Times change

I was born in Canada into a middle-class Ukrainian family. Initially, only my grandmother went to church, so I learned about Jesus Christ at school. I liked Him right from the outset and always found Him to be quite approachable. He, in fact, quickly became my best Friend. By the time I was 30, an adult rendezvous with Jesus occurred, and I entered into a friendship with Him again (not that He had ever left).

With my enthusiasm for Christ reborn, my spirit flew. Every chance that I had I spoke passionately of Jesus. Clad in blue jeans and sandals, I spoke to my friends and to my neighbours. I spoke to everyone. I spoke as if I had known Him all my life, which, of course, I pretty well had.

Sooner or later, I began to attend church because I had heard that this was expected of a Christian. Initially I was excited and looked forward to the company of others who had had the same Christ experience that I had had.

However, things soon took a turn away from my expectations, as I found myself swept into the tangled legalities of church life: no more sandals, no blue jeans, no chance to speak about Him without the proper training. Disheartened and dampened in spirit, I gradually learned to respectfully maintain a level-headed stillness.

After one Sunday service, however, the pungent aroma of hot coffee lured me into the church fellowship room, where a light lunch was being served. Carrying a fresh cup of coffee, I sat properly on one of the folding chairs, positioned across from a middle-aged woman. The woman and I began to chat. Although I initially attempted to maintain the reposed polish befitting a Christian girl, I soon found myself talking rather freely. I spoke about the Christ who loved me – who had changed my life, filled my days with sunshine and joy, and even given me a miracle or two. Despite myself, I spoke without restraint, as in the former days on the bus and on the streets, in sandals and blue jeans.

As I continued in this manner, I unexpectedly saw a tear begin to slide down the woman’s cheek. I stopped speaking. The woman was silent. Had I offended her? Was she ill? Had I talked too much and not listened enough to her? Had I broken a church rule of etiquette?

In an apologetic tone, I asked, “Why are you crying?”

As the woman looked at me, another tear fell from her eyes. “It is so seldom that I hear the name of Jesus here.” The woman had been spiritually hungry.

I do not know what became of that woman. I do not believe that I ever saw her again. However, I like to think that our encounter made a difference in her life. It made a difference in mine: I returned to blue jeans and sandals and to speaking about Jesus to everyone. Why, I even brought Him to church.

Gloria Jeanne Lise is a retired teacher, now a freelance writer and columnist living in Edmonton.