Multi-Colored Window Panes

Several years ago, I was asked to be the “Lottie Moon” International Missionary guest speaker for a church that I knew pretty well.    I remembered this church fondly from my childhood years, because my church and this church weren’t dissimilar at all and were close enough to each other to be able to have a nice little rivalry with our respective softball teams.   It wasn’t quite like going home for me, but rather more like going to visit an aunt and uncle who live out of state.   This was a date on the calendar that I was really looking forward to attending.  

Driving to the church I observed the “new” community.   My goodness how it had changed.   Where once had been green fields with horses, cows and big houses in the middle of it all were now multi-unit housing projects everywhere.    Where once there was a two lane lonely road through a pine thicket forest there was now a 6 lane highway bordered by hundreds of restaurants, shops and malls.   As I fought through the traffic to arrive, I smiled because there it was, just like it had always been.    There was the same red brick, though the front porch did look a little bigger than I remembered.    I spied the same windows with multicolored panes that allowed the sunlight through to the inside, but wouldn’t allow for any real visibility from the inside to the outside.   As I walked through the front door I noticed there was new carpet, and the place smelled of fresh paint and flowers.   Whereupon immediately I was greeted like the returning conquering king.    I know it is probably prideful, but honestly I have always enjoyed that type of greeting.  I suppose it feeds my ego to a great degree.  

Shortly thereafter, as I stood sharing my stories from far away of watching God do great miracles, planting churches where before there had been none, I could barely contain this growing sadness within.   From that pulpit as I looked from top to bottom and side to side all around me were familiar faces.   This should have been fun.    The names associated with those faces that I remembered so well were everywhere, and I couldn’t understand this inner turmoil.   What should have been an incredible family visit for me was quickly turning a little sour.  From the pulpit I couldn’t figure out why.   After the stories had been shared and the invitation given I was invited to the fellowship hall for a nice church-wide luncheon.   I struggle with turning down free food – especially fried chicken – so I graciously followed along and filled my plate to overflowing.   Golly Pete, how I love a great after-church potluck.    I have often thought that whoever invented that idea should get a free pass to heaven, but even as much as I enjoy great well prepared Southern fried foods and all the fixins, I wanted to get out of there.   I couldn’t breathe.  

   

Later when the feast was finished and the goodbyes were said, and the last hug was given, I walked to my car and left the premises.   As I was pulling out of the parking lot, across the street I spied ethnic children laughing, running and playing on an apartment complex’s playground.   I saw their mothers wearing their traditional garb standing at full alert and quietly talking with the other mothers who were there doing the same.   I pulled into that apartment complex where I saw hundreds of people, who weren’t from around these parts.    Then I drove through another and then another.   I drove around some of the shops lining that six lane highway and spied all sorts of different cultures among the crowds.   At the mall I got out and walked all through it.   It was a multi-culture mecca.   I heard languages that didn’t sound familiar.   I made a game out of trying to figure out someone’s language or place their accent and then discovering if I was right.    Standing there alone in that crowd – one of the few white people – I suddenly realized why the family visit turned so gloomy.    I didn’t visit with family at all.   I didn’t know them.   They weren’t my brothers, sisters or even long lost cousins.   I don’t know who they were.   My family would have invited these strangers I am looking at to sit with them and dine with them.   

As I left that mall, my prayer for that unfamiliar group of people with whom I told some mission stories and shared in their fried chicken earlier in the day became “God please change the window panes, so they can see who is left outside.”