The Angel In The Bookstore. And When Color Draws People Together.

With writing overdue, swimming, infant respite this summer…I just couldn’t make one more decision.

“Where do you want to go?  School shoes shopping or the the bookstore?”

Husband had been working late, it was well after dinner and I just didn’t want to go home.

I thought for sure my seven year old would pick shoes.  After all, we just added another pole in her closet to hang even more unnecessary excess amounts of clothes upon.

But, I hear her, matter a fact, there in her car seat a row back, “Bookstore.”

“O.k.” I take a deep breath out, having no strength to argue.  After fifteen kids and counting, I have learned that more often the Holy Spirit speaks through children….than through big people.

And I wanted to hear His voice wherever it came from.  So I listened to my child.

We pull in, wrong time of day.  People swarm the place. And if anything I wanted refuge from…it was here in this place. Needy people.

So I pretend to be invisible.  My white skin glowing, my African American daughter with a huge pom pom sitting high upon her head.  It was as if announcing unapologetically….“Hey, Look at us.”

I should have learned invisible is impossible, when you are as diverse as us.  When you are in, the deep of the city I came from.

I run to the Christian section.  I need strength.  Anything.  It’s late and I am tired….feeling more like a spent coin, constantly trying to recycle herself…than a mom, a wife, a person filled overflowing with the joy of Christ.

I look, but not really.  Amazon, I’d just contacted and books were quickly filling up my mailbox.

What was I looking for anyway?  Why were we even here?

My daughter’s drawn to a stool nearby.  As if it’s the last one standing.  Ever.  And I relax there, surrounded by strangers is a store I know all too well.

Daughter cuddles up next to me.  And I just want to fall fast a sleep, but it’s a long way home and the night is still young.

People are looking.  I point a few faces I recognize in the direction of Beth Moore.  Then slip around the corner, before they try to chat.

I can’t fill up another heart…when I am empty.  I can’t offer more encouragement, when I am the one beyond tired from giving.

My daughter leaves my lap and tries to pull the stool across the carpet, but it is far

too heavy.  And I am too lazy to help.

Then an African American lady turns her whole body towards us.  I know what she is going to say. Something about my daughter’s hair.  She does.

“I know somewhere you can take your daughter to do her hair.”

I always get that.

And boy do I never despise engaging with adults the color of my child.  I want to seek, learn, know….teach my child what it means to be African American.  And how can I do that, if I am choosing isolation over fellowship.  Confinement over introductions and self-entitlement instead of receiving lessons from those I have never met.

This lady, like the others, looks familiar. Except instead of asking…needing…draining me.  She has something different.  A joy that seems to fill…..Wants to fill this deficit within me.

I let down my frustration of a hectic summer and engage with her.

She starts sharing her life.  Opening her wallet and showing me her five kids.  We talk about hair, and life, and family….and all the things that make us the same.

I love her.  Instantly.  Relaxing in her presence.  It is as if I had known her, seen her, been a part of her life in some strange peculiar way.

But the strangest thing is unintentionally, I am growing stronger, more confident, happier in these moments I talk with my new friend.  This sweetest Grandma.

Then, the confusion. The questions.  Get answers.

She digs in her purse and I see tracks gripped by her fingers.

“Ohhhh, you are a Christian!!?”  I rush up to hug her.  Fully relaxing.  Seeing our faith connection. Knowing this is why I feel so comfortable with her, so loved, so believed it.  So treasured.

“We are too, I respond.”  My seven year old smiles at the connection between us.  She had been eyeing this God fellowship from the beginning, recognizing something was different from all those others strangers I am usually quick to talk with in places prior.

We are of the same family….despite the color of our skin.  And it is beautiful.  A witness.  A testimony.  A God encounter, for sure.  

We take the tracts. We tell her, of course we will read them and pass them along to others.

I hesitate to leave, but it is getting later.  My gas tank full…not empty as I leave this place; pulling myself away from this dear lady that is now like family.

We walk by the stool, kicking it, mockingly.

“I will see you again.”  I tell her.  “Either here or in heaven.” Smiling from cheek to cheek.

“Amen” her voice resounded.  Her sweet disposition telling me our hearts and lives will forever be connected.

And it is amazing how a stranger can bless us.  How we can go somewhere empty and God can place angels all around us….who are waiting to share His purposes, His love…His goodness.

And though the night was still long.  The shopping for shoes seems menial and unnecessary.

Driving home, I embrace again the real value, not of skin color….but of family.  Family who will not only take, demand, ask, and hoard.  But those who are willing to lift you up, encourage, support, and offer love….

When the day is long.  The journey needing someone, a stranger, to appear like God’s messenger, a light…

His angel in a bookstore.

(Linking with Tracy @ Daily Walk, Emily)