Dorothy

Dorothy, when I first met you, you scared me. You were so rough, so ghetto, so very, very black. Your heavy African-American dialect was almost a foreign language to me. And the anger behind your eyes betrayed a deep hurt; a past I feared to even peek into (only much later did I learn about the father who would beat your senseless with an extension cord). When you got in my face and yelled at me after being in the inner city for only a week, I thought, "Well, Greg, you're not in Kansas anymore." You awakened me to a world of darkness and hatred and bitter animosity. I must say that your words were hurtful. The gruff, calloused tone you used with me made me feel belittled and childish and I wanted to retreat to suburbia where people are decent to each other. Sometimes you were downright out of control like when you stood up in church on a Sunday morning and berated your pastors for not visiting you often enough. We stood there -- shocked like deer in the headlights -- and took it. And licked our wounds later when the sanctuary emptied.

But then something or rather Someone did something to you. I don't know how. I confess I nearly stopped praying for you altogether. I had signed you off to darkness and thought God's grace too weak to permeate your thick hide.

I remember when you smiled at me for the first time -- those ivory teeth shining through your beautiful black face. Soon you began to joke with me and I learned to joke back. And when I dished it in return, you would rear your head back and roar with laughter. Somehow deep down a Healer was at work in you. I knew it wasn't me. But the walls were coming down.

Today, Dorothy, you're a new woman. Sure, you're still pretty rough around the edges and you still need to learn to keep your big mouth shut sometimes. But, darn it, you're fun to be around. Now when you gripe about how rotten your day has been I can see a twinkle in your eye and a smirk on your face. You've met Jesus and He's changed you. Now when you speak your rapid fire ghetto talk at me I can understand you better and I hear it loud and clear when you declare, "I love you, pastor." The first time you said it, it brought me to my knees in gratitude to God.

And then you called me last week. You were gushing. You sounded as giddy as a school girl on the first day of summer break. "Pastar, I just caint bu-lieve how GOOD God is to me! My grandbaby's gettin baptized and my whole family's gonna be there. We aint been togetha for twenty years! God's so GOOD. My grandbaby --she's sayin shes gonna start readin the bible and praying and going ta church and e'rythin. My own mama wanna come down from Chicaga's southside, but I tell her she caint do it since shes 72. Pastar, I aint never been so happy! God's done saved my whole family! I haven't been so thankful since before my son got shot in '87. I luv dis church and all the lovin people in it. And I love Jesus... He's so GOOD, so GOOD!"

Dorothy, pardon my saying so, but if God can save you, he can save anyone. And He's "done saved you." You keep telling me (with the force of a hurricane) every week that you want to become a full member of this church. Well, I'm going to make you one! Your not the alcoholic, swearing, demon-possessed, crack-mama you used to me. In fact, I think the technical term for what you're becoming is a "saint." And watching God do this in your life brings me to my knees and makes me weep with joy.

So tomorrow I'll baptize that granddaughter of yours and we'll sing and eat and celebrate the goodness of God! If this isn't the kingdom come down, I don't know what is.