sit face to face with my Jesus, He has to take another layer of shame and guilt and self-hatred off of me, just to get me to be real with Him.

You know, if there’s anybody I should be able to be real with, it’s my Jesus. When I asked Him today what I should write to all of you about for tomorrow, He said, “Tell them they’re My girls.”

Did you hear that? We’re His girls. Now and then and forever.

And tonight, as I sat down, knee to knee with Jesus and asked Him to speak to me, He asked me to get up and dance with Him.

Me. The scared and humiliated eight-year-old girl, wrapped in a dirty curtain with my dignity and self-esteem tossed into a corner, on the floor.

Me. The scared and insecure thirty-two-year-old woman, still hiding from the world behind smiles and sarcasm and words.

And I did. And the song that played while we danced was Watermark’s Arise and Be Comforted.

Arise and be comforted

For the Lord, He is good to the weary.

Even the young hart will tire and fall

But He knows them all.

For the Lord, He will renew their strength

They will soar on wings as eagles.

They will run and never grow weary.

They will walk and not grow faint.

For the Lord, He is good.

Lift up your eyes to the Heavens

For the Creator is living in you.

Come surrender as you are

And know that you never stray too far—

Let His power within you heal your heart.

Lift your eyes to spacious skies,

Let Him chart your way to fly.

Spread your wings and fly!

And I did. I flew to His arms and I let Him take another layer of hurt and shame and self-loathing and wash me under His blood.

Are you ready to fly? Because He’s ready to take the lid off!

When I was in college, I took a required poetry class and in that class, I wrote the most honest thing I’ve ever written. Everyone I read it to (my class, my church friends) jumped to the conclusion that I was talking about a fictional man. Some Prince Charming that I was waiting for to come sweep me off my feet. And because I couldn’t really explain it, I let them believe that. But I wrote this about my relationship with Jesus and it just might be my favorite poem I ever wrote, though maybe not the best.

The Dream Dancer

Alone on the porch

breathing the frozen salted air

of the North Carolina shore

I watch a myriad of diamonds sparkle–

ripple into the horizon

as my mind is flooded–

I am mesmerized by sea and stars.

The moon guards me–

witnessing my dreams

as she shines her silver down

onto the watery dance floor.

I watch my own dreams

in which a dream dancer twirls and glides

across the moon-bathed surface of the sea–

spinning into the arms of her dark partner.

I am the dream dancer.

My partner takes me into his arms

and we dance together on the sea–

illuminated by the moonlight

and the gentle brilliance of the stars

which silently watch and then winking, applaud.

Sisters, are you ready to dance with Jesus? You are His bride and He is so ready to take you in His arms!

In July, our denomination voted to change the name of my department from Church Education Ministries (CEM) to Discipleship Ministries (DM). This has meant changing letterhead and check stock and our website… It’s been a long, complicated process.

Once our website had been changed, it just made sense that my email address (cem@myoldemail.com) should change as well. So, after consulting with my boss, we decided on discipleshipministries@mynewemail.com.

I sent out several emails to let everyone know about the change, but it seemed that they just ignored it and continued to use the old address instead. Today, I finally got my tech guy in here to close the old account altogether. I sent out one final email to my ministers/youth pastors:

From: Sarah Salter

To: Ministers/Youth Pastors/Etc.

Subject: New Email Address

Please note that after this date, March 4, 2010, this email account (cem@myoldemail.com) will be closed. You may reach me at discipleshipministries@mynewemail.com. Thank you!

I really wasn’t expecting much response, but I was wrong. I received this response from one of my youth pastors:

From: Pastor Jeff

To: Miss Sarah

Subject: New Email Address

This being the last email sent to this address (cem@myoldemail.com) from this address (pastorjeff@hisemailaddress.com), I think it should be said that it has been a good email address; a hard-working email address. It will be missed, but we must move on with our email communications. I’m sure the new and improved email address will be up to the task, but it does have some big shoes to fill. Let us pause for a moment……….. May we all remember with fondness the former email address, (cem@myoldemail.com). Amen.

Pastor Jeff

I work with some of the silliest people!

It’s Wednesday! Welcome back to the discussion of Anne Jackson’s Mad Church Disease. We are up to Chapter 3 and it’s Jason’s turn to stir up the discussion!

Before I turn it over to him, I would just like to thank all of you for sharing your experiences. Already, we have been blessed by what you’ve shared! I  promise you that I don’t have all of the answers and so I’ve really appreciated seeing what God is doing in and through each of you!

And if I can say ONE more thing before we move on to today’s chapter…

Happy Birthday to my Mom, Carolyn Salter! Mama, you’re getting better every year and this year is going to be the best yet! I love you!

Now, on to Chapter 3!

Chapter 3: Internal Risk Factors

What’s on the inside is not always plain. We hide it. We mask it. Not only from others but even ourselves.  That’s why spiritual burnout is hard to see until it’s too late.  Most times, it’s from the heart and spirit that we draw our strength and courage, and burnout seeks to rob us of these things and more because things are out of balance… (to see the rest of the discussion, click here to go to Jason’s website, Connecting to Impact…)

** Note: Jason’s blog won’t post until midnight Alaska time. That means 4 AM Eastern time. If you drop in early, I encourage you to come back after then. Thanks! **

I promised myself that I’d go to bed early tonight to be ready for early service in the morning and yet, I find myself wide awake praying, crying, and writing… And dealing with the implications of a question that God asked me today:

Has there ever been a day when the need for Jesus has been more apparent?

The answer is obviously NO, which leads to the next question:

What do I do about it?

What do you intend to do about it?

My answer to that is to make my entire life a framework for making Jesus known to the world.

What will you do?

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Take My Life and Let It Be

Verse 1:
Take my life, and let it be
Consecrated, Lord, to Thee;
Take my moments and my days,
Let them flow in ceaseless praise.
Let them flow in ceaseless praise.

Words: Frances R. Havergal 1874.

Welcome to the second installment of For Girls Only! Same rules as last time: Boys who stick around are doing so at their own risk. And ladies, feel free to share—anonymously if you wish—or you may contact me at smsalter78@yahoo.com.

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Ladies, you may remember that last Friday on Girls Only Day, I shared about the secrets I have kept in my life. I was so blessed and touched by the responses I received—both the ones in the comments and the ones that came to my personal email account. One of those responses came from a relatively new friend, Valerie Brooks. I met Val a couple of months ago on Twitter but had not really gotten to know her until last weekend after the post about my rape. She emailed me to say, “I have secrets, too.” And after she began sharing her story with me, I asked if I could share some of it here. She said yes. I offered to publish this anonymously, but her answer was, “No. No more secrets.” So, here she is—my brave new sister-friend, Val:

I remember lying on the soft, green grass of what was then my front yard on a beautiful spring day. I was daydreaming about how my life was going to be when I grew up.  It was going to be great.  I was going to meet Prince Charming. He was going to sweep me off my feet and whisk me away into a blissful life.  

I met Prince Charming when I was the ripe old age of 15.  He swept me off my feet just like I dreamed and at 17, I moved to New Orleans to be with him.  We married when I was 18.  I was so excited about being a wife.  I learned to cook, kept the apartment we lived in spotless, did the laundry. Things were wonderful. I had my first son a couple of months before I turned 21 and reality kicked in.   

Turned out Prince Charming was never home.  He had started his own trucking company and was over the road 85% of the time.  I took care of the business side of things, handling the finances, applying for permits, and maintaining all the state requirements for a corporation.  I adapted to being alone and spent the majority of my time being a mother.  This was and is to this day my favorite job in the world.  

Before long, we owned 3 brand new Peterbilts with custom paint jobs, chromed out with a ton of lights. This is status in the trucking world. Our rides were some of the sweetest on the road.  With the trucks came the responsibility of employees and the stress of a growing business.  

One night the dream was blurred with a smack across the face.  I can’t tell you what incited this.  I don’t even remember what we were talking about.  I can tell you I was stunned.  I hadn’t been hit in many years, since I moved away from my drunken father.  

My reaction?? Hit back.  I never cowed down to my father and I wasn’t about to start being a coward with my husband.  To this day I still sit back and try to understand why I reacted this way. Self preservation? Pride? I don’t know.   

This new behavior became more frequent and just seemed to get worse.  I ended up in the emergency room late one evening with a broken nose.  He had pinned me down on the bed and punched me 3 times in the face. His biggest concern was that his knuckles had gotten split open hitting me.  Never mind the blood flowing from my nose like a waterfall. I had 5 stitches put in the bridge of my nose that night and have a tiny scar to remind me of the violence.   

Up until this point I told myself this was all a phase we were going through due to the stress of being apart and trying to grow a successful business.  I told myself I was a guilty participant too, as I always struck back when he hit me.  I condemned myself for being a bad wife, even though I tried everything I could possibly think of to make him happy.  That night I was afraid and had the inkling of a thought that maybe something was not quite right here.   

The truth: I was in an abusive relationship and the violence was only escalating. It wasn’t going to stop.  We had stepped into a circle dance that picked up momentum as the years went by. I was still unconvinced.  I was not that abused woman you see in the movies and in television commercials about domestic abuse.  I didn’t need a hotline, nor did I need to call the police as this was a private family matter that needed to be worked out in the home.  I just needed to increase my efforts to please him. That’s all.  

One Saturday afternoon he was home, sitting in his recliner watching sports.  He had been gone almost 4 weeks this time around.  My son, who was 6 years old at the time, missed his daddy and wanted to sit with him.  He tried climbing up in the chair with my husband, who pushed him away saying “I’m trying to relax right now, I am tired, leave me alone.”  A child doesn’t understand this need we adults have from time to time to just be left alone and tried to climb up in the chair again.  He met rejection again with a scolding, “I told you to leave me alone. I do not want to be bothered right now!”  He shoved my son away again.  

My little boy started crying.  My husband put his foot to my son’s back and shoved at him, kind of like you do when you are trying to keep the dog from running out the open door.  It wasn’t a kick, but a strong enough shove to knock my little boy down, as he yelled, “JUST SHUT UP!!”    

That was the point when I decided we could not stay in the marriage.  He was going to hurt my son, or end up killing me.  I packed up my kid, my cat and my car that night after he left for his next run and drove home to Florida.   

What I learned from my ordeal: Domestic violence does not stop on its own.  If you are being hit, then YES you ARE that story you have heard about.  Your life IS in danger and you need to get out NOW! He isn’t going to change.   

FACT: 1 in 4 women will experience domestic violence in her lifetime. 

FACT: An estimated 1.3 million women are victims of domestic abuse each year. 

FACT: Most cases of domestic violence are never reported to police. 

FACT: Almost 1/3 of female homicide victims are killed by an intimate partner. 

If you are a victim of domestic abuse, seek help now from family, friends, church or call the National Domestic Abuse Hotline 1-800-799-7233.

** You can find Val on Twitter: @VariantVal **

Today is our second discussion about Anne Jackson’s book, Mad Church Disease: Overcoming the Burnout Epidemic. If you missed last week’s discussion, you can find it here. However, even if you haven’t read the book, I believe you can still enjoy the discussion and I hope you will stay and do just that.

Chapter 2 – Emergency

I would really like to start by sharing two facts that I think help us to lay the foundation for this whole discussion:

1.       There is no shame in admitting that you are feeling burned out.

2.      Burnout is something that will not get better unless it is brought out into the open.

I struggled with burnout for years and couldn’t admit it to myself or anyone else. If I had recognized what was happening earlier, I could have allowed God to do a lot of things in me and through me that He couldn’t do because I was running too fast to hear His still small voice.

Anne very appropriately titled this second chapter “Emergency.” When I first started processing that it was burnout that I was going through, I thought that I just needed a little time off. Like maybe if I just took a Sunday or two to sit out of the choir, it would make up for the years of sleep I had lost. I thought: they won’t really miss me in the choir.

Can I tell you something?

It has been over a year now. And not only did I take off from the choir, but I left the praise team, the drama team, and the singles ministry as well. Once I took that step away from the ministry, God sat me down and begin to talk to me.

One thing that God talked to me about was the fact that my burnout was affecting every part of my life and everybody around me, too.

Let’s not just talk about me. Let’s talk about Dawn. She’s about my age and married, but doesn’t yet have children. She works full-time for a mid-sized church. She attends a different, slightly smaller church. Sunday mornings, she gets up at sunrise to put dinner in the oven. She leaves her husband sleeping and goes to teach Sunday school to a class full of little girls. During the morning worship service, she sings in the choir, leaving her husband to sit alone in a pew near the back of the sanctuary. She goes home and serves lunch to her husband—and often some of the assorted folks from the community—then turns around and goes back to the church at five for choir practice. On Monday nights, she’s the secretary for the Women’s Fellowship Group. Wednesday nights, she works in the nursery during the service. One Thursday night a month, she is on the missions board and has a meeting.

Now, Dawn’s husband, Jerry, is a nice guy. But he sure is lonely, sitting at home alone most of the time. And because they don’t have kids yet, when someone needs a babysitter, who do they call? Dawn and Jerry. When they need someone to make cakes for the bake sale, who do they call? Dawn. When they can’t find their church directory and need a phone number, who do they call? Dawn and Jerry. When Miss Edith broke her hip, who did they ask to go over and wash Miss Edith’s dishes and laundry? Dawn. When they need someone to hostess a bridal shower or a baby shower, who do they call? Dawn.

Dawn feels too guilty to say no to anyone. (Plus, who would she be if she wasn’t a worker? What would her identity be? But that’s another discussion for another chapter.) Her busyness has affected her marriage because her husband feels that she has put her responsibilities to the church as a priority above their marriage. It has affected her health. She has panic attacks, stomach problems, and is prone to colds. She has toyed with thoughts of changing jobs or leaving the church. And once, in the throes of a crisis, she broke down and admitted that she has started to question God.

My friend Eliza once told me that if the enemy can’t kill us, he’ll sure do his best to wear us out. If he can wear us out, then we won’t be able to be effective for the Kingdom.

Anne Jackson says this: Satan…has been plotting since the fall to ruin mankind, and what better place to start than with the one group of people whose purpose it is to share life with a hurting world.

God has called us to a relationship with Him and to help others find a relationship with Him. If we are too busy to spend time with Him, how can we expect to have what we need to do what He has called us to do? And more than that, don’t you just plain miss God sometimes? I know that I do.

I want to end with something I said in the comments on last week’s discussion. In John 15, God calls us to abide in the vine, not to strive with the vine. When we just cling to Jesus (the vine) then He will cause us to grow and our fruit will nourish those around us. In that place, we don’t have to strive or work or struggle. We just abide.

Do you ever feel that even in the midst of working for God, that you are missing Him? Have you ever seen your ministry get in the way of your earthly relationships? Do you ever feel isolated in the midst of your ministry?

Please feel free to join in the conversation by posting a comment. You may do so anonymously if you wish. And please join us next week at Jason’s site for Chapter 3!

Here at the One Word at a Time Blog Carnival, we’ve been working our way through the fruits of the Spirit and have now made our way to “kindness.” But although there are scriptures about kindness, the two scriptures that kept coming to my mind were these two:

Mark 12:29-31 “The most important one is this: ‘Hear, O Israel, the Lord our God, the Lord is one. Love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your mind and with all your strength.’ The second is this: ‘Love your neighbor has yourself.’ There is no commandment greater than these.”

John 15:13 “Greater love has no one than this, that he lay down his life for his friends.”

It had been a stressful year. I had moved out of my parents’ house and almost three hours away from home to be near my boyfriend. With little more than a high school diploma, an ’84 Chevy Caprice Classic and a smile, I entered the real world—or rather, the world of the working poor.

I was trying to live on love, but it wasn’t easy. Shortly after I moved to town, my boyfriend joined the ranks of the unemployed and I was stretching my tiny paycheck to help with his rent, his electricity, and his meals.

After working for a few months as a secretary with a temp service, I got a steady, but part-time job, working in the mail room of a large insurance company. I was living in a room a little larger than a walk-in closet and making just enough to pay my $250/month rent, put just enough gas in the car to get to and from work, and buy some spaghetti and a bag of apples. Just when I thought the money was going to run out, I got called into the supervisor’s office. Was I interested in doubling my hours (and my pay) to move to a different department?

YES!!

And so I moved down to “the dungeon”—the windowless office behind the mail room—where we fifteen women  spent eight hours a day folding insurance paperwork and stuffing it into envelopes.

When fifteen women spend that much time each day, alone in a small room, they will either become competitive and hate each other or they will become very close, like a little family. And that’s what happened to us. We sat at our desks, facing each other, folding and stuffing our mail, talking about our lives and becoming a little family.

I was the newest and the youngest member of the group and so I was well watched-over. About halfway through my second week of taking lunch break with the gang, Arlene, noticed that I had only an apple for lunch. I put on my best Oscar-winning performance, insisting that I was perfectly satisfied with my apple. But the next day when we left the dungeon for the cafeteria, Arlene leaned over and whispered, “Grab your purse. You’re coming home with me.”

I was a little shocked, but didn’t want to hurt her feelings by turning her down. I followed her to her car and rode the two or three miles to her little ramshackle rental house. She sat me down at the kitchen table with a plastic cup of sweet tea and then proceeded to go over to the stove and fry up two Spam sandwiches.

Now, in my twenty years, I had never tasted Spam and when I did, I immediately decided to never eat it again. But on that day, I wouldn’t have shunned Arlene’s Spam sandwich for anything in the world. With a touch of her kindness to wash it down, it wasn’t hard at all to eat that sandwich.

Four weeks later, the board of directors called us all into the cafeteria to tell us that we were all being laid off and that the company was closing our branch due to the computer systems not being Y2k compliant. Four weeks after that, we fifteen ladies came out of the dungeon and scattered fifteen different directions.

The scriptures I shared above were about love, but isn’t kindness just the outward manifestation of love? Isn’t kindness just love with hands and feet? Today, I can’t even remember most of the names of the ladies that were the first “family” I had after I left home, but the memory of Arlene’s love and kindness has never dimmed in my mind. She gave a broke, homesick young girl a little bit of spam and a whole lot of kindness.

** Remember to go by Bridget Chumbley’s site to see the rest of the carnival entries on Kindness!