Several years ago I managed the kitchen at a retirement facility. It was the best job I’d ever had, for several reasons. I got to cook while someone else washed the dishes. There was unlimited butter, cream, and wine, and I could make just about whatever I wanted. I loved the residents, and they loved me. It paid enough to cover our basement-hole-apartment rent.
Unfortunately, the director of the facility was a poor manager of people and regularly made his employees feel misused. People were quitting left and right. At one point, I had to hire my mom and brother on as temporary kitchen help because we were so short staffed. I eventually got fed up, too. It just so happened that the week I handed in my resignation, the residents had filled out a survey regarding the activities offered at our facility. I halfheartedly flipped through the pages, sad to be leaving my favorite older folks, curious to see their opinions on paper. The survey was a list of ratings of various things–outings, yoga, weight lifting, dining–and each activity was ranked on a scale of one to five. At the bottom I saw the last category…Spiritual development/services. It garnered a whopping one on the scale. I knew I could do something.
Before I gave my two weeks’ notice to my boss, I asked him if I might be able to start up a Bible study for the residents, citing the “spiritual development” survey rating. He thought it was a super idea. It wasn’t the best timing (he was quite flustered when I quit my job a day later), but I had permission to continue, and I wouldn’t have to cut ties with my older friends at the retirement home.
I talked Joe into leading a Bible study with me, but we argued every time we tried to sit down and plan it out. I printed off the entire book of John in large print copies to hand out to participants. We wrote down a few questions, planning to go through a chapter per week. Then, every Wednesday night, we drove in stony silence all the way to Bible study, me feeling irritated he didn’t care enough (he didn’t), he thinking me an irrational worrywart (I was). We surreptitiously slipped out the door each week so I wouldn’t have to see all my old friends and feel sad that I didn’t work there anymore.
It was a total flop. At least, it felt like it. Only a few residents came. Most of them listened dutifully, glued to their seats, lips sealed. We studied the whole book of John and moved on to Acts. Arthur, a man of about 95 years, was the most vocal participant. He consistently played devil’s advocate, as if we were some seminary graduates who had any idea how to describe the geography of Greece or explain why John chapter 8 includes italicized words.
To promote generosity, we took up an offering for a special project–wheelchairs to send to Uganda. One lady gave ten dollars and wanted me to provide a tax receipt. This boggled my mind. I was crushed. I had anticipated great joy–beautiful fellowship! And here it felt like closed minds, closed mouths, closed hearts. I was twenty-something, a college dropout, working at a temp agency after quitting my favorite job. My young marriage was strained, I was inexperienced with apologetics (sorry, Art) and supremely discouraged.
Still, there were hints of gratitude, old ladies who hugged us and thanked us and worried when it thunderstormed and we couldn’t make it to a meeting. I loved those people. Even Art and his curmudgeonly affections won me over. It was enough to keep us afloat.
We continued the Bible study for a year and a half. Meanwhile, Joe and I both finished college. We found jobs in another state. We announced to our little group that we were leaving.
Before we departed, I called up my friend in ministry at the local college. I told him about our small study group; I did not tell him about the struggle. I said, “We don’t want this to die. If you think you can keep it going, I’m sure the residents would be so thankful.”
I really thought it would die. I had mostly forgotten why we had started it.
It was twelve years ago this May.
Every once in awhile my friend, Lance, gives me updates. It never died. In fact, it grew. It’s growing. Students from Lance’s ministry serve with him. Old people and young people are changed. Lance has told me of generous residents who have given tens of thousands of dollars to grow the work of the Lord in the community there (I’m sure they are able to get a tax receipt, for the record). I can hardly believe it when he writes me the news.
I had such little faith–probably exactly the size of a mustard seed.
I’m continually blown away at what God can do when I offer him my few loaves of bread. He has never failed to multiply it.
I wonder about Art, Jane, Max, Ming, and the rest of our core group from twelve years ago. They are all gone now. Those meetings seemed a bit futile, but we still opened the word of God. It wasn’t a waste; it is never a waste. I’m thankful for Lance who knew an opportunity when he saw one. I’m thankful for years that pass, because that’s the only way for roots to grow deep. I’m thankful for a tangible picture of God’s faithfulness in my life. He redeems everything, everything.
It makes me brave.
