Many years ago, there was a woman I saw often who worked at Harris Methodist's downtown Fort Worth hospital. If you've ever been there, then you know that it is a huge hospital, and it was a common place for people in the congregation I served to go when they required surgery. The surgical waiting room was on the second floor of the main tower, and it was an enormous room. At any given time, there were several dozen people -- sometimes more than 100 -- milling about the room waiting for word on their loved one, who was in surgery.
In the middle of it all was Meera. At least I'm pretty sure that was her name; it's been a long time. But even if I struggle to remember her name, I remember her well. She was an older woman -- not elderly, but considerably older than I was at the time. She had long, dark hair and ran the second floor waiting room like a Swiss train station. She would greet families as they arrived, help them find an area that could accommodate their group and keep them updated as to progress in the operating room. For me, as a pastor coming to sit with families whose loved one was in that operating room, Meera was invaluable.
Many was the time I would arrive on the second floor not really knowing who I was looking for. Often the person having surgery was a member of the church, but the people waiting were not. So, Meera's desk in the center of the room was always my first stop. Because I knew Meera could help me find the folks I was looking for.
Meera was phenomenal at her job, I mean really amazing. When a family started getting restless because they hadn't heard any news, Meera would make a call and find out how things were going in the OR. When people like me showed up looking for someone, Meera always pointed them in the right direction. She brought blankets for people who were cold and always managed to find snacks for restless children. Most important, she knew where every one of her guests were at any given time, and she seemed to have her finger solidly on the pulse of the OR rooms beyond her domain.
I was reminded of Meera recently when I dropped in at an area hospital to see someone before they went into surgery. The lady working in the waiting room told me that the patient I was to see had gone to surgery early -- in other words, I missed her. “But” she said quickly, “that's her family over there.” And she rattled off names and relationships as she pointed to a group of five or six people sitting together in the waiting room.
And I immediately thought of Meera and how she ran her waiting room with such poise, compassion and professionalism. She was amazing, and so was the lady who reminded me of her. What's more amazing still is the other thing they shared. Neither one of them were employees; they were volunteers.
They don't collect a paycheck. They aren't vying for a promotion. I suspect most of them already closed the door on long careers and years of raising children. But instead of kicking back and relaxing, enjoying the fruits of their labors, they show up to be there for people who are often dealing with one of the worst times in their lives. They don't do it because they need money. They do it because they care.
Those volunteers can teach us all something about compassion. But they can teach us something equally important. Specifically, the value of taking the time to get to know someone.
That was Meera's superpower, without a doubt. The reason she was so good at her "job" was that she took the time to get to know the people in her care. She learned their names. She listened to their stories. She held their hands when they cried. And because she knew them, her efforts toward caring for them were never anything but genuine.
It puts me in mind of last week's Mobile Food Pantry. It was terribly hot, and the line of cars was long and unrelenting. I looked around at all of the people from Ash Lane, Bridgeswork and even HEB ISD, and I was so grateful for their willingness to serve despite the extreme heat. But what struck me the most is watching those volunteers interact with the folks in the cars. Some of them we see pretty much every month. Their faces and stories become familiar. And that is key.
Because when they pull up, the greeting they receive from a familiar face is as important as the food we put in their trunks. That greeting conveys that they are known, that they are valued, that they are loved.
I think it's the difference between giving people food and feeding them. Both are worthwhile endeavors. But one will sustain their nutritional needs. The other reminds them that they are alive.
See you Sunday.