But at this point in my life, I was stumbling through the dark and none of the above morsels of truth shone bright enough to help me see Him there with me. I was convinced that He was not there. That He must not exist, and that if He did exist, He had completely abandoned me as unworthy.
As far as I was concerned, I was better off dead. So much better off that I clutched a razor blade, holding it to my wrist in the women's restroom at Southside Christian Church during a sorority retreat.
In my head, I was yelling out to Him.... "Show yourself!" almost like I expected Him to swoop down and save me Touched-By-An-Angel-style from this ridiculous exploitation of my own free will. But the truth is, I wanted to feel Him there. I wanted to feel anything. I just wanted to feel.
I'm going to be frank and say that that year was one of the hardest of my life., as it is for most young women. I had to adjust to new surroundings, new people, new ways of life. I was so naive in some ways that I thought college was going to be so much better than anything I had experienced before. That I would be surrounded by mature adults who didn't care about the fact that I was different, because we all were. That I could finally stop focusing on "fitting" or "belonging" somewhere, because none of us would fit, and we'd all belong as misfits together.
Better yet. None of us would care.
College was that experience in many ways, but it didn't really become that dream experience until I matured into the woman I needed to be to make it happen.
At that particular moment in the bathroom stall my freshman year, all I knew was how alone I felt. I couldn't see past the blinders of my own loneliness. Sometimes, loneliness speaks loudest in a crowded room.... and this particular day was no exception. I had absconded, backpack in hand, into the bathroom to escape the trust exercises and craft circles and story-sharing with women I barely knew, to be in there alone with the only voice I could hear anyway-- the one of the Enemy.
If you know me and you read this blog on the regular, you know that I did not carry out his plan for me that day. You know that kind words from a sister who entered the restroom to wash her hands--unaware of the torment I was experiencing in that bathroom stall-- stopped me. They weren't much, those words, but I remember that she told me how excited she was to get to know me better and how glad she was that we had pledged together.
I didn't leave that stall completely unburdened that day. I still had plenty of work to do on my own to face my demons.... but I did leave that stall. An act I credit wholeheartedly to that sister and to God. He didn't "show Himself" to me that day through any miraculous manifestation, but through her words, through her kindness, I could feel that He was there.
Months later, I stood in front of my peers at Centre Christian Fellowship to tell the story of the day I had finally come to see God from the inside of a bathroom stall.
He is there, in your smile at that scowling stranger on the street. He is there when you hold the door for the lady behind you at the store. He is there when you say "Hello,"and make eye contact upon entering an elevator. You may not think much of short pleasantries directed at strangers, but even the shortest has the potential to change someone's day.
Acknowledging another person, no matter how small the act, shows them that they matter to someone. That they're here for something. That maybe a day that to them, feels pointless, actually does have a point.
For some people: the homeless person on the street, the battered woman living in fear, the children alone and longing for the comforts of a good home, your small pleasantries may be the only kindnesses they see all day.
And I'm not exaggerating.
Be His eyes, ears, and smile for as many souls as you can today. It's the simplest act of service you can share.
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