the ministry of paper plates

from the fear of being forgotten, Lord deliver me

“…for the growing good of the world is partly dependent on unhistoric acts; and that things are not so ill with you and me as they might have been, is half owing to the number who lived faithfully a hidden life, and rest in unvisited tombs.”
—George Eliot, “Middlemarch”

I don’t know how God speaks to you, but He has never sent me a burning bush. I have a lot of bushes and trees in my yard and I would give my eye teeth to have one of them burst into flame and hear the voice of the Lord tell me literally anything. But no such luck.

It seems that the opening and closing of doors has been more of how God has spoken to me. That and in the deafening silence of waiting. Nothing hurts more than to wait in what feels like utter silence for an answer. And when God does speak, rarely does His voice boom, which makes it harder for me to know if it’s Him or all the internal monologues constantly chattering in my head. Discerning the still, small voice that is the Holy Spirit will be the work of my lifetime—of this I have no doubt. However, I do know that when God really wants to say something to me, He repeats himself.

On Ash Wednesday, I kneeled amongst friends and listened to our deacon recite the Litany of Humility through tears. It’s not an easy litany to hear (especially when you’re on your knees) and I could feel my spirit buck against it. But then a couple weeks later it came up again in a Bible study, and then a few weeks after that while I was listening to a prayer app. None of these times did I seek it out, so clearly, I was supposed to hear it—three times.

Ok God, I’m listening.

Throughout the litany we are asking for God to deliver us from desires that seem perfectly human. The fear of being humiliated, the fear of being despised, of suffering rebukes—no one wants these things, and rightfully so. But the litany also stings: delivery from the desire of being preferred to others, of being praised, of being consulted, of being honored. But if that doesn’t feel like pouring alcohol on a fresh cut, it goes on to rub salt in the wound:

That others may increase and I might decrease,
Jesus, grant me the grace to desire it.

That others may be chosen and I set aside,
Jesus, grant me the grace to desire it.

That others may be praised and I go unnoticed,
Jesus, grant me the grace to desire it.

That others may be preferred to me in everything,
Jesus, grant me the grace to desire it.

This is but a small sample of the litany. It’s a spiritual can of whoop ass and I am never ready for it. None of it is comfortable but all of it is good. My soul writhes thinking of laying these preferences aside, but it relaxes and expands imagining how I would rest and shine Christ’s light if I did. Still, it’s a bitter pill, and doing these things takes time and will never (this side of heaven) be done perfectly or to completion.

There is one line that every time I hear it puts me into a slight panic:
From the fear of being forgotten, deliver me oh Jesus.

To tell you I have a visceral reaction to it would be no understatement. I have yet to hear this line and not feel tears gather hot behind my eyes. For me, it conjures up so many hard things. Things that are too tender and vulnerable to list, but that I would imagine being relatable to most of us. This is not a fear of being excluded from a girl’s night out or not being included in a function where I could contribute my time and talent. To me, this speaks of being insignificant enough to be wiped from people’s memory. In my mind, it goes a bit like this:

She wasn’t funny, lovely, smart, gracious, or interesting enough to be remembered and so, she was forgotten. And in forgetting her, we also mark that she was also never significant enough while she lived. The routines she had, the people she knew, the work she contributed—none of it is worth mentioning.

from the fear of not having enough moments like these, Lord, deliver me

As a mother, the power of invisibility can sound refreshing at times, but to think about having an entire life expunged sounds hurtful, hateful, and horribly depressing. You have been forgotten because you never mattered.

David often reminds me in my stormier moments of Matthew 10: 29-31, where Jesus reminds his disciples that not even a sparrow can fall to the ground outside the care of the Father and we are worth more than the sparrows. But sitting in silence waiting for an answer can feel like being forgotten. Especially when you find yourself in a pattern of waiting in the desert.

If you’ve read the books or seen the movies, then you know about the desert people on the planet of Arrakis, aka Dune. The Fremen are incredible warriors—ninja-like in their speed, skill, and agility—and can easily disable enormous machines mining the spice on their land with simple weaponry. At the core of what makes the Fremen so incredible is knowing their landscape and their trust in one another. The desert is full of thousands of ways to die, but these people not only know their landscape, they know how to harness the worst of it and use it to their advantage.

And so it is with my community, especially those whose stories overlap with my own. Those who know the landscape of the desert well.

A few weeks ago, we had some of our friends over for brunch after church. While David made drinks with my girlfriend’s husband, she saw that I have no dishwasher and before she ever got to touch the breakfast casserole, started in on the deep pile of dishes in the sink. I was humbled, grateful, and a little embarrassed, but I could tell she wanted to help me and this very dirty job was blessing her as much as it was blessing me. In the current season we’ve been in of financial and emotional stress, the physical stress of doing dishes for hours everyday can seem cruel. I told her that I tend to spend at least two hours everyday hand-washing dishes and that it had started to take a toll on my lower back. But what can you do? Dishes need to be done, so we bumped elbows in my small kitchen while I prepped brunch and she scrubbed plates.

A week after brunch, I came home from running errands and found two stacks of paper plates wrapped in plastic sitting on my front steps. In black Sharpie across the top of the stack my friend had written “For help with the dishes.”

I can’t tell you how seen those paper plates made me feel. Of all the generosity that has come from our community in this season, the simplicity of the paper plates has had the most impact on me. My friend saw a need and she filled it because she remembered. That I have no dishwasher, that my back is sore daily, that this annoyance was one more thing to deal with. She remembered it all. She remembered me.

It struck me later that there is no real way of being forgotten in the community of Christ. God’s memory is eternal and He cannot forget us. We, better than the sparrows, are seen by the Being that has woven the fabric of time together. The Spirit of the eternal Christ lives in me, and my friend, and the Christ in her saw me and said, you are not forgotten.

From the fear of being forgotten, Lord deliver me, because I am not forgotten by you. You made me, loved me, died for me, want me walking alongside you in eternity.

You see me. You see me. You see me.
I cannot be forgotten.

Always,
Emily

P.S. You can find the Litany of Humility in its entirety here. If you’re new to this litany, I recommend taking a shot of whiskey first.