Welcome to Bench Chats
"I like to start my notes to you as if we're already in the middle of a conversation. I pretend that we're the oldest and dearest friends--as opposed to what we actually are..." -- Kathleen Kelly, You've Got Mail
I have written this introduction in my head many times, often as I'm trying to drift off to sleep or am driving to my next destination--never at a time when a keyboard was below my fingertips. Back when I was in college, we had a bench right in front of our dorm building. The building overlooked a peaceful courtyard in a remote corner of campus with little foot traffic, and that bench often became the centerpiece of socialization. I occasionally found myself at any hour of twilight as college students do, sitting on that bench with some unexpected person, deep in conversations that strayed from the exhausted weather, our majors, or even our likes into our beliefs, our doubts, and our life-changing experiences. Leaving that bench when one of us finally gave in to overcoming yawns was always a refreshing feeling. We hadn't accomplished anything or solved the world's problems, but we had chosen to connect and to engage, to be vulnerable and to listen. It always reminded me that life could slow and have meaning beyond the educational striving.
Years later, in the first few months when I'd moved to Honduras, I sat on another bench. It was in an open shopping plaza with a noisy street full of honking horns and street vendors, running in front of it. I hadn't been in Honduras long, and I'd come so excited, but at just a month in, I felt defeated. I was questioning my decision even though I'd worked and waited four years to get there. My throat was seized with grief, and I knew the tears would soon expose me. I felt so alone. I was soon approached by a Mormon with a stack of literature and a steady stream of lectures that didn't even apply to me. She never let me get a word in and left as soon as she'd come, feeling perhaps that she'd fulfilled her duty. It was certainly salt in a lonely soul's wound. But, what happened next on that bench restored my hope and has been a guarded treasure in the pockets of my memory.
The Honduran lady sitting on the bench in front of me, a quiet observer, walked over and sat down next to me. She said, "I hope you don't mind, but I felt like I needed to come talk to you. You feel so lonely. You're wondering if you should've come here. But, God wants you to know that you haven't made a mistake. He is happy you are here." The tears I'd skillfully been suppressing glided down my cheeks as I listened. She continued speaking hope into my many questions, and reading my story as if she had the pages to turn in her hands. It was a quick encounter, but that experience, the obedience of that woman, and her resolve to encourage a total stranger carried me many times after.
I've had many good experiences sitting on benches and engaging with friends, acquaintances, and strangers. I have maintained the blog, Confessions of a Ragamuffin, for many years as a way of updating what has been going on in life and in ministry in Honduras. But, I've often wanted to write just to let my thoughts go free, unsure and unknowing of the audience. I've wanted to engage in conversation and throw out an, "Anyone else feel this way?" even if no one else feels brave enough to respond.
This past summer, I read a blog by Emily P. Freeman talking about how neighborhood benches were changing the social climate among her community members--that they lingered a little longer and shared a little more when they could sit and settle. And, I thought, "I think it's time I start lingering and settling, releasing my own thoughts and experiences."
This blog is meant to be meandering--as I am a follower of Jesus, it'll wonder into realms of ministry, missions, and what it means to be the Bride of Christ. But, it could also meander into the silly, into hobbies, and into those, "Has anyone else thought this?" territory. More than anything, it's an invitation to linger, engage, and ponder. If you have decided to stop by, please receive my warmest of welcomes.
Sarah
I have written this introduction in my head many times, often as I'm trying to drift off to sleep or am driving to my next destination--never at a time when a keyboard was below my fingertips. Back when I was in college, we had a bench right in front of our dorm building. The building overlooked a peaceful courtyard in a remote corner of campus with little foot traffic, and that bench often became the centerpiece of socialization. I occasionally found myself at any hour of twilight as college students do, sitting on that bench with some unexpected person, deep in conversations that strayed from the exhausted weather, our majors, or even our likes into our beliefs, our doubts, and our life-changing experiences. Leaving that bench when one of us finally gave in to overcoming yawns was always a refreshing feeling. We hadn't accomplished anything or solved the world's problems, but we had chosen to connect and to engage, to be vulnerable and to listen. It always reminded me that life could slow and have meaning beyond the educational striving.
Years later, in the first few months when I'd moved to Honduras, I sat on another bench. It was in an open shopping plaza with a noisy street full of honking horns and street vendors, running in front of it. I hadn't been in Honduras long, and I'd come so excited, but at just a month in, I felt defeated. I was questioning my decision even though I'd worked and waited four years to get there. My throat was seized with grief, and I knew the tears would soon expose me. I felt so alone. I was soon approached by a Mormon with a stack of literature and a steady stream of lectures that didn't even apply to me. She never let me get a word in and left as soon as she'd come, feeling perhaps that she'd fulfilled her duty. It was certainly salt in a lonely soul's wound. But, what happened next on that bench restored my hope and has been a guarded treasure in the pockets of my memory.
The Honduran lady sitting on the bench in front of me, a quiet observer, walked over and sat down next to me. She said, "I hope you don't mind, but I felt like I needed to come talk to you. You feel so lonely. You're wondering if you should've come here. But, God wants you to know that you haven't made a mistake. He is happy you are here." The tears I'd skillfully been suppressing glided down my cheeks as I listened. She continued speaking hope into my many questions, and reading my story as if she had the pages to turn in her hands. It was a quick encounter, but that experience, the obedience of that woman, and her resolve to encourage a total stranger carried me many times after.
I've had many good experiences sitting on benches and engaging with friends, acquaintances, and strangers. I have maintained the blog, Confessions of a Ragamuffin, for many years as a way of updating what has been going on in life and in ministry in Honduras. But, I've often wanted to write just to let my thoughts go free, unsure and unknowing of the audience. I've wanted to engage in conversation and throw out an, "Anyone else feel this way?" even if no one else feels brave enough to respond.
This past summer, I read a blog by Emily P. Freeman talking about how neighborhood benches were changing the social climate among her community members--that they lingered a little longer and shared a little more when they could sit and settle. And, I thought, "I think it's time I start lingering and settling, releasing my own thoughts and experiences."
This blog is meant to be meandering--as I am a follower of Jesus, it'll wonder into realms of ministry, missions, and what it means to be the Bride of Christ. But, it could also meander into the silly, into hobbies, and into those, "Has anyone else thought this?" territory. More than anything, it's an invitation to linger, engage, and ponder. If you have decided to stop by, please receive my warmest of welcomes.
Sarah
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