You are the treasure; You are the key; You are the door.

When I was in a Bible study in college, I remember my leader saying that when she came face to face with God, the first thing she would ask him was why on earth did he choose to show his love for us through others. Why did he decide that people were a good idea? Why did he think we were up to such a great and unfathomable and, surely impossible task? How can we, who are hurting and wounded and selfish and poor in spirit, how can we show God's love effectively to others?

Last week Seth and I had our emotionally-charged conversation that had been building for weeks. The kids were napping, I was heading to the grocery store, and Seth very gently brought up that he had noticed how stressed out I was. My defenses instantly prickled up all over my body as I avoided eye contact, matter-of-factly told him that he was right, picked up my purse, and planned to go walk the aisles of Wal-Mart angry and alone. But something stopped me. Conscience, maybe. Or some shred of goodness. And Seth, with wisdom and obviously well-thought words, told me that he was not concerned at all about the parenting that our children are receiving. He didn't think they were lacking in anything, but rather, he was worried that I was being crushed by the weight of parenting.

Cue emotional breakdown. And you can imagine the rest. Yes and yes. Lots of tears, lots of words. But lots of patience, too. The conversation ended with some resolve--with ideas for proactive ways to help me along through the days. And with me deciding to focus on the present. I was still crying when I got in the van to go shopping, and I listened to this song on repeat. I felt entirely drained, felt like I deserved all the chocolate in the world, felt like all I wanted was to wander the craft aisle aimlessly and without time restraint. (What else does anyone want, really?) As I pulled into the parking lot I passed a man with a cardboard sign, having written his woes, asking for help.

Let me tell you, I am suspicious of panhandlers. Maybe it's from my background--where helping and enabling seem synonymous. I never feel like giving money is a great idea. I don't know this person's heart. Or history. Or where he's going. Or what he's planning to do. Maybe he's an addict, maybe he walked out on his children. Maybe he's just like so many people in my family who really just need people to stop bailing them out of their troubles. But I felt so prompted to help this man. This man wasn't asking for money, he had an empty gas can beside him and his sign asked for gas and food so he could get back to his family in Phoenix. I drove past him. I pulled into a spot. I actually had the thought, "But this time is supposed to be for me. This is about my hurt."

I sat there for awhile, waiting for my heart to rest. It wouldn't. I put the car in drive and went to the man and asked him if I could buy him some gas. He handed me the gas can through the window and said thank you in a heavy accent. I went across the street and filled it up with the tiny amount of gas that wouldn't get him very far. I went inside and got him water and juice and chips and trail mix. And it seemed so silly! So miniscule! I was thinking of whether this stranger would like sunflower seeds or peanuts, ranch chips or cheddar. Thinking of what would be the healthiest protein for him to have on his journey.

I went back and parked, walked the man the bag of snacks, the can of gas. He clasped his hands and bowed and looked truly grateful. He said thank you several times. I could hardly talk. I just said, I hope you get there. I turned around, tears streaming down my face, and walked back to the van to see another woman bringing him a jug of juice. It felt like.....salve on a wound.

I have been surrounded by love. From my husband who urged me to go to the doctor, who is now, at the park with the kids, who did our kitchen renovation the last two days with virtually no help from me. Who listens to me complain, goes to the grocery store, makes food.  My friends with so many kind words and actions, who ask if they can help. Who do help all the time! Who watch my kids, and talk and listen, who share the burden, who get me out of the house, who laugh with me. My family who writes to check up on me, who tells me they love me and that I'm doing a good job. My sister-in-law who babysits while sick herself so I can go to the doctor. Who tells me when I try to offer reciprocity: You don't owe me anything. Waves upon waves of grace.

I don't know why God does things the way that he does. But I know that I am just like that man, writing my woes, asking for help. And I know that we are all the ones who help, wounded ourselves, helping out of our pain, hoping for goodness to come out in spite of everything else. The Church really is a beautiful, tangible thing. It is the best medicine all the way around.