Some of us at church have been having a discussion lately on one of those good-to-have problems. Participation in our choirs, band, and bell choirs is such that the small parking lot by the choir room and office is getting filled up on Wednesday nights and Sunday mornings. At times, some of our disabled folks are having trouble finding a place to park.
The other day, in an effort to encourage others to (as my associate pastor says) “Park far and sit close,” I announced that the pastors will park in the farthest-away spots on Sunday mornings. I’m inviting the choir and band members to join me. I’ll be past the recycling bins beyond the gymnasium. It will be an inconvenient hike to my office, but I don’t want to ask others to do something that I’m not willing to do myself.
And then I began to feel a little sorry for myself. After all, I’m often lugging a briefcase and computer, along with various other Sunday morning items. And it truly is a hike from where my car will be to where my office is; several miles and uphill both ways, the more I thought about it. The other day, I was walking into the hospital for some visits and wondering to myself how long I would have to keep up this self-imposed parking exile.
Grace happened in one of those getting-your-attention-moments. I discovered that both of the people whom I was visiting were going to be discharged from the hospital soon; discharged into hospice care. Their earthly life is coming to an end, and they will be receiving palliative comfort care in these final days. Both of them are beautiful people who have had long lives, and so these moments are tinged with both joy and sorrow.
As I walked (walked!) out of the hospital that day, my perspective had changed dramatically. What a blessing it is to be able to hike across a parking lot and through a building. How small of me to be thinking about my own inconvenience. I know it sounds cheesy and preacher-y, but what I heard in my head that day was this: If Christ could die for me so that I could face life and death with hope, then the least that I can do is walk across the parking lot for someone else.
So, this Sunday and the next and for all of the ones after that, I’ll be getting to church first on Sundays so that I can snag the farthest away spot. It’s the least I can do . . .
