People always seem surprised to hear that the parking team at my church starts serving before 6:00am.
And I usually respond to that surprise with “The bakery folks get here way before I do.” In fact, the bakery folks drive the few cars that we don’t direct; and they get front row parking on the hill.
The hill is a mowed-grass area above and behind the 425 paved spots reserved for those who attend my church but don’t serve there yet. There are no parking spot lines painted on the hill’s grass. Even if there were, hill parkers would struggle to see them. See, through much of the year, worship, tech, and KidStuf team members arrive behind their headlights, because the sun hasn’t risen yet.
That’s where I come into the picture. My role includes setting reflective cones out on the road and over 60 cones on the campus to direct traffic. I wear a blue L.E.D. headlamp on my reflective cap and wave orange light wands in front of my reflective vest. I organize the hill just by how I park the early arrivers—in rows two vehicles deep with ten paces’ worth of exit aisle in between the rows. Once I get all the rows started, I descend to the asphalt to meet my first service parking team for prayer and then greet the vehicles that carry the thousand or so people that will fill the building by 8:30am.
At least a couple times a month, one of the pre-dawn arrivers will say something like, “Thanks for what you do up here.” From the way it usually sounds, I feel compelled to tell them, “Oh, I love it up here. I get to watch the moon set and the sun rise. I get to start my worship early.”
It’s not really serving to me. The air is fresh and usually crisp. The sky is huge and not polluted by the retail and restaurant lights that refract in the sky above my city subdivision. Many of the people walking down the hill to the building are friends, and this is my weekly non-Facebook interaction with them. After working in my basement all week, I’m ready for both fresh breaths, an infinite ceiling, and the human interaction.
This past Sunday, though, a tangible “thank you” took me by surprise. Bakery volunteers, Faith and Mindy, were walking in the dark from the building toward the hill. From the light poles down on the asphalt, I could see that their hands held a napkin, a drink, and a ‘roni roll—hot out of the oven.
I buy and eat between 75 and 100 ‘roni rolls each year from my church’s cafe, which sells food only on Sundays and breakfasts for only about three hours on those Sundays. I’m known for my addiction to these breakfast rolls and their shredded pepperoni & cheese fillings. Long story short, that ‘roni roll was for me on the first cool Sunday morning of 2012’s autumn.
It was an emotional moment for me, yet I didn’t know how to feel. I was moved by the gesture, but I felt awkward for being the sole recipient. Love, respect, and appreciation wafted with the smell of bread, protein, and dairy; but I didn’t feel like what I love to do needed to be rewarded. This was a welcome moment on the horizontal level, and I felt something vertical in motion.
So, I’m writing all of this to:
- process that moment, because I’ve spent all week trying to determine how to retell an indelible scene that has me choked up, even 160 hours later as I type, and
- shed light on the hearts of the people who serve in the Blue Ridge Community Church cafe as a token of gratitude for their thoughtful gesture.
As for my personal takeaway, this is what I’ve got right now:
- God’s heart is expressed by the actions that spill from ours.
- Finding where God wants you to serve will be rewarding in itself, but sometimes he puts a cherry on top.
- I am blessed beyond what I deserve.
- Don’t pass on opportunities laid on your heart to encourage someone else in their calling.
- Share poignant moments with others.
How ’bout you? If this happened to you, what would be your takeaway?
