I met my first mentor, Andrea, in a basement cafeteria on my college campus. It was over three decades ago. But in time, I came to know the significance of why and where we met. Through Andrea, God brought an experienced soul to my newly believing heart. She was on staff with a campus ministry and discipleship became our bond. Our meeting in the basement cafeteria was symbolic.
My son groanish-growled a little under his breath, and then came a moment forever frozen in my mind: He lifted a sharp, bright yellow number two pencil and chucked it to the floor with gusto. I secretly thought it was absolutely adorable.
The kids have decided they’re all allergic to one another, speaking different languages unrecognizable to a mother’s ear. There’s no spiritual fruit present through actions or eye rolls, along with any edible types one must eat to sustain physical strength. A once beautifully clean bedroom floor has now been scattered with stinky clothes and garbage from hidden sweet stashes, while the dishes do their own stashing in the kitchen sink.
She cornered me in the hallway outside the sanctuary to extend an invitation. “Listen, we need someone to teach the Cubbies on Wednesdays this Fall, and I thought of you.” Sweetly, she smiled and promised she’d handle all the crafts. I would just need to teach a short 15-minute lesson. It seemed simple enough. After all, I had a college degree in education hanging in my office.
Pandemic restrictions are slowly easing where I live, and we can now invite guests into our home. Although the number of guests is limited, this change brings hope that life will someday return to normal. Normal, for me, is opening my door to friends, family, and strangers. The more, the merrier—thanks to my mom’s example.