A few years back, I sat in a prison church service feeling bored and slightly frustrated by the disorganized progression and unpreparedness of the volunteer leading the service. I had no experience with this volunteer, so I didn't know if this disorganization was the norm or an anomaly.
My mind wandered to all the more productive things I could be doing rather than seemingly wasting my time there. Little things that normally miss my attention suddenly captured it. The lights were too dim, the seats were old and uncomfortable, another prisoner behind me sniffled annoyingly. I wished I could get up and leave without being rude. Then the volunteer said, "We have a little extra time. Would anyone like to get up and share a testimony?"
I groaned inwardly because invariably, someone would take far too much time telling us his life story, and it would sound very much like the last one I'd heard. I struggled to keep perspective and remember that each man is a person who wants what we all want -- to be loved and accepted by others.
A quiet young man with a chubby face who is seated at the end of my row stood up and moved to the front. My curiosity piqued a little because he wasn't your typical ready-to-share prisoner. I found myself now wanting to stay and hear what he had to say.
He got to the lectern and adjusted the mic down so it pointed to his mouth, while he shifted uncomfortably and looked down at the floor, terrified to speak. When he does, his voice is so quiet, and he is mumbling slightly.
"Hi. My name is B____. Today is my birthday."
I groan again inwardly. Attention seeker! The young man continues, oblivious to my internal dialogue.
"I almost didn't have this birthday because one month ago, I tried to commit suicide."
I stopped talking to myself, my mind suddenly silent, jolted from its judgmental narrative. I'm ready to listen now, completely unaware of the distractions of moments before.
"I can't even tell my mom," the young man continues, "because I don't want her to know that she almost lost her son. I didn't die because God saved me when the C.O.s found me. I know it was wrong to try to kill myself, and I'm glad God gave me another chance."
He shuffled back to his seat, and I sat there feeling condemned. I came to the service looking for what I could get from it, not what I could bring to it. This young man, the same age as my oldest child, was sitting four seats away from me, hurting, and I barely even noticed him.
I sat quietly, my mind still silent as I let the moment sink in. I was surrounded by hurting people, each one with his own burden of guilt, shame, and longing for significance. I felt ashamed for my own selfish focus.
A few minutes later, I left the service, soberly reminded of what Cornelius Plantinga, Jr. said in his book "Engaging God's World":
"The way to thrive is to help others to thrive; the way to flourish is to cause others to flourish; the way to fulfill yourself is to spend yourself."
My mind wandered to all the more productive things I could be doing rather than seemingly wasting my time there. Little things that normally miss my attention suddenly captured it. The lights were too dim, the seats were old and uncomfortable, another prisoner behind me sniffled annoyingly. I wished I could get up and leave without being rude. Then the volunteer said, "We have a little extra time. Would anyone like to get up and share a testimony?"
I groaned inwardly because invariably, someone would take far too much time telling us his life story, and it would sound very much like the last one I'd heard. I struggled to keep perspective and remember that each man is a person who wants what we all want -- to be loved and accepted by others.
A quiet young man with a chubby face who is seated at the end of my row stood up and moved to the front. My curiosity piqued a little because he wasn't your typical ready-to-share prisoner. I found myself now wanting to stay and hear what he had to say.
He got to the lectern and adjusted the mic down so it pointed to his mouth, while he shifted uncomfortably and looked down at the floor, terrified to speak. When he does, his voice is so quiet, and he is mumbling slightly.
"Hi. My name is B____. Today is my birthday."
I groan again inwardly. Attention seeker! The young man continues, oblivious to my internal dialogue.
"I almost didn't have this birthday because one month ago, I tried to commit suicide."
I stopped talking to myself, my mind suddenly silent, jolted from its judgmental narrative. I'm ready to listen now, completely unaware of the distractions of moments before.
"I can't even tell my mom," the young man continues, "because I don't want her to know that she almost lost her son. I didn't die because God saved me when the C.O.s found me. I know it was wrong to try to kill myself, and I'm glad God gave me another chance."
He shuffled back to his seat, and I sat there feeling condemned. I came to the service looking for what I could get from it, not what I could bring to it. This young man, the same age as my oldest child, was sitting four seats away from me, hurting, and I barely even noticed him.
I sat quietly, my mind still silent as I let the moment sink in. I was surrounded by hurting people, each one with his own burden of guilt, shame, and longing for significance. I felt ashamed for my own selfish focus.
A few minutes later, I left the service, soberly reminded of what Cornelius Plantinga, Jr. said in his book "Engaging God's World":
"The way to thrive is to help others to thrive; the way to flourish is to cause others to flourish; the way to fulfill yourself is to spend yourself."
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