There is an edge to the people we serve on Sunday mornings. Often times
as I come downstairs and encounter the line that is already formed, I
am assaulted by the scent of....
Fresh sweat and dirty feet.
Dried blood from last night's bar fight.
Earthy, fluid exchange residue from being used.
Distinctive breathes full of hard liquor.
The rawness of not having the advantage of daily bathing routines.
These all mingle together into one intoxicating mess.
The very essence of broken people.
The
folks who come to eat with us on Sunday mornings don't have their lives
together. And in that aspect, they are very much like me. Sure, I may
"gussy" myself up and spray some perfume, but inside I am broken.
And the only thing that could ever fix me was the grace of Jesus Christ.
So I humbly stand in line with them.
I eat my eggs and toast with them.
I look them in the eye, pat them on the back and hug them around the neck.
In our exchanges, sometimes I come home smelling like them.
And when I do, I sense God's favor.
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