Saint Me

Let me tell you about this woman in my church. Her husband is totally blind and his kidney is failing. Last summer, while they were out of town, he fell and broke several ribs. While he was sedated, his system shut down. The woman spent three weeks in the hospital with him, sleeping in a recliner beside his bed. Since then, while still raising their children and volunteering at church and the school, she has dedicated herself to caring for him, catheterizing him every four hours, day and night, and taking care of all of his other medical needs.

Some call her a saint.

“Tell me,” she says, chuckling. “Does that title come with any financial remuneration?”

Ha, ha.

“You’re just so strong,” one woman says. “I couldn’t do it.”

“Oh,” she says, lowering her eyes modestly. “It’s not me. God sustains me.”

Gag.

“I’ve been working on teaching my kids classical music,” she says. “In our spare time.”

Oh, please.

The truth?  And this is just between you, me and the pew cushion — The lady’s a poser. She’s no saint. She’s a mess. She’s doesn’t qualify for the Super-Christian award, or even the Wonder-wife lapel pin.

I won’t tell you her name. Let’s just call her . . . Saint Me.

Yeah, I’m a mess. Shall I tell you about my resentment?  My sinful thoughts?  My selfishness?  My utter failure to place my faith in God?  My frequent failure to even pray?

Thatta girl, Saint Me. Confess to people (without any messy, unflattering details). Prove my humility — to people — while God shakes his head at my pride in it.

I like to keep that gloss of respectability polished, but pull out your Romans 3 glasses and look close:

I am not righteous. I don’t understand, and I don’t seek God. I’ve turned away from Him, and made myself worthless. I don’t do good. I don’t fear God.

Harsh.

I mean, come on!  I probably spent around 250 hours last year, sitting next to my husband’s hospital bed. That counts, right?   Applause, everyone — she’s a martyr!

Okay, no.

Funny, how easily I estimate that number. How about, how many hours last year did I spend in soft-spoken hatred of health insurance companies? How many times did I raise my palm to the sky, not in praise, but in You-just-stay-outta-my-face-pal resentment?  How many conversations did I artfully turn toward my problems (clearly worse than yours)?  How many times did I imagine myself as someone else, somewhere else?

Rhetorical questions – I don’t really want to know the  number.   It doesn’t matter;  it only took once to separate me from God.

Over the last year, God provided my family with money, clothing, food, and helpful men with hammers and nails. He gave us exactly what we needed. And, then, he gave us more. His little way of saying, “Yeah, baby. That was me, taking care of you.”

People say to me, “You deserve the help.”

I want to say, “I do!  I really do!”

But I know I don’t. My heart and mind stray too far to deserve God’s faithfulness.

During our crisis last summer, I was too tired and terrified to be self-promoting. Looking back, I wonder at the grace the doctors and nurses might have seen:  me, praying over my husband. Holding his hand and reciting the Lord’s Prayer with him. Calling family and comforting them from a distance. That is the extremity that God has to go to, to make me useful to him.

Maybe someone there thought I was a good person. I don’t know, because, for once, I wasn’t thinking about what people thought of me. It was only afterwards, when we finally got to go home, that I came back to myself. I felt a sense of bemused wonder:  who was that woman?   There was good in me then. But it wasn’t my good.

Having experienced that once, that release of self, I’ve decided that from now on I’m going to . . .

Well, I’m going to try. But I’m probably still going to be a mess. And, most of the time, I won’t even be ashamed of it – I’ll be too busy working on my spin:  Don’t you think I’m marvelous?  So noble!  So brave!  My tongue practices deceit. (The Romans 3 glasses again – Ow).

Okay, I may never again, in my lifetime, let go of my self-absorption enough to let God’s good take me over. But, even if I don’t, I know He used the experience to refine me into something more pleasing to Him.  And I can’t know how He used it to influence other people.  And, eventually, his good will take me over again.  If not in my lifetime, then after, and that time it will stay. That is the promise God has made me.

One more thing I don’t deserve.