An Ideal Saturday

The automatic doors swung open, and I couldn’t help the smile on my face as we walked in. Kelly looked around, “So what makes this place so special?” I pointed up and down to the 7 floors that we could see via the open atrium in the middle, then swung my arm around to all the books that lined every open wall space and pillar. “Look! It’s heaven on earth!” And I took a hard right into the newest release section.

The colors were vibrant here, modern images leaping off hardback covers. Titles ranged from absurdly long (The Hundred-Year-Old Man who Climbed out of a Window and Disappeared) to a single word (Swashbuckler and Faces). Most names belonged to authors I’ve never heard of and will never master, but every now and then I recognized someone. “Ooh, the cute historian from Netflix has written a novel,” I elbowed Karen and grabbed a copy off the shelf.

Once I had a stack of books up to my chin, I made my way up to the 5th floor Cafe where I found a single table in the corner that was still free and dumped off my books. After a quick trip to the counter for a pot of tea and a cream scone, I settled into my customary routine at Foyle’s Bookstore: read the first chapter of each book and make a “never” pile, a “maybe” pile, and a “definitely” pile. This is my favorite part. I completely submerge into all kinds of stories and writing styles and allow myself to just react. Do I like it? If not, no need to analyze; just move on to the next one. No agenda or pressure, merely reading interrupted by sips of tea and a bite of scone. It’s my ideal Saturday.

Sadly, time passed. The tea got cold and eventually the stack of books was down to one. Karen and Kelly returned from their adventures outside the shop, and I moved toward the check-out counter. Of course that meant being forced to peruse my way through the gift section through the Lord of the Rings bookbags, Sherlock Holmes pencil cases, and a Jane Austen puzzle that somehow found its way into my arms. We exited through the automatic doors, my backpack distinctly fuller than when I had come in, and began to make our way home where I promptly plopped into my overstuffed chair and continued reading Cloud Cuckoo Land.

my new puzzle purchase

Grace to Listeners

I stopped wiping the tears from my eyes. It was pointless as every time a new person grabbed the microphone, fresh tears replaced the ones I had just removed. The focus of the attention was on the couple sitting just in front of me, retirees who had given the last 44 years of their lives to gospel-advancing work in this part of the world: my parents.

The praise was gushing - kind praise upon kind praise - but it was obvious that underneath the simple words were layers of lived-out stories, full of heart and hard. I only knew a glimpse of them: children failing out of their schools, police interrogations, men chasing vans with machetes, medical flight emergencies, entire schools being evacuated, car accidents, sickness, mistreatment, war, and one airport bombing. The presence and prayers that my parents provided over the years had been invaluable to many in the room, and as I heard praise after praise, my heart was filled up.

And I had to wonder about that. Why was it that merely witnessing words intended for someone else could fill me up? A quick cursory google search implies that hearing others be praised tends to fill us with jealousy and hatred. Was the night different only because the focus was my Mom and Dad? That didn’t seem to be it because several people came up to me afterwards and commented on how special that time had just been for them. Was it meaningful because I too had been on the receiving end of some of that Custer love? The more I’ve reflected on that beautiful night, the more convinced I am that the answer lies deeper. I’ve come to believe that hearing someone else’s thanks is designed to give life to anyone listening. It’s a building-up, a truth-speaking, an acknowledgement that a life wasn’t lived in isolation and shouldn't be. To be a witness to someone else’s praise is to be reminded that kind, helpful choices can lead to another’s good. It’s grace.

Ephesians 4:29 says, "Let no corrupting talk come out of your mouths, but only such as is good for building up, as fits the occasion, that it may give grace to those who hear." That's what I experienced: the reality that unmerited good came to us because of what Jesus did on the cross. My parents lived it out for 44 years, and people's recognize of the good they saw out loud passed on that unmerited good to all who heard. If that doesn't fill me up, then what will?

Time with the Parents a few days before that special night