This was not that time.

sunrise It was 9:30pm on Friday night, Matthew and I were gathering our things to leave church.

We had just wrapped up a membership class.  A few hours of learning how the church came to be and where it was going.

The first step in becoming a member.

I've never really been a "member" of a church.  I've never lived anywhere long enough to do so.  But we were beginning to feel the desire to commit, to be more than long-term visitors or guests.

That's all I've ever really been at a church.  A one foot in and one foot out kind of girl.

Committing has never been easy for me and the thing is, more than anything, it's good for my soul.

Even when it might not feel right.

Because my feelings are fleeting.  They're up and down and in-between all day long.  And while I trust them, I have to question them.

Because sometimes our feelings, as good intentioned as they are, might not have our best interests in mind.   Our feelings might push us to do what we want and not what we may need.  Our feelings may want what is comfortable instead of what will bend and stretch us.

Feelings can be deceiving?  Welp, that could be a whole other post.

For this post, it's just a tiny piece of it.

You see, I was so icky that night.

If someone had handed me a cloak and said, "Hey take this.  Put it on and you'll be invisible. You won't have to ask thoughtful questions or give honest answers.  You won't have to do anything at all."

I would have snatched it - no questions asked.

I just wasn't in the proper head space to have small talk, or deep talk, or any talk for that matter.

Have you been there?

When the class ended, I was ready to escape and retreat.  But Matthew had started chatting [he's so much better at that sometimes] and so, out of courtesy, I did too.   But not because I wanted too - because I felt I had too.

Downright icky I tell ya.

A man from our church walked over, a man with a sweet, gentle, joyful sprit.  I had introduced him to my parents a while back and they hit it off.  Most of their conversation centered around crab cakes.  [We're from Maryland, y'all]

So naturally,  crab cakes came up again.

Though somewhere in the conversation,  when things got quiet and there was a natural [somewhat awkward] pause he said something completely unexpected.

"I got laid off today"

Silence.

How could I have missed that?  I knew, deep down, something was off. Something in his sprit, in his stance, in his eyes said, "I am holding something heavy today, help me carry it, will you?"

We said a deep, heartfelt sorry but quickly and awkwardly moved on. We moved right back on to stupid, un-meaningful, not-important crab cakes.

I wept when we got in the car that night.

I wept for a lot of reasons - some reasons I knew and some I couldn't talk through yet.

But one things for sure, I cried because we missed it.

We missed an opportunity to do something.

Why didn't we offer to pray with him, right then and there in that sacred place?  I mean, we were in a church.  The least awkward place to pray for anyone.

It all felt uncomfortably familiar.

Two years ago, Matt and I were eating BBQ at one of our favorite little spots in town, when a man sat near us at a red picnic table.  We were totally and completely in awe of each other that day // smiling, gazing into each others eyes, hand holding, kissing.

You get the picture.

Though somehow, in-between all that mushy gushy love stuff, we got to talking to this man.

He shared how he was just visiting Winchester. That he was in town because his brother was sick, really sick, and he wanted to sit beside him in the hospital.

Again, like Friday, we said sorry, one that was full of emotion and truth. Again, we chatted a little longer and yet again, there was nothing.

Nothing more than a missed opportunity // like pressing snooze, over and over again, when the colors of the morning sky stretch far beyond anything we can imagine - begging you to get out of bed and come look.

We should have prayed, right then and there.

We should have asked: what more can we do for you, kind stranger? 

One of my most favorite authors wrote this blog post the other day about words.  She challenged us to use them because they have so much power and grace and love.  She expressed how sometimes [so very often] we have no idea the impact or difference we are making, just by living our ordinary life, until someone tells us.

I know this one well.

Folks, when you share that my words mean something to you, I could just about burst with gratitude.  Whether it's face to face, through a text or email - those words, your words, mean everything.   Your words make it easier, every single day, to be brave.  To feel comfortable and less confused in my pale skin.

Because sometimes, that's the hardest thing to do.

And I have to think, that I am not unique in this.  I have to believe that when we take notice and REACT to whatever life throws our way - even in the most ordinary and simple interactions // we do WONDERS.

We are strength for a load that is too heavy for one person to carry.

We are hope that tomorrow can be different.  It WILL be different.

We are love - that you, you who's in hiding, lonely in the dark, in bondage from addiction - you're enough, you're not defined by any of that.

Sometimes, words are all we have.

Sometimes, words are all we need.

It's a timing sort of thing, you know?

Because, there's a time for sleeping in and rolling over when the alarm goes off.

There's a time for talking about crab cakes and the weather.

But this? This was not that time.

This was the time to splash water on my face and get my butt out of bed.

This was the time to leap outside my comfort bubble, abandon all social norms, wrap my arms around you or grab your hand and say, "You are not alone."