It was nine o'clock at night on the busiest street in Paris, France. My eight-year-old son, Jonathan, had disappeared. There were six adults watching two children and he still vanished. The panic that set in was unbelievable. Fortunately, this story has a happy ending, but I will never forget the emotional turmoil I went through during the hour and a half he was missing.
All the adults split up to look for him, but I wouldn't leave the spot where we'd last seen him. I was hysterical! I sat on the curb sobbing. I'm sure I looked like a drunk or a vagrant. I can remember watching everyone else on the street walking by me, going about his or her business, without a clue of what was happening in my life. I wanted to stand up and scream, "Everybody STOP! My son is missing! Don't you care?"
I'm sure many of you have felt very much the same. Life is going on around you and no one else knows what you are going through. People on the outside, have no idea what we are facing or dealing with. But maybe there is someone else in your path who is hurting or facing a crisis. Maybe this is an opportunity for you to reach out to them. It is with that in mind, that I've included this story, written by a friend of mine, Debbie Robbins.
The Wrong Story
Debbie Robbins
My sister and I play this little game. We pretend that everyone we see is a character in a play. If you pass us at the mall, or take a near us in a coffee shop, your life may be re-written. The plots we give our characters are always fabulous with spectacular endings.
Our imaginations really work overtime when we’re traveling by airplane. We have a ball meshing together the stories of various travelers. Prime targets are those who wear outrageous clothes at 6:00 a.m., travel in what looks like their pajamas, or look too Wall Street or Rodeo Drive. By the time we’re finished, the story could end up on the first page of the National Enquirer – next to the exclusive about the four-headed cow from Wisconsin.
My sister and I were on our way from Louisville, Kentucky, to Kansas City, Missouri, playing our “people watching” game. We chose a target just screaming for us to make up a wild story. A woman in her mid thirties approached the gate waiting area, picked up her pass, and sat down. She was alone, but the ring on her finger said she was married. The look on her face showed she was tired and unhappy. But her demeanor wasn’t what drew our attention – it was how she was dressed. She wasn’t in pajamas, nor was she well put together. She wore short-shorts, high platform shoes, teenage accessories, and a tight T-shirt. Suddenly our “people watching” turned into gossip.
“The way she’s dressed,” I murmured, “she’s perfect fodder for the Jerry Springer Show—Thirty-somethings who dress like teenagers.”
“Not quite,” my sister replied, “No bare belly button.”
When we boarded the airplane, we joked that we’d rather barricade ourselves next to the bathrooms than sit near her. But God, in His wisdom, had a different plan. The flight was sold out and, because Sue and I were near the end of the boarding line, the only seats available were the two rows that faced each other: three seats facing forward and three seats facing the back. By the time our thirty-year-old teenager boarded, the only seat available was right across from us! My sister and I exchanged a look of horror.
Attempting to disguise our discomfort, I pasted on a huge smile and rattled off the first thing that came to mind. “So…where are you from?”
She was from Louisville, and she’d returned home to attend a funeral – her baby sister’s funeral. She’d just buried a beautiful nineteen-year old girl, who had lost a two-year battle with leukemia. Remembering our malice and gossip, my little sister and I couldn’t have felt more embarrassed…or so we thought.
The thirty-something woman, married and a mother of two, told us, “I usually don’t dress like this. Today I wanted to wear my baby sister’s clothing. I just needed to feel close to her.”
Humbled and ashamed, my sister and I never again played our “people watching” game.
I’m thankful that, when I come before God, He doesn’t look at what I’m wearing or at any of my physical characteristics. He isn’t swayed by man’s opinion, and he doesn’t gossip with his angels about the poor choices I’ve made. I’m deeply grateful that, instead, He looks at my heart. And I’m even more grateful that He forgives without condemning.
Excerpt from “But Lord, I Was Happy Shallow: Lessons Learned in the Deep Places” by Marita Littauer. Used by permission.
