A few weeks ago, I posted a story. A story of walls falling and hearts opening and truth being shared and let into some really dark places. I found myself a little brave, and wanted others to take the risk too. So, I wrote.
But I need you to know that, more often than I want, that one moment of bravery is surrounded by a sea of fear, a lonely island of victory battered by a storm of anxiety.
I need to be real here:
Sometimes I miss the moment.
Sometimes bravery doesn’t win.
Sometimes, I know what I need to say and I don’t say it. I let too many minutes pass by, and I miss it.
I sat down in my seat on a plane. A whisper of a prayer came in a heartbeat: please let me sit by a girl. I wasn’t even asking for conversation, for an opportunity. Just a friendly face to sit with.
And He answered that prayer.
We began talking—this sweet, smart girl and I. And we had a good couple of minutes of conversation before the plane took off. We found out why we were each flying to Delhi and I got to share a small but important piece of my heart with her, the one that holds this place with high regard and a very special affection.
She said, “Wow, everyone in my country wants to leave and go to America, and you want to come here!”
And that piece of my heart jumped out of my chest, unhesitatingly: “Well, I believe that God made a very special place in my heart for your country.”
“Oh, I’m very glad to hear that!” She replied.
Then she asked me what I had studied. As I told her, the plane took off. “I studied the Bible and writing.”
And I knew immediately what I should ask her. “Have you ever studied the Bible?”
But I didn’t.
Friends, I didn’t ask this simple, but powerful, door-opening, tiny sentence for the rest of that hour and a half flight.
I stayed silent.
Even as I read a book telling me, urging me not to stay silent!
Why? I wasn’t particularly afraid to ask her this question. I just didn’t.
Hear me: I deliberately chose not to. I resisted and resisted, and resisted again—until I missed it. Until we separated walking towards baggage claim. Until I drove off in a taxi.
I can’t tell you why I did this.
But what I can tell you is that I’m never going to forget it. I’m never going to see her again; I’m never going to get that chance again.
And though I’m begging my Father for mercy, not just for me, but for her—she may never have another chance to hear either.
So I guess I’m writing this to repeat what I wrote a few weeks ago: be a little brave. Ask the question. Send the text. Invite for coffee.
Whatever He’s been asking you to do. Just do it. Not because it will please Him; He’s already so pleased with us. We cannot add to nor take away from our incomprehensible worth. And if you miss it, have grace with yourself. We’re all wading in grace, afraid of what it might take for us to wade in deeper—but if we’re not going in deeper, how will others come in to the sea of grace that washes us clean?
All we can do is invite others into it. All we can do is invite others to know Him.
So this isn’t for our sake anymore. This isn’t for a good (or bad) blog post. This is for them. This is for those who need their stories told. Who need His story told to them. This is for those whom we are given these moments with, expected or unexpected, asked for or simply given—being a little brave is so that they can be made brave too.
Brave enough to step into a story that has wrecked and wrought our lives into something more beautiful than we ever could write. Brave enough to let our hearts be conquered by the One who was brave and didn’t miss the moment that would cause Him the most pain—because He knew that it would make us brave to be like Him, too.