Living the love of Christ.

I was crossing through the church parking lot when I saw him.

He was middle aged, well groomed...he was the kind of guy I typically see walking in and out of our church.

In fact, he could have even been one of our pastors for all I knew.

And yet, as I walked just slightly behind him, I sensed that something was wrong, terribly wrong.

Perhaps it was the hunched shoulders and the tightness in the lines of his body that were my first clues. Perhaps it was the way he looked around as if he wasn't quite sure that he knew where he was. He seemed disoriented, like a stranger in a strange land.

He arrived in the church lobby first. I was behind him as he approached the reception desk.

"Good morning." He says.

"My name is Mr. So and So. My wife, was just diagnosed with breast cancer and we will be undergoing a radical mastectomy on the 26th. Would you please add our names to your prayer list?"

In an instant, everything became clear to me. Tears welled up in my eyes and I wondered, "Ok, so now what do we all do?" ("We" being myself and the receptionist.)

Here's what I wanted to do.

I wanted to reach out and enfold that man in my arms. I wanted to hold him as a mother holds an aggrieved child. I wanted to physically comfort him. I wanted him to know that I literally stand in prayer with him and with his wife as they live through the enormity and the uncertainty that this kind of diagnosis inevitably brings. I wanted him to know that he, and his family are not alone.

Here's what happened.

The receptionist was warm, and gracious; but she didn't offer to pray with the man, or ask if he would like to speak with someone. She took down the information, and as Mr. So and So started to leave I almost felt a kind of panic rise up within me.

Shouldn't someone do something more?

I mean, why would a man physically drive to the church, go through the hassle of parking, and then walk through the torrential rain just to request prayer when it would have been far easier to simply phone the church with his request?

At that point, I knew that I couldn't let him leave without at least touching him. Yes, it sounds insane; but for some reason, I wanted to physically acknowledge that he was there, that someone had heard him, and that I would be praying. So, as he left the lobby, I followed him out and I called to him, "Sir, sir please wait a minute."

He stopped and turned, "Yes?"

"Forgive me for eavesdropping, but I heard you tell the receptionist about your wife's diagnosis."

And then I reached for his hand. I took his hand within both of my own and I said,

"My family will be praying for your family."

He smiled, squeezed my hands and replied, "Thank you."

That was it. The moment was over.

And yet, somehow I do not think that for me, this moment will ever be "over". It lives within me, as I hope it lives within him.

When people ask me what it means to live the love of Christ, these are the moments that immediately spring to my mind. Moments when I dare to reach out for the hand of a stranger, and when I dare to offer whatever it is that I have to give in that moment.

These moments may not seem like much. By and large, they are not grand gestures; but having been the recipient of moments such as these, I can tell you, they are enough.

Yes indeed, they are enough.