I’m in the middle of this book. It’s about Bobbi Jo Reed and her story that she has chosen to share with the world. I read this morning about the time when her only option for living was under a trailer in a parking lot. Her first reaction was to be wary of seeing someone she might know from her past, but she had gotten to the point where it just didn’t matter any longer. She was who she was.

My counselor told me this week something so simple but so profound: If you are feeling slightly irritated or frustrated or angry with someone or dismissive of them, you are most likely looking at them with a little judgment and condemnation. How quickly I forget. How quickly I slink back to Pharisee frame of mind.

We are all different. None of us are the same. We grew up with unique experiences. We all have a story that has shaped us into a particular personality and with the character traits we exhibit.

Story. Each one of us has one. Before we decide on worth and credibility and impressions left, do we take the time to learn the story behind the person? Behind the behavior? Do we offer grace and a listening ear, a hand held out in order to help and hold? Do we assume we know their story because that’s what we heard from someone else? Because we stereotype “those kind?”

I remember. I remember being on both sides of that line. The side that assumed and came to a righteous conclusion without knowing firsthand. And the side where it just didn’t matter any longer. The sins of my life were for all the world to behold, real and exaggerated, and it just didn’t matter. I was who I was.

That is when God met me where I was. Broken. Alone. Seeking. And full of remorse. He used a few people who didn’t turn their back on me in disgust and righteous indignation. He used those who pointed fingers with their silence, and their hurtful words, to teach me how it felt to be on the other side. He used my parents full of grace and arms wide open. He used key people who remain in my life today to walk beside me and love me in the pain and the ugly. He used my sister to start me counting every. last. thing. He used scripture to fill my mind, hymns to bring me to a song once again, and He used my new church home to provide me with safety and security and a sense of belonging, a church that seeks the lost and the broken in spirit. And because of that, all of that, I have learned to be grateful.

This afternoon, I shared part of my story with Hong. She is a gentle soul who made me feel safe enough to share and be vulnerable enough to peel back a few chapters of my book. I am grateful for Hong and our new friendship.

I am grateful for my church, The United Methodist Church of the Resurrection, celebrating 25 years of ministry to the people of Kansas City this weekend. I am so grateful that Sam took me to his church, because, his church became MY church, my church introduced me to my counselor who has been with me for three years now, my church gave me the opportunity to play piano in ministry once again after I thought I would never again have the chance, my church provides multiple ways in which to serve the Lord in this city, my church gave me the gift of meeting with a group of feisty Bingo players every Tuesday evening, going on three years now, when I had an emotional heart pain that needed a bandaid, and my church provided an introduction to The Healing House.

Finally, I am grateful for Bobbi Jo and her very large family on St. John Avenue. I am grateful that Dad wanted to serve there last Saturday. I am grateful that Judy sent us to the Ruth house and we were able to visit with Tammy and MJ and Ken. I am grateful that in serving, WE were the blessed.

And I am grateful that in a small way, because of my story, I can say, “Me, too.”