Purposefully Listening

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Her hand wiped the table clean as if directing the music of her praise song, her vocal statement uttered to herself--but purposefully out loud to bring her morning worship to the Lord.  She caught my attention immediately and I listened--purposefully.

"Give me Jesus, Give me Jesus.

You can have all the world,

But give me Jesus."

 

We (sister and I), sat in the self-serve breakfast area of the hotel, after gathering our meal choices, a freshly-made waffle, the butter pooling in grid pockets, bacon curling around the plate and the coffee awakening us to the day. Soon enough, this WOULD be a day to reflect on generations past.

 

Staying over night in a town called Springerville; it is just outside of another town we planned on heading out to after checking out. That town, my grandfather's birthplace and that of his father and his father's father, awaited our discovery. It is called St. John. in the state of Arizona.

 

"I like your song," I said. She looked up at me and smiled as she contined to work.

 

A middle-aged man came into the dining room; a man she obviously knew and began to chit-chat with. My sister and I eavesdropped on their playful banter.

 

He finished his quick meal then left after a hug and good-bye words. She resumed her duties and her singing--a different tune, but one I knew as well continuing to give praise to her Lord while maintaining her work area, servicing her guests.

 

Such peace I began to feel as I listened to her soft worship.

 

"I know that song too," I said. She then came over to our table as I continued to sing some of the lyrics with her.

 

"Was that the owner of the hotel?" I inquired.

 

"Oh no. He works for the railroad. He always stays here."  (long pause). He almost died last year...his heart."

 

She stopped again and looked at me, resumed her singing. This third song surprisingly contemporary for this older saint. She continued to stand in front of our table, apron tied crisp around her waist; her years neatly laid out on her thankful face. And she began to sing:

I looked over at my sis as tears naturally began to well up.

"This song means a lot to us, it's special to my sister," Lauren said.

The waitress, she stops singing, folds her hands in front of her and looks at me as if searching for my own truth.

She speaks: "You are recovering, aren't you." (It was a statement, not a question).

"Yes," I said. And I knew what she meant as all three of us began to sing the chorus again, a dream of Heaven and eternity.

"I have a son in Heaven. It's been five years."

She cupped her hands over mine, continuing to sing, lavishing her words and her quiet confidence in her Lord.

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"Wow, that was wierd," Lauren would say as we headed out.

"These things happen to me a lot. You know. I write about it. This time, God showed up to both of us. You experienced this blessing with me! How cool is that! Sometimes, God is not exclusive. I think this was more for you."

Driving to St. John forty minutes down the road, we'd find ourselves later standing in an antiquated cemetary among numerous grave markers embellished with my family name, listening to thunder and lightening cracking the dark, ominous sky.  (This story to be cont.).

No Lord, I could never imagine what amazing blessings You pour out to me, even while sitting in a small hotel, in an out of the way town, by perfect strangers. (or walking the streets of Flagstaff). These things have an eternal meaning, for You purposed us to reflect Your glory here and I have met your servants along the way. Thank you for singing waitresses and for giving me glimpses of Your Glory. Amen.