The Hands and Feet

Two weeks ago after my D&C many people asked what they could do to help us out. Since I knew it was an outpatient procedure and my doctor said she expected me to be up and running the next day, I declined the offers.

But a few people refused to accept my decline. Three families, in fact, said they didn't care if we needed it or not, they were bringing something. Two brought us dinner and one brought us a delicious cake.

I thanked them profusely for their kindness and have thank you cards sitting here awaiting a stamp, but I've been left perplexed as to why these people chose to bring us something when I could have easily made us dinner (or cake) without much effort. I could see if I was incapacitated for a few days, but I wasn't and made sure they knew as much.

They didn't care. They wanted to bring me the stuff anyway. It's a Southern thing, to bring food. We bring food when news is good or bad or just because. Food is a universal language here, just in case you don't know. It means, "I love you," no matter if it's said in joy or sorrow.

I realized what it was all about when one of them said to me, "I know Michelle would be doing this if she were here. And since she's not, I'm doing this for her." I cried. She was right - Michelle, if she had been here, would have been beating my door down regardless of time or circumstance to love on me. (Oh, Lord, how I miss her!)

These sweet, sweet souls were simply being the hands and feet of Jesus.

Were we hurting for dinner those nights? No. Would we have been stuck eating a can of beanie-weanies? No, Marshall loves to cook and would have had no problems at all making something if I wasn't up to cooking.

It wasn't about giving us a meal. The food was the smallest part of what they gave us those nights. They gave us love. They gave us one small token of kindness as an example of Christ's sacrificial love for us.

I am in awe that the hands and feet of Jesus would serve me and my family. Thank you.