A couple of days ago, I emailed our pastor’s wife (whom I've never met face-to-face) to offer my services as a volunteer on a project that is dear to her heart. Yesterday afternoon, she replied and thanked me for my willingness to be of service and let me know that she would pass my name on to the person in charge of the project.
I didn’t give it another thought, and went on with my day.
Late last night before I went to bed, I checked my email and in my inbox was an email from the person in charge of the project asking if myself and a group of four other ladies were available in the morning to meet with the pastor’s wife to discuss the project. She graciously apologized for the short notice and asked us to reply back and let her know what our schedules were.
STOP!
FROZEN!
DEER IN THE HEADLIGHTS!
I DON’T WANT TO MEET WITH LISA YOUNG! I JUST WANTED TO HELP HER WITH HER PROJECT! I’M WILLING TO MEET WITH A PROXY. I CAN’T MEET WITH LISA YOUNG! I DON’T HAVE ANYTHING CUTE TO WEAR, AND IT’S A BAD HAIR DAY AND IT’S WINDY OUTSIDE AND EVEN IF IT WAS A GOOD HAIR DAY, THE WIND WOULD MAKE ME LOOK LIKE A TROLL DOLL BY THE TIME I GOT INTO CHURCH AND I HAVE THIS BLEMISH ON MY CHEEK THAT I’M HAVING TROUBLE GETTING THE CONCEALER TO COOPERATE WITH AND I’M BLOATED AND MY NAILS AREN’T PAINTED AND ARRRRRRGGGGHHH I CAN’T MEET WITH THE QUEEN, I’M NOT READY!I’ve been in a bible study on the book of Esther. One of the things we've discussed at length was that prior to going to meet King Xerxes, the women who were ‘auditioning’ to be queen went thru twelve months,
TWELVE MONTHS, of beauty treatments before they were even allowed to step into his presence.
I didn’t have 12 months, let alone 12 hours, I wasn’t ready ‘physically’ to have an audience with the pastor’s wife.
This morning, after a fitful night of sleep due to allergies and a bloody nose and exceedingly dry mouth, I hit the alarm, rolled over, took my glasses off the bedside table, got my bible and prayer journal and sleepily, yet confidently walked into the presence of The Most High.
Teeth unbrushed, hair matted in a wild disheveled mess, wearing only a t-shirt, underwear and socks, I sat down in the lap of The King of kings and began to converse. No pretenses, no apologies for the dragon breath, no gussying and readying myself, I just sat and talked to Him.
I am an amalgamation of gratitude and stupefied wonder that the One whose very words created the ground I stand on, whose inexhaustible card-catalog of facts includes the number of hairs on my head (and my hair brush), who delicately holds this universe in its fastidious order, while communing with his half-awake child in a suburb in Dallas, Texas, doesn’t care how my hair looks, what I smell like or even if my socks match (which by happenstance they actually do today). He’s just pleased to meet with me.
He simply wants to spend time with me, the inner me, all the other 'get ready' stuff would be window dressing covering the real view He desires to see when we meet, my heart, my soul, my inner being.
So, if the Lamb of God is kosher with ‘disheveled half-awake’ me, why should I be concerned what I wear when I get an audience with the ‘queen’? It’s the servant’s heart she wants to tap into, the inner me, everything else is just window dressing muting the view.
