After sitting at the airport for a long 6 hours, then another 6 in a hotel room; I was convinced absolutely nothing could bother me. In truth, I was ready to jump on two different planes to get home and reread the book I had started and finished in a chair at the airport.
I grabbed a window seat because group A boarding is one of my favorite things in this life and I waited to see who might sit next to me. I figured the entire world had been delayed and was ready to share our collective tale of woe.
My seatmates were two ladies, one quite a bit older than me, one considerably younger. I guessed college age, but I am bad at this stuff these days. They were in full blown conversation mode and I was happy to eaves drop. They had story after story about someone who had just been on stage, who they seemed to know very well. They had her outfits down, her songs, her mannerisms, her charity work.
Since I was flying from a major city to a major city and connecting on to yet another major city, I figured my odds were good that these people knew this celebrity or worked with her or for her. I figured I had hit the jackpot for conversation at least as far as airplanes go.
After we were airborne, and we had the blessing of the crew to fire up our electronics, I saw all the pictures or our mystery celeb on the phone of the college aged gal. I recognized the celebrity and was fascinated by the level of knowledge belonging to my seat mates. I decided I would be able to snag an autograph probably secreted in her briefcase and be a hero to my kids on my 18-hour late arrival home.
As the conversation continued, so did my speculation. It appeared every picture was from a chair in an auditorium. There was no backstage, no personal insights, nothing that caused me to believe these ladies were more than fans, albeit uber fans.
For the next 55 minutes, every second was filled with fandom. It was entertaining, this pondering and postulating over an entertainer. Until I started reading again, and the thought that I have never spent 55 minutes talking about my Jesus to a complete stranger strangled me.
You see, I don’t watch Jesus on a stage. I know Him. Well. I talk to Him and sing to Him and think of Him mostly all day every day. I could say with absolute truth that He is my best friend and yet; I don’t nearly often enough introduce Him to everyone I meet.
These people were absolutely passionate about this singer/star. I am absolutely passionate about my Jesus. But am I one hundred percent sure that people who know me, know Him?
That is why He put me on this earth. Yes, He asked me to be a wife and a mom and a worker. He has stretched me to lead things and become someone who plans and purposes, but way more than all those things put together, I am to be a reflector of Him. When people see or talk with me, they should see Him.
It is one fabulous, awesome call and worth all the stages in all the world and then some. But do I? I have this habit of getting lost in my humanness. I get comfortable with being a mommy and a businessperson and cooking meals and loving my husband, and I forget job number one.
Not necessarily because it is harder, but because God is this wonderfully gentle gentleman. He didn’t call me to be Mrs. John the Baptist, wandering and recounting tales of Jesus. No, He knew I would like pillows and store-bought clothes and food that comes from Trader Joe.
He has allowed me to be a wife, mom, friend, worker and volunteer and framed all around and in and under and above that, I am His daughter.
Like you, I have a sphere of influence. You, me, we may be the only link to Jesus for the person that we meet today, this v e r y day. Not because your or my words are so amazing. But because we love and we give and we hug and we listen. We are His workmanship.
We are not needed dear ones. We are WANTED. We are the ones that He has called, He has ordained, He has pursued, and He has purposed. Our work, HIS. Our lives, HIS. Our breath, HIS. Our voices and arms and hearts, HIS. Our stories told for and about Him.