by Kim Meeder
I watched in heavy silence as my dear friend laid her paddle across her thighs. We had left the protective overhang of the cypress trees and were now passing through a floating prairie. Within this rare place, suspended on the surface of the water, grew a lovely garden of grasses, sedge, and wildflowers. In sharp contrast to my friend’s terrible tale and as if to cheer her on, bright yellow flowers pressed around our boat as we passed through a narrow gap.
Misheal turned slightly. To me, her profile was a flawless masterpiece of courage and grace. Slowly, softly, she pressed through her self-imposed silence and explained how she was poised to end her life. Locked momentarily in a position of self-destruction, images flashed before her tightly shut eyes. The one picture that was most relentless was the warm smile given by a complete stranger.
Held fast in the extreme awareness of the moment, Misheal’s whole body began to shake. Again the smile came back to her mind. At the speed of light, her thoughts streamed through an unexpected sequence: maybe it meant something, maybe it was real, maybe there was one person in the world who cared enough about her to offer a smile. Maybe …
Her drawn body withdrew in a sobbing, nauseating gush of emotion. She collapsed on the floor and held herself as she cried. The solitary strand of hope that she clung to was the light within that single smile.
With her anguish released in a torrent, finally there were no more tears to accompany her sobs. All that was left were deep, empty convulsions. It was only when she was completely spent that she slowly summoned herself from the floor.
She had to know. If the smile was a hoax, she would follow through with her plans tomorrow. She would wait one more day.
The next afternoon at school, as the bell rang to herald the end of another math class, Misheal scooped up her books and again stepped into the crowded hallway. Fueled by heightened anticipation, she carried her books nearly under her chin. Scanning the multitude, she heard a child’s voice calling inside her chest, “Are you there? Are you really there? Is there one … who might care for me?”
None of the faces that moved past her looked familiar. Now, nearly on her tippytoes, she cried out with her eyes, Where are you?
She continued to search the throng as she drew closer to her destination. Her throat tightened. Her one thread of hope was fading.
Misheal stopped momentarily in front of the doorway of her final class. She knew that if she stepped through, it was over. This was it. Her blood chilled as if it were turning to ice, crackling in from her extremities. She couldn’t move.
One last time she glanced down the hallway.
Suddenly, from around a corner in the corridor, the blond girl appeared. She was looking over heads too.
As if drawn by a magnetic pull, bright blue eyes found dark brown eyes. A second time the blond girl’s face brightened into a warm smile. Again their gazes held as the stranger walked closer, then past, then out of sight.
Once more the broken girl received a single breath of life in her gasping world.
One day became two. The blond girl kept smiling. Two days became a week. Weeks became a month. Two months went by.
As she told the story, the adult woman in the front of my canoe seemed to transform back into that expectant, hopeful young girl. Misheal said she knew that if she could just hold on until that space between fourth and fifth periods, she would be okay. One smile a day was enough encouragement for her to keep choosing to get out of bed. One smile a day was enough for her to keep fighting for her life.
This went on every day until the school year ended. Turning around to look at me, Misheal said, “One smile a day saved my life. One smile a day is what gave me the courage to hold on to hope just a little longer. until the day that I met the Author of hope, my Jesus.”
With that, Misheal smiled at me—a deep smile that I will never see the same way again.
“School came and went,” Misheal said. “The blond girl and I never even knew each other’s names. We never even met. She will never know how God used the simple gift she gave me. She will never know that she saved my life with nothing more than a smile.”
Nothing more than a smile.
The power in this phrase has changed everything about what I yield to God. Misheal has been faithful about passing on the gift that was given to her. By sharing the story of her life, she has forever changed mine … and hopefully yours.
SOMETHING WE CAN GIVE
A warrior answers God’s call to give Him whatever she can, no matter how small.
It’s true that God will use whatever we give.
It’s not up to us to understand how He will use our gifts. Our responsibility is solely to be faithful and obedient to His urging to give them. He is the King who turns a few barley loaves and two fish into a feast for thousands. Our gifts might seem incredibly small and insignificant. Yet when we step forward in faith and place them in the hands of our Lord, everything changes! He is the One who can transform our meager offerings into something amazing, something incredible, even something life changing.
From our perspective what we have might seem meaningless. Most have asked, “Who am I, and what do I really have to give?” Because of this mind-set, it’s easy to fall into the belief that we don’t have much to give so why give anything at all?
Friend, when we give God nothing, that’s exactly what we can expect to happen in our own hearts and the hearts of those He has called us to serve.
But when we give Him something—even a little thing—we open the door for our God to do incredible things. Our simple actions reveal that we’re taking steps of faith. Each step builds greater trust. And just like the little boy who ran through the crowd of five thousand, we prove by our actions that we believe our King can take our “sack lunch” and do something amazing.
In such a moment we become just like Moses standing on the edge of the Red Sea waving a stick. God parted an entire sea because Moses wielded a stick over it! But it wasn’t the stick that parted the sea. Moses expected, he believed, that his King was going to act. And, boy, did He.
God will use whatever you give. He is God. He doesn’t require our gifts, talents, and abilities. He requires our hearts. For it is from a heart that wants to serve Him that He splits oceans. Someone far wiser than I once said, “God does not call the equipped—He equips those He calls.” Trust me, our King does not need what we value in our worldly way of thinking. He has no use for our physical beauty, knowledge, strength, power, position, skills, or money. Yet He can—and does—use all those things when they are offered to Him with a willing and sincere heart.
No matter what God calls us to do, fear should have no place in our lives. We can relax in the fact that our King’s call on each of our lives will never lead us beyond His ability to provide for us. It is our King alone who makes whatever we hold in our hands a force to be used for His purpose and glory. But that force can be applied only when we give it to Him.
Moses gave God a stick (Exodus 14:15–31), Gideon gave Him clay jars and torches (Judges 7), David gave a sling (1 Samuel 17), a widow gave two mites (Luke 21:1–4), a boy gave his sack lunch (John 6:1–13), and Paul gave his imprisonment (Acts 28:30–31).
What has God already equipped you with to give back to Him?
We may never see the purpose of our gifts. But the Lord sees all time, all history, all at once. He views the entire panorama. We see only a tiny picture full of puzzle pieces. Within that picture each of us represents a single puzzle piece. And one thing about puzzles is that they usually come with “inny” and “outy” pieces. This makes me visualize introverts and extroverts, leaders and followers. Another fact I’ve realized is that it’s impossible—the picture absolutely cannot work—if any two pieces are the same. Friend, it is our uniqueness that allows us to fit together to make a clear picture.
We were created to interlock with those God has called around us. Only when our true focus is on our King can we join together in perfect unity, thus creating a flawless image. And when t
his image is viewed from a distance, it will reflect the attributes of our Lord.
This analogy also extends to music. No one would want to listen to a symphony where all the instruments were the same and each played exactly the same note over and over. It is the harmonious blending of scores of instruments playing their unique tones—together—that makes the music beautiful. We shouldn’t judge, despair, or measure our differences. We should celebrate them.
We each have our own gifts, our own tones, our own shapes, our own voices to be offered up to our King. All of us can present something that He can transform for His glory. It doesn’t matter how old or how young we are. It makes no difference if we are broken or weak. Even for those whose lives are severely restricted, nothing in this world can take away their ability to pray. As long as our hearts continue to beat, we have something we can give.
Whether our gift be as small as a handful of flowers, a phone call, a hug, an e-mail, a plate of cookies, a card, a handshake, a letter, a kiss, a wink—or even something as simple as a smile—God will use whatever we give.
We cannot begin to guess what He’s going to do with our gifts—and we will never find out until we choose to give them.
Friend, our King is calling you to give Him something to be used for His glory. Today, what might be your smile?
15
THE FALL
A Beautiful Sound
It was July, and my friend Joan and I were on a small boat. We had just left a scenic harbor located on the tip of the Homer Spit in Alaska. Taxiing out into the paradise of Kachemak Bay, I was entranced by the enormous beauty that soared around us. The bay was nearly encircled by the snowy white crown of the Kenai mountain range that towered above us. While we were humming across the water, the din of the boat’s outboard motor overtook our conversation. The happy drone provided an unexpected opportunity to reflect on many things … especially how much I cherished this woman.
Our powerful friendship had been forged more than twenty years earlier, primarily in the Cascade mountains and on the ski tracks of Mount Bachelor. During my fledgling pursuit of a new sport, it was Joan who imparted to me a unique love of Nordic skiing. She chose to look past my initial ineptitude and focus instead on my desire. By doing so, she fueled my passion to develop as a skate skier.
Joan was a multi-Olympian in biathlon. It was from her warehouse of equipment that she pulled out my first set of skis and poles, gear that I cherish to this day. In return I gave her as honest a friendship as I could muster and what I hoped would be a reflection of Jesus Christ.
Over the years our friendship grew deep and profound roots. Traveling from race to race across the United States, I wrote to her. Traveling from country to country around the world, she wrote back. As often as we were able, we trained together—she being the teacher, I the student.
In part because of her tutelage, I earned a position on the Central Oregon Community College ski team, then nationally acclaimed. Though small, this team was fierce. We dominated all other Northwest teams and went on to compete in the U.S. Collegiate Ski and Snowboard Association National Championships. Pitted against nearly one hundred other nationally ranked Nordic teams, our men’s squad earned gold, and our women’s team earned bronze.
After graduating from college, I felt I was just beginning to fully grasp my love for skate skiing and decided to follow Joan’s lead into the world of biathlon. During this time, while skating in late December, our training took us into the wilderness around a high, frozen lake. After we circumvented its crunchy edge, our conversation turned toward faith. It was here, while coming around the north end of Todd Lake, that she heard the loving voice of Jesus calling her name. Kneeling side by side on our skis, with her hand in mine, we prayed.
Through tears of release, Joan surrendered her heart to the King of kings.
Because of that decision, our friendship deepened to a level far beyond what we’d known before. Bound by our Lord, we prayed for each other daily. Even when separated by travels, distance, or time zones, our hearts were linked. On many occasions I was jarred awake in the early morning hours by an urgent need to pray for Joan. Later I would learn that at nearly the same time, she was in peril and narrowly escaped. Our long-distance prayers for each other gave us a connection that challenged logic.
Yet in the years that followed, our beautiful friendship gradually began to fade. Fed by a constant breeze of pride, our unique camaraderie started to tatter like a flag left to flutter in the weather too long. Perceived offense by perceived offense, poor decision by poor decision, a barrier grew between us.
Looking back, I’m filled with immense sorrow over the realization that I could have torn down that wall at any time. I could have asked for her forgiveness and confessed my faults and failings. I could have taken responsibility for my part in this breakdown.
I could have, but I didn’t. I failed her. More important, I failed Jesus Christ.
I didn’t take the lead in our friendship by courageously stepping forward and fighting for the truth. Instead, I chose the path of a justified coward; I simply stepped backward and avoided it. I let every excuse bend my judgment away from what I didn’t want to deal with.
Yet, what was real burned deep in my chest. Truth is a light that no dark action or word can extinguish. Therefore, I couldn’t find honest rest. There was nowhere in my soul I could hide my self-righteousness, pride, arrogance, and unforgiveness. No amount of waiting, ignoring, justifying, evading, or burying could hide this festering rot inside my heart.
There was only one cure. I needed to repent before my King, and then I needed to genuinely seek Joan’s forgiveness and genuinely give her mine. I was accountable to make right my failings in this fractured friendship. Because I knew this was true, I alone was responsible to step toward this end.
It wasn’t until my precious grandmother passed away that I found the impetus to act. While sorting through her keepsakes, I discovered a bundle of saved letters. Held together by a worn rubber band was a collection of cards that Joan had written her over the years.
After my parents’ death, it was my grandmother who, even while grieving the loss of her daughter, courageously stepped forward and made a home for her three orphaned granddaughters. I lived in her home a year longer than that of my parents. Even though Joan and I were estranged, she continued to write supportive letters to my Mimi. The letters came after my grandfather had passed away and my tiny grandma was living alone. I held in my hand a gift of pure kindness, given to my Mimi when she needed it most. Joan hadn’t waited for my approval. She chose instead simply to do what was right.
Kneeling among my grandmother’s things, I couldn’t hold back the flood of tears. Worlds collided as I crumpled to the floor. I grieved the loss of my beloved grandmother, one of the greatest pillars of love, support, and kindness I had ever known. Tears also fell for the loss of one of the greatest friendships I had ever known.
Truth landed on my heart with all the subtlety of an anvil dropping out of the sky. My grandmother was gone … Joan was not.
God is so good. His mercy and redemption are not prisoners of time. I sent Joan, my once-treasured friend, a simple letter—and so forgiveness began.
Joan’s willingness to move beyond the past and her tremendous example of friendship, combined with God’s great love, led both of us to choose to disassemble the wall between us. This beautiful, redemptive feat was achieved entirely through correspondence.
To my deep joy, for every letter I sent Joan, she returned the kindness—times five! Fifteen years later, after what the enemy had assumed was a fatal blow to our alliance, I now sat looking at this remarkable friend in our small water taxi as we traversed paradise itself. She was no longer a world-class athlete. She had traded that title for the deeper calling of being a world-class wife and mother of three incredible kids.
The silent years had added their touches. We were each a bit heavier and a tad more gray. Lines we’d earned from years of smiling framed our f
aces. And thankfully, by God’s grace, we were much wiser.
Sitting near the railing directly behind her, I watched as she draped her arm over the side of the boat and let the seawater bounce off her palm. She turned to look at me and flashed an impish grin. I shook my head and held my hands up in a silent Can you believe this? gesture. She laughed and nodded in agreement.
In that moment I couldn’t imagine a more beautiful and profound vision of forgiveness. But as I was soon to find out, God’s imagination is far greater than mine.
After motoring deep into Halibut Cove, Joan and I reached our destination—a beautiful camp of small cabins that hovered over the bay. With our packs slung over our shoulders, we made our way up to bunks reserved for us. In the land of the midnight sun, we lay sprawled on our beds, talking, crying, and laughing until deep into the purple twilight. Finally, at 2 a.m., we extinguished our kerosene lantern and tried to get some rest before our glacier exploration the following dawn.
Early the next morning, under a low, gray sky, we joined a team of four other people and started to hike. Our group was led by a remarkable guide, a man of great faith and the father of five small boys.
We traveled up through an incredibly dense forest that lined the steep southwestern foothills that jutted above the bay. After hiking over a small coastal ridge, we dropped into the massive flood plain that streamed out below the Grewingk Glacier. This glacier is one of nine that drain the great Harding Icefield. At roughly a thousand square miles, the ice field is the largest of its type located entirely within the United States. The slow retreat of Grewingk Glacier left behind a vast trough, gouged out between flanking four-thousand-foot sheer ridges, giving dramatic evidence of the colossal power of moving ice.
Spectacular beauty rose to soaring heights all around us as we traversed the smooth-stoned delta. Following a serpentine trail, we moved through a thick tangle of stunted alder. After another mile we finally emerged from the bush onto a giant shoreline. Walking away from the thicket in speechless awe, our party arrived on the edge of an enormous body of water. Created by the scouring of the glacier, the lake is roughly a mile wide and several miles in length. Our guide shared that it has been measured to depths of over twelve hundred feet, further proof of the mighty force of ice on the move.