This past Monday, I read the Reader's Vespers at our church, St. Seraphim's Orthodox Cathedral, as I do every other Monday--I alternate weeks with my dad. The service is about 30 minutes long, consisting of psalms and prayers "read" - chanted in a straight tone - by the reader. It is a simple and beautiful service, the participation in which is usually the first step taken by those aspiring to a higher calling within the Church. On most weeknights, attendance can be counted on one hand. Sometimes no one comes, and the service is held just the same, one of many forms of keeping vigil between the weekly Sunday liturgies. On this particular Monday, I saw a few familiar faces, but the woman who approached me in the parking lot afterward was someone I'd never met.
She called to me across the few cars, asking if I knew whether or not the restrooms were open. When I looked up, I saw a black woman in her 40s, neatly but simply dressed and carrying a bag. She appeared to have come from the alleyway behind the church, so given her question, the satchel, and the fact that I'd never seen her before (only "regulars" attend the Reader's Vespers), I assumed she was homeless and looking for one of the priests. I was about to leave when she got my attention, and I easily and truthfully could have told her that the restrooms were closed. I felt instead that I should offer to go back in the church, get the key and unlock the restroom for her. As I did, she began making conversation, mentioning that one of the other regulars was the only person she had recognized that night. I instantly reassessed my initial assumption, thinking that perhaps she was a new member, or just someone I'd never noticed before. When she emerged from the restroom, she asked my name, and introduced herself as Catherine. Then she asked if I had any spare soda.
The question naturally caught me off guard, and while simultaneously thinking "I guess I was right before" and responding automatically "no, I sure don't," I remembered that I did, in fact, have some spare soda. As a hopeless caffeine addict, I keep a 12-pack of Coke behind the driver's seat of our car, making for easy dispensing before I get out for work each night. Instead of letting my perfectly reasonable answer be the end of this uncomfortable encounter, I corrected myself with a rather bracing honesty. "Actually, that's not true Catherine" I said. "I think I do have some Coke in my car." I locked up the church and went over to the car, where I found two cans left. I offered her one, saying "It's a little warm, but you're welcome to it." She didn't thank me; she just said "oh!", half excited, half bemused I think--as if to say, "oh look at that--you sure
do have some spare soda." With that simple exclamation, she headed back in the direction of the alley.
As I drove away, I saw her sitting on a bench across the corner. She was drinking her warm Coke right there, with the same satisfied expression I wear after every sip: just what I needed. I said a prayer for her, and as prayers often do, it drifted into thoughts about what had just happened. It didn't seem like much, a can of warm Coke on a warm evening, but to her, it was probably an unexpected treat, a little pick-me-up to give her that "buzz" she needed to walk to the next place. I know it does the trick for me on a rough night at work, knowing I have that small luxury waiting for me in the break room. And this made me realize, as prayers often do, how truly blessed I am. that I have access to a fridge to chill my Coke. that I have enough money to support that intestine-corroding habit. that I have a church where I am home, where I can unlock the restroom anytime I need it. I complain and stress out over what I don't have, what I think I need, what I see all around me, but the sad truth is that so many have so little, and even sadder, that those who have so much fail to appreciate their blessings and acknowledge the Source. Seeing the look of temporarily satisfied restlessness on Catherine's face, a reflection of my own, the words to an Indigo Girls song came to mind. Those troubled poets have a way of expressing life's essence so indelibly that their politics and lifestyle are somehow transcended.
"Cold Beer and Remote Control" is the song, and for me it captures perfectly the meaning of the phrase "there but for the grace of God go I". This country, this world, can seem a sad and hopeless place when you meet someone like Catherine, someone living a life that no one would choose. How did she get there? How did I get where I am, for that matter? And where's it all headed?
I thank the Lord for the simple pleasures, like warm Coke, cold beer, and remote control, but I praise Him for the greatness of a grace that swallows me whole - like Leviathan swallowed Jonah, redeeming him through the trial - and His control of my life, so far from remote.
