Yep, those are the words I thought I heard the pastor say the other Sunday. It’s the hearing aids, I swear.
I immediately shoved my fist in my mouth to stop an inappropriate LLOL moment. (Legit Laugh Out Loud. Yes, I just made that up.) He was talking about a leper colony.
But oh, the image that popped into my head: a leprechaun colony. Lucky the Leprechaun leaping through rainbows, pots of gold overflowing, little green-suited men sliding down rainbows and dancing through clover. The lead singer of our praise band, sitting right next to me was not amused by my amusement.
Then the leprechauns leapt straight into biblical times in my overactive, overachieving imagination, and I almost had to fake-sneeze to get myself under control.
A Tale of Ten Lepers (and One Overactive Imagination)
The sermon was very good — about gratitude.
Ten lepers were healed, but only one came back to say thank you. The thanks weren’t a requirement; the healing had already happened. But the gratitude afterward served a purpose.
One more paragraph of church, I promise. (Well, one and a tiny bit.)
The other nine went on talking about the rabbi who healed them, following instructions to show themselves to the high priests. But the last man came back. Jesus told him his faith had made him whole.
Same event. Same healing. Two completely different narratives.
Breakfast at the House of Many Huddles
Fast forward a couple weeks. My person and I were at our usual Saturday breakfast at the good old House of Many Huddles.
I don’t go out to eat without two $5 bills in my pocket — one to put toward someone’s bill, and one toward my fundraiser. (I’m currently raising enough to reshoe all the servers. At the time, I was still thinking small and just working on a pair for one server with severe plantar fasciitis.)
I handed my $5 and my kindness note to our server. She misunderstood and gave everything directly to the customer.
About fifteen minutes later, the same woman walked up to my table holding the paper and the money.
“Are you the one who sent this?” she asked.
“Well, yes, but they weren’t supposed to let you know—”
“I can take care of myself,” she cut in. She was abrupt.
“Right, I was just—”
“I’m not interested.” She set everything on the table. “I don’t want to get involved.”
I looked up at her — a Baby Boomer, from a generation that worked hard for what it has. A generation of proud men and women who hold their heads high with good reason. With starch in their shirts and resolve to put most of us to shame. Maybe the blessing I intended came across as an insult.
Rather than explain myself, I did something incredibly hard for me: I stopped defending.
“Ma’am, I’m sorry,” I said. “I was trying to be a blessing to you. I apologize if I offended you.”
“Yes, well. I just don’t want to be involved.”
She went back to her breakfast.
Two Stories, One Moment
It took me two weeks to write about it because it took me that long to get perspective.
At first I was hurt and angry.
She turned down my blessing! How dare she!
But then I heard a possible narrative on her side:
I can take care of myself just fine. How dare she?
Two people. Same moment. Same action.
Two completely different stories.
Maybe our disagreements, our misunderstandings, our “why can’t they just see it my way?” moments
aren’t as simple as I think.
Maybe I’m missing something basic: perspective.
Maybe where I saw leprechauns in my naïveté, she saw lepers.
Who am I to dictate how a gift is received? Because it isn’t really a gift if you can’t turn it down — that edges into threat or manipulation, and that’s the last thing I ever wanted her (or anyone) to feel from me.
Maybe we were both right. We just weren’t seeing the same thing.
I certainly don’t want the four-leaf clovers and pots of gold of my intentions to become stumbling blocks to trip her up, or barbed wire around her heart. Maybe if I see her again, I can find a gentler way to show kindness — one she can receive — and maybe someday she’ll see a bit of the leprechaun side of the road too.
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