In hopes to even out my tan, I had worn a strapless maxi dress in a bright, fuschia color. It was one of those purchases that I am often intimated to wear, mostly because I fear that the maxi dress has been way overdone by Kristie Alley. But after an extended vacation to New England that revitalized me beyond my knowing and the Minnesota sun shinning, I put on that fuschia maxi dress and was ready to take on a hearty list of places and things to do.
As I made my way back to my little apartment with a bunch of mint and gorgeous and fragrant lilies from the Farmer’s Marker, a six-pack of summer beer and a Twin’s t-shirt for Thursday night’s game, I discovered something wonderful, the Saint Anthony Park Art Festival. I was thrilled to see the street covered with white tents that were each filled with an individual that was willing and ready to share their passion with the world. They were artists, each with something beautiful to share with the community.
As I approached a stand full of photographs of various Minneapolis tourist sites, the artist of the photos commented on the beauty of the dress and how flattering it was, especially with the complementary turquoise necklace. She noted that these are two colors she always tries to capture on film because of their simple beautiful.
It is a wonderful feeling to hear the word beautiful, especially when it pertains to you and it is not coming from a creepy, old man with one too many drinks at the bar. Today the word beautiful is resonating with me. As I was wandering the aisles of the liquor store earlier, one of the stops on my list, my mother called. She shared with me that one of my favorite people in the congregation I grew up in had passed away, Mrs. Jones, even though as I got older she began to sign her cards to me as Ginny. She was still Mrs. Jones. She will always be Mrs. Jones.
Mrs. Jones has been an active member of both faith communities my parents have been members. She has been known to shake her little Tic Tac container when council meetings were getting a little too long, but that is not how I will remember her. I’ll remember Mrs. Jones as the one person who always made the case to say how wonderful it was to see my beautiful smile. The same practice continued each time I visited home. She would go out of the way to say those more than welcoming words, “How wonderful to see your beautiful smile.”
Whenever I have had the chance to preach or share the importance of ministry for and with young people in the congregation, Mrs. Jones was part of that story. She did something really special, something really beautiful, she went out her way to welcome me. I always saw her coming as she weaved in and out of pews to come greet me with those most precious words. And interestingly enough, the last time I saw Mrs. Jones, I weaved myself through a church building that was unfamiliar in order that I could find her. And like every other time, she shared those words, “It’s so wonderful to see your beautiful smile.”
It is that message of welcome that has disappeared from the church. I could see Mrs. Jones three Sundays in a row and I would hear the same message, or I could see her once a year and it would be those words of welcome. It made no difference.
Of course I would hear other messages of welcome in the church. There would be that message of welcome as I was greeted at the sanctuary doors. There was the welcome from the pastor at the beginning of the service. But I have to admit, I did not feel welcomed from that message. That message of welcome never seemed sincere or in its very nature, welcoming. It seemed like just another part of the Sunday morning routine. But Mrs. Jones words allowed me to feel the message of welcome when I was not hearing it from anywhere else.
Sadly, I won’t hear those beautiful words of welcome from Mrs. Jones next time I am home, but I carry them with me, as I have for many years. Each time my parents would give me an update on Mrs. Jones, especially during her battle with cancer, those words of welcome went through my head. Those words have helped me form my missional ecclesiology, as well as my vision of leadership in Children, Youth and Family Ministry. And probably more important, her message as been part of my personal faith formation. You see, Mrs. Jones did not have to say a word to me, she did not need to wind her way through the pews to find me or even send a card of well wishes as I had surgery or congratulations as I accepted a new call. But she did.
Mrs. Jones’ message is a hard one to explain, I know this, I have tried. I have struggled to find ways to help faith communities see the importance of this message of welcome. It is nothing complex, but in a way it is. It is a message that has the ability to transform. I know this to be true. I could easily give up, but I can’t, not just yet. For I know that the message of welcome has been internally placed in each of us. Our task is figuring out how to share it. Maybe it is not words. But it is there. I know it. Mrs. Jones figured it out.
I am so blessed to have known an individual that was so willing to share that message. For how beautiful it is to know that you are welcomed.
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