Today I went to downtown Santa Cruz to be a docent for the annual Good Friday/Easter outdoor art exhibit on the Stations of the Cross, put on by Vintage Faith Church. I took E, my 7 month old, because I had to, and took G, my 8 year old, to be my helper. The docents walk around the art installations and look after the art (and one station is always focused on hospitality, so they offer free coffee, tea, cocoa, and water to passer-byers) and are available to answer questions or engage in conversation with the people who might stop and look.
The location for the art exhibit is always the same, smack dab in the middle of the action downtown, in front of the famous O'Neills's surf shop (for you out of towners, he is the man who invented the wetsuit). The art is usually good, and challenges people to consider the meaning of Jesus Christ in a personal, active way--so a lot of it is interactive or tactile, or somehow tries to get people to engage with the idea of Easter and Christ's death in a tangible way. One exhibit today had lots of little glass jars filled with bubble solution and encouraged people to blow bubbles, which I thought was a great way to get us thinking about breath (as in Jesus takes his last) and life and joy. My favorite piece a couple years ago was giant felted cupped hands, white and soft and so lifelike in shape and the artist encouraged people to touch them and there were all these great conflicting mental images of the soft felt and imagining hard nails piercing them, and of God holding us tenderly in His hands, so warm and protected, and of us stroking, almost in apology and guilt and relief, Jesus's healed hands when he arose from the death he suffered on our behalf.
(one big run-on sentence--perfectly mirrors my jumbled emotional/intellectual response!)
Anyway, I have been a docent once before, and today I was reminded of how these events so far have been a beautiful reminder of how present and active God is in the world, in my life, in the lives of the non-Christian strangers who happen to pass through our lives for a few moments--and how God will use us for His purposes if we are willing.
The last time I was a docent, I remember getting there and looking at all the cool, artsy people from Vintage Faith who looked so right, so comfortable in that setting. I felt very uncool (you know I am in no way hip) and out of place and wondered what the heck I was doing there. I was serving at the hospitality station and so started just speaking out to the people walking by, offering them hot beverages, as it was a cold, overcast day. Some people stopped, more just smiled and walked on, even more looked at me as if I was a freak or looked right through me as if I was not even there. One Middle-Eastern looking man and woman walking by responded to my offer hesitantly, as if they were just being polite. The wife went over to get some coffee, and I struck up further conversation with the husband by asking if he was Iranian, since he reminded me of someone I once worked for. He very surprisedly and suspiciously said he was. I enthusiastically volunteered what little Farsi (the native tongue of the Persians) I remembered from my interactions with Iranians at that job, and he was then surprised and pleased. I had baby B with me that year, in the stroller as E was today, and the Iranian couple fussed over her a bit, and we had a nice conversation until the wife was done with her drink and they left my station, stopping to consider the art along the way.
They lived in San Jose, and had just come down to Santa Cruz for the day. Here I was, feeling all out of place, wondering what I had to offer. But how many of those hip artist types could have spoken to these Muslim Iranians in their native tongue? I felt like God directly answered the insecure questions that had been nagging me inside, and showed me He could use anyone He wanted, however He wanted.
They just had to show up.
So there I am today, with the same thoughts running through my head. Not as many artsy cool people being docents this year, more people who look like me or who I know well. (Not that you are not artsy, Rosa, (hmmmm, maybe more "etsy") and you are way cool, but you are not intimidating in the least, esp. with that big friendly baby belly!) But still thinking, what am I doing here? Why did I volunteer? And then about halfway through my two-hour shift, my blood sugar started to crash and I went over to a nearby bagel shop for food. I was estatic to see they carried pumpernickel bagels, which I have not seen since my days at Lox, Stock & Bagel in my hometown in h.s. Topped that with a garlic herb cream cheese and tomato--yum! And then, for some strange reason, as I ordered, I paused and told them to give me two bagel sandwiches and not just one. I did not know why, I just thought, well, someone will eat it. I also got a Coke and apple juice for G and a muffin to share with her.
Back at the exhibit, I started wolfing down one half of one bagel sandwich, but noticed someone standing for a while in front of the particular art installation to which I had been assigned. So I went over and we talked for a few minutes. When I said goodbye and headed back to my bags of food, which was sitting on the edge of a concrete planter, I saw a young woman going through them. Now, you out of towners should know that there are lots of young homeless people hanging around downtown, usually begging. I quickly headed over and nicely said, "Oh, that's my lunch." She sincerely apologized, saying she had asked the people standing by if the food was theirs and no one had claimed it. I said that was no problem, but was she hungry? She nicely said, "Yes, I am." And I, reaching into the bag, could say honestly and happily, "Well, this one is for you!" and give her the second bagel sandwich. I told her I did not know why I even got it, except that I knew it was someone's. And that someone was her.
I even asked her, worried for a moment, if she liked pumpernickel, since not everyone does. She said she did. Later I thought that was silly of me--as if she would have turned down any food if she was genuinely hungry. And yet, maybe it was not such a silly instinct--maybe it conveyed to her that I cared and was not just giving it to her out of embarassment or guilt.
Shortly after the young woman had walked away, another young woman came up to me. I did not know her, but she might have been someone from Vintage Faith--nose rings and tatoos being prevelent in our church body--or she might have just been someone checking out the art. She said she had seen the entire thing, and basically just wanted to tell me how much she was glad at how it ended up. I told her what I told the other young woman, that I don't know what made me get the sandwich, but it was meant for her, and I was just happy to have had it for her.
So once again, God put me in just the place where he wanted me, for one encounter with one person who needed to feel the touch of a loving God. And maybe the encounter touched not just the homeless woman, but also the woman who had watched, and who knows whom else?
Just because I showed up, and waited for God to move, and then followed along.
But of course later, in the car on the way home, as I finally opened that Coke, I realized I did not even really want it, and don't know why I got it--so it must have been for her too! Darn it!
I'm sorry, homeless girl, for drinking your Coke. May you feel the love of God, who sent his Son to die for you that Good Friday so long ago, and who cares that you were hungry today.
