Angels and Strangers

I was 29 years old and 6 months pregnant with our first child when my (former) husband and I moved to dry land wheat farming country for his first job as a Lutheran pastor; a town of 5,000 people in Eastern Washington, several hours drive from anything like a yoga class.

I remember thinking that since the town had a library, a gym and access to an NPR station, I could make a go of it. Maybe. I had, at this point in my life, only ever driven through a small town, never stayed the night in one, much less moved there without knowing a soul.

The two and a half years we spent there were not unhappy ones, my days busy with nursing a baby (and eventually conceiving and birthing a second), washing the diapers, making our meals (thank God for WIC since we made maybe 25k a year), and hanging out the laundry on the backyard clothesline. The people at the church were kind folks, and I did my best to find a place for myself in a place I did not belong or understand.

I was not unhappy, as I said, but I was profoundly lonely.

Which is why Sally meant so much to me.

Sally was the town’s earth mama, the one who knew how to make anything, grow anything, fix anything. Her home had a warm witchy feel to it, filled with herbs, knitting projects and laughter. She found bugs, especially beetles, to be beautiful, knew how to cut hair even though hers was so long, and had a stash of chocolate chips in a jelly jar she’d pull out when I visited, knowing I have a sweet tooth.

When this big city liberal tattooed smart mouthed very pregnant girl showed up, who was also somehow married to the new Lutheran pastor, Sally took me in.

She taught me to knit, would watch the baby when I took a night class, and just about always seemed to be ok with me stopping by. Her home was a soft landing place. At Sally’s I didn’t have to be on my best behavior.

She loved me. And let the reader understand, I had done precious little “personal work” at this point in time. I was a LOT. But still, even in all my bossy anger, dysregulation and self-centeredness, she loved me.

And that love was nothing short of manna. Manna; enough to make a difficult time feel survivable.

I’m telling you all of this because last week in Boise, at the Red State Revival, I got to see Sally for the first time in 24 years and tell her, albeit inadequately, what she meant to me. I was too immature at the time to be as grateful for it as I am now. Some things only come after getting them wrong enough.

Of course she came bearing gifts: crocheted vegetables and something she’d sewn that I couldn’t identify right away. “It’s a dead house fly!” she said with cheer.

And all I could offer her in exchange, was to say the words, “Thank you for loving me during a time when I really needed it. You’ll never know how much it mattered”.

She just hugged me for a long time, said I love you, and went and found her seats.

There’s a verse in Hebrews that says, Do not neglect to show hospitality to strangers, for by so doing some people have shown hospitality to angels without knowing it.

Yes, I was the stranger - but Sally was the angel.

And I may not have felt as grateful as I should have at the time, but I can feel it now. We get to do that. We get to embody the gratitude we lacked when young (or the humility, or wisdom, or patience) and hopefully it leads us not just to expressing it when possible, but also to a sweet compassion for our younger selves who just did the best they could with what they had before they knew better.

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Do you have a story about your one person who loved you when you needed it most?

Or a time when you got to thank somebody for something years after the fact?

I’d love to read them.

In it with you,

-Love, Nadia