So, about a month ago, my friend E., who is a short brown woman with a taste for rudely worded, black T-shirts, went into the bank. She approached the teller and asked to open an account, producing a government cheque she wanted to start having direct deposited.
The teller asked whether she had a driver's license.
No.
Did she have a Social Insurance card?
No.
Did she have any photo ID?
No.
Unfortunately, the teller said, we can't open an account for you. We will, just this once, cash your cheque for you, but next time you must bring the proper ID.
E., in spite of the T-shirts, is a polite woman, so she said thank you, cashed her cheque and left.
A few weeks later, she walked into the same bank, wearing a similar T-shirt. She approached the teller and said she'd like to open an account and produced a government cheque that she wanted to start having direct deposited.
The teller asked her whether she had a driver's license.
No.
Did she have a Social Insurance card?
No.
Did she have any photo ID?
No.
Well, that's unfortunate, but let's see what we can do. Sign here, sign here, endorse the cheque, here's your money and your passbook.
She left with a bank account.
So what was the difference?
All we can figure is that the first time, she went alone. The second time, she'd been with T.B.
T.B. is a blonde, white, well dressed, well spoken woman who did nothing but be there. Apparently, if you're a short brown woman in a rude T-shirt, all the ID you need to clear the way is a respectable blonde woman at your side.
They got into T.B.'s car to drive back to the Motel. The car wouldn't start. T.B. usually has a cell phone with her, but had left it at home. This meant using a pay phone, which is down an alley near a bar. The alley is a hangout for guys who have nothing better to do and nowhere else to do it.
There were several of these guys hanging out near the phone booth, and T.B. was intimidated. She didn't want to go over there and excuse herself through the group, step into the booth and close the door.
So E., totally comfortable, walked down the alley and through the group of guys, who stepped back for her, and made a path to the phone booth for T.B. Apparently, if you're a respectable white woman, all you need to clear the way is a short brown woman in a rude T-shirt at your side.
T.B. wasn't able to get anybody on the phone to come get them, so they had to walk all the way back to the Motel, 2 km (almost 1.5 miles) mostly uphill. It took a long time because E.'s health isn't good and they had to stop and rest a few times. But they made it, the short brown welfare recipient and the white, blonde, affluent woman, step by step, keeping each other company, laughing, resting, talking until they got home.
This week at Dinner, we had a visit from an old friend, B., who we haven't seen much lately. She was my first partner-in-crime in the early days of the Motel adventure.
This is a woman who is made almost entirely of love. You can see it in her gestures, feel it in her eyes, hear it in the way she listens, and taste it in her apple crisp, which is legend. She and her husband have gone so far out of their way to love people, it amazes me. They've been burned and bitten, but still they keep loving.
She has a deep abiding affection for the people who come to Dinner. She'd been away a lot since October, due to family demands that took them to Australia for a month in the fall, and several months early this year. When they came back to Canada, they had a lot of catching up to do, which is why she's been absent a lot.
Tonight when she walked in and people saw her, faces lit up, hands went up, her name was shouted by several voices at once. Some of the 40 people there tonight didn't know her, but enough did to make the room ripple.
She sat down at a table and caught up with E. She stood out in the rain to chat with R. She listened for a long time to C.L. Eventually she came over to talk to me.
She told me how wonderful it was. How many more people were there than when she'd been to Dinner last. How great it was that people were hanging around after to play the piano and play cards and chat and how 'at home' everyone looked. What good things were happening, mostly small, some large. She challenged me not to get discouraged. To remember that when things are going this well, the enemy might just decide to stick his oar in and not to be surprised and to keep trusting God.
I told her that I had realized something the other day. I said, remember two years ago when we knew we had to do something, but we didn't know what? And we prayed and prayed about what we should do? And we couldn't figure it out, so we started 'walkabouts' to help us find out what we should be doing? Every week after our prayer meeting on Wednesday mornings, we'd drive down to the Motel and walk around and talk to people and hear what they had to say and we figured that doing that would help us know what to do.
And now, 2 years later, I told her, I've finally figured out that walking around talking to people was what were supposed to do. That was it. We'd stumbled onto the answer and we didn't even realize it. We'd thought it was a means to an end...
She finished the sentence for me. But that was the end.
She laughed and said yeah. It was very cool.
I wish I'd told her the story of E. and T.B. Of how they've found friendship that lets them each give to the other. Of how they'd each cleared a path for the other through intimidation. Of how they'd made that long walk, side by side, because they were together and they needed each other's strength and they blessed each other, with their very different kinds of power born in their very different lives.
This is what I mean by "Blessing is a two way street."
r
The teller asked whether she had a driver's license.
No.
Did she have a Social Insurance card?
No.
Did she have any photo ID?
No.
Unfortunately, the teller said, we can't open an account for you. We will, just this once, cash your cheque for you, but next time you must bring the proper ID.
E., in spite of the T-shirts, is a polite woman, so she said thank you, cashed her cheque and left.
A few weeks later, she walked into the same bank, wearing a similar T-shirt. She approached the teller and said she'd like to open an account and produced a government cheque that she wanted to start having direct deposited.
The teller asked her whether she had a driver's license.
No.
Did she have a Social Insurance card?
No.
Did she have any photo ID?
No.
Well, that's unfortunate, but let's see what we can do. Sign here, sign here, endorse the cheque, here's your money and your passbook.
She left with a bank account.
So what was the difference?
All we can figure is that the first time, she went alone. The second time, she'd been with T.B.
T.B. is a blonde, white, well dressed, well spoken woman who did nothing but be there. Apparently, if you're a short brown woman in a rude T-shirt, all the ID you need to clear the way is a respectable blonde woman at your side.
They got into T.B.'s car to drive back to the Motel. The car wouldn't start. T.B. usually has a cell phone with her, but had left it at home. This meant using a pay phone, which is down an alley near a bar. The alley is a hangout for guys who have nothing better to do and nowhere else to do it.
There were several of these guys hanging out near the phone booth, and T.B. was intimidated. She didn't want to go over there and excuse herself through the group, step into the booth and close the door.
So E., totally comfortable, walked down the alley and through the group of guys, who stepped back for her, and made a path to the phone booth for T.B. Apparently, if you're a respectable white woman, all you need to clear the way is a short brown woman in a rude T-shirt at your side.
T.B. wasn't able to get anybody on the phone to come get them, so they had to walk all the way back to the Motel, 2 km (almost 1.5 miles) mostly uphill. It took a long time because E.'s health isn't good and they had to stop and rest a few times. But they made it, the short brown welfare recipient and the white, blonde, affluent woman, step by step, keeping each other company, laughing, resting, talking until they got home.
This week at Dinner, we had a visit from an old friend, B., who we haven't seen much lately. She was my first partner-in-crime in the early days of the Motel adventure.
This is a woman who is made almost entirely of love. You can see it in her gestures, feel it in her eyes, hear it in the way she listens, and taste it in her apple crisp, which is legend. She and her husband have gone so far out of their way to love people, it amazes me. They've been burned and bitten, but still they keep loving.
She has a deep abiding affection for the people who come to Dinner. She'd been away a lot since October, due to family demands that took them to Australia for a month in the fall, and several months early this year. When they came back to Canada, they had a lot of catching up to do, which is why she's been absent a lot.
Tonight when she walked in and people saw her, faces lit up, hands went up, her name was shouted by several voices at once. Some of the 40 people there tonight didn't know her, but enough did to make the room ripple.
She sat down at a table and caught up with E. She stood out in the rain to chat with R. She listened for a long time to C.L. Eventually she came over to talk to me.
She told me how wonderful it was. How many more people were there than when she'd been to Dinner last. How great it was that people were hanging around after to play the piano and play cards and chat and how 'at home' everyone looked. What good things were happening, mostly small, some large. She challenged me not to get discouraged. To remember that when things are going this well, the enemy might just decide to stick his oar in and not to be surprised and to keep trusting God.
I told her that I had realized something the other day. I said, remember two years ago when we knew we had to do something, but we didn't know what? And we prayed and prayed about what we should do? And we couldn't figure it out, so we started 'walkabouts' to help us find out what we should be doing? Every week after our prayer meeting on Wednesday mornings, we'd drive down to the Motel and walk around and talk to people and hear what they had to say and we figured that doing that would help us know what to do.
And now, 2 years later, I told her, I've finally figured out that walking around talking to people was what were supposed to do. That was it. We'd stumbled onto the answer and we didn't even realize it. We'd thought it was a means to an end...
She finished the sentence for me. But that was the end.
She laughed and said yeah. It was very cool.
I wish I'd told her the story of E. and T.B. Of how they've found friendship that lets them each give to the other. Of how they'd each cleared a path for the other through intimidation. Of how they'd made that long walk, side by side, because they were together and they needed each other's strength and they blessed each other, with their very different kinds of power born in their very different lives.
This is what I mean by "Blessing is a two way street."
r
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