growing up
Late afternoon, just weeks before college move-in day, Zoe stands at the sink washing dishes, water splashing full against the gleam of stainless steel, and I stand curled over a board nearby, slicing the chicken. My knife, bold and sharp, taps as it hits flesh and board, dividing.
She had come home from a day full of plans, her cheeks pink with sun, her hair elegantly escaping the messy bun she had made of it on the top of her head, and I had sighed as her keys jiggled in the lock, knowing she’d be hungry. I had only reached the middle of my cooking day, had only just begun silent, deliberate prayers of thanks for sustenance, but instead of asking when dinner would be ready in that mildly accusatory way, she had put her purse down on the bar and turned to the sink to wash her hands. She had pulled the rings from her fingers and stacked them above the sink, asking simply, “How can I help?”
Something about that moment, about watching her back as she pulled the rings from her fingers, brought to mind a series of similar moments, a history of people preparing to serve. I thought of the prodigal son who had returned, how he must have protected the new ring his father had placed on his finger; how he must have understood serving differently as a forgiven son. I thought of Prince Jonathan, sliding the royal robe from his own shoulders to hand it to his friend David; of Jesus, getting up from the table, undressing to wrap a towel around his waist. I thought of my mom, of years watching her move about her kitchen, watching her stand at the sink, and I realized that identity divides the difference between servants and slaves.
I’m still looking at Zoe’s back now, watching her shoulders move, those blades rising and falling, as the dishes bob against the bottom of the basin. “I’ve been thinking,” she says, in that contemplative way she often does when she wants to share some part of her heart. “I’ve been thinking about all this the wrong way–what I want for myself. I hope I have enough friends; I hope I get along with my roommates; I hope I don’t feel too homesick. But the thing is, God is sending me there. I need to focus on how I can serve Him.”
“Mmm,” rises in my throat. Zoe understands; she doesn’t need to turn around to search my face. I recognize God’s wisdom when I hear it, and that’s the sound of ascent, of me receiving something of my own from what The Vine has given her. She sprouted from me, from the limb that is Kevin and me fused into one solid length, but she has on her own become a full grown branch. She makes her own choice now to remain and receive, and together, we’re still growing up.
I grip the raw, sticky meat, lifting my knife as the Spirit lifts His, recognizing how often my own heart gets absorbed with what I want for myself.
Just before Jesus, the Sent One, conferred upon his disciples that same title, just before He told them, I’m sending you, He showed them how to live as servants. He showed them to pull the rings from their fingers, to wear the towel, not despite who they are but because they know. Sent people turn to service because the reality of God’s love in adopting and appointing them gives them that freedom.
“I don’t have to worry about all that stuff,” Zoe says, as she dunks a skillet I used to brown some sausage, as the scrubber blooms from her fingers like a flower. “God’s got all of that, and whatever happens–even if it’s hard, even if it’s not what I want–He’s got His reasons. I have to trust Him. The question I need to go asking is, ‘What’s He inviting me to do with Him there?’ You know, ‘How can I help?'”
She lifts the scrubber in the air, turns, moved by the spiritual punctuation. A dollop of soap drips, falls through the air, lands in the water with a plop. I nod, smiling, looking up from the chicken, wondering how it will be if I actually let the Spirit do what He’s trying to do today, if I let the reminder that He sent me here divide my messy heart. What if I also let the Spirit change my hungry, mildly accusing interrogations–When will get what I want?–into declarations of trust? Over the years, resignation steals in, thieving joy. It tangles at the root. I feel the Gardner’s powerful hands now, carving out the Interloper.
“You’re right,” I say to her back, for she has turned again to the work, but I’m not just acknowledging her. I smile as the bloom of a prayer rises up from my own heart. Here I am, Lord. How can I help?
