[The following article consists of excerpts from my upcoming book, His Heart, My Hands. I am dedicating this piece to our good friend, B. J. Lowery of Henrietta, Texas. You'll see why in a moment!]
He came. Whatever else may be said about Jesus the Christ, it is undeniable that he came. When humanity needed him the most, he showed up in person -- in the humblest of ways. No telegrams, emails, or text messages. No creatively hand-written letter with his words penned in red ink. And he didn't send somebody else in his place -- a heavenly representative if you will.
Why not? He knew in his heart of hearts, for all eternity, those ways would simply not do. He had to come into the world himself as a flesh-and-blood person, physically present to humankind, as well as being emotionally and spiritually available to us. To write a letter, send a video, or make a digital recording wouldn't have cut the mustard. He had to show up in human skin, "taking the form of a servant, being born in the likeness of men" (Phil. 2:7, ESV).
How does Jesus's coming speak to us today when it relates to Christian caregiving? What it says is that mailing a card or letter, making a quick phone call, or sending flowers or money to the hurting and downcast is all well and good, but it frankly is often not enough. A greater form of personal investment is required if a deeper level of caring is to be achieved. We need to show up in person and be physically present to people. There's absolutely no equivalent replacement for the human touch. It may be called the "ministry of presence." Another way of saying this is "being there for others."
During the initial days of our four-year-old son Austin's chemotherapy treatments for leukemia in 2005, several of our church family came to be with us and left a lasting impression. One such individual was a quiet, humble, rancher named B. J. Lowery. He was a person of few words but wise steps.
We were surprised when B. J. timidly poked his head through the door of Austin's hospital room. He was wearing a white cowboy hat, plaid shirt, blue jeans, and brown work-boots. With a friendly smile and in his Texan drawl, all he said was, "Hi guys. How are you making it? I love you and Austin and just wanted to be here. Do you mind if I sit with you a while?" Of course we were more than happy to have B. J.'s company because we loved and appreciated him, too. He had always made an extra effort to show special kindness to our children and us in the past.
B. J. sat unassumingly in Austin's low-lit, cramped hospital room with us, not taking the chair beside his bed, but the one next to the wall. He didn't want to be in anybody's way. While other visitors came and went, and medical staff went about their perfunctory tasks, B. J. sat quietly and respectfully, rarely chiming in to the conversation. And, though he at times appeared a bit self-conscious, he stayed from beginning of visiting hours to the very end. When the announcement over the loudspeaker signifying the end of visiting hours echoed through the hallways, B. J. said, "I love you, Austin. We'll go fishing together when you get back home." Austin responded, "I love you, too." We knew B. J. meant it. He didn't say much, but his comforting presence spoke volumes to us. We knew this gentle friend cared, because he came!
We thank God that Austin did get to fish with B. J. a few months later on his ranch. What a great blessing that was indeed -- for all of us!
Note: This article originally appeared on my former blogsite (www.ryanfraser.org).
