There are those that talk, and then there are those that do.
When my mom died, there were those that asked or talked about showing up, and then those that did. I remember both. I remember the ones who asked and kept polite distance, still poised and seemly agape from afar, hurting more than healing in their empty effort to wait for an invitation with marked and thoughtful direction. But I also remember the ones who just "did." Chicken dishes cooked, blue drinks delivered, houses cleaned and floors scrubbed and laundry folded and rides received. Emails written, voicemails made, and monthly cards stamped.
This past January my dear friend in Seattle went through a traumatic birth and delivery and section of time in NICU. I remember wondering from afar how to "show up" for her -- book a plane ticket? buy a gift card? make a phone call? I'd spend hours in the night wondering, praying, waiting, worrying. A few months ago, another dear friend lost her baby in miscarriage and again I scurried through "solutions" as to how to "show up" for her -- drive down? send a text? order delivery meal? create space for a call?
I've been in lots of conversations about what it means to just "show up," especially this past year. I've known people reading books about community, neighboring, and small groups with deep, delving disussions about what that looks like, while sitting in circles or in church meetings.
But what it really look like to just show up is to bring bran muffin mix on a cold frosty morning or chicken enchiladas baked hot and steaming ready. Wendys burgers and fries and frosties delivered at the driveway or kid-books packaged in the mail. Potting pansies on the doorstep with pumpkin muffins in a pan. DVDs delivered with coloring books in a bag.
This past season, Mark and I have been drowning. We've canceled commitments and wrote countless chunky checks. We've cried for our babies and still killed the grass. We've sacrificed sleep and scourged our schedules. We then stepped off leading, trying to put us in a place to recieve. We've bantered and wondered and discouraged and sunk amidst this beating and tornado that has us in its stream. We've fought and tried and struggled and screamed.
In it, I found myself suffocating in a point of survival. With that, I didn't know what I needed. Or how to ask. I didn't know if I needed coffee or meals or kid-sit ... But what I did know I needed was somebody to care.
As this week unraveled, so continuously did I. We had more doctor visits and ear infections, rashes and spots, with allergic reaction scares. We had bills piling high and surgery scheduled and fevers spiking. Vomit and RN calls and blisters and struggles nursing... The slew of it kept us alone and at home, lending to loneliness and whining and boredom and cursing.
Then on Friday, a friend did the unexpected. She just showed up.
She just showed up with Panera delivery. Chicken Fongetga with noodle soup and crunchy soft bread and soft, chocolate chip cookie. Her own concerns aside, baby in car, she just pulled into my drive and showed up for me.
As she left, another friend did a grocery bag drop off. Chocolate, wine, soup, crackers. Cute cans of ginger ale soda for sickly Camilla and applesauce packets too. A hug through food. Love in a bag.
Mark came home and walked in with the mail. A card postmarked for my kids; get-well wishes with hugs and love. And stickers.
As I went to bed that night, I couldn't help but name these things as Ebeneezers. Ways that God just showed up and heard my lonely, exhausted, cursing-filled cries.
There are those that talk, and then there are those that do.
Be those that do. And just show up.
