Aunt Marge
I'll be the first to admit that I'm slightly disenchanted with this whole media driven, large numbers gathering, smoke and strobe-light Christianity that seems to be pretty prevalent these days. At the risk of sounding like a complete and total Grandma, nothing about it makes sense to me.
In fact, in direct opposite to the effect the movement seems to desire to have, I run at the first sight of a purple light. A 10 foot angel wing. It feels jarring and loud, invasive and foreign. So unlike the relationship I have with my Jesus.
I know I'm not the majority. I've made peace with that. I know plenty of people who have been and continue to be moved by Christ in masses of hundreds, hearts captured through videos, peace given through life-sized demonstrations. I'm so glad for them. But, every time I start to feel the panic rising in my throat, the gentle constricting of the wondering if this is really the only way in which to reach anyone anymore, I remember Aunt Marge. And my breathing stills.
Aunt Marge was not really a blood relative, but that never stopped me from calling her by her rightful title- nor the rest of her surrogate grandchildren. She was a quiet, gentle, white-haired lady who was a mainstay at the church at which I found Jesus as a misguided and angry teenager. Aunt Marge was steady;constant. She was there every Sunday. Always smiling. Always asking pointed questions that directly correlated with the last conversation you had with her. It didn't matter if it was a year ago. Aunt Marge always remembered.
There was something profound in the way that Aunt Marge loved on the teenagers in our church that is nothing less than shocking. These are two age groups that do not mingle. Not willingly. And yet, she sought us out. She didn't lure us with cool gimmicks or the latest gadgets. But she (and her friends) made it to every single performance I ever had in High School. She went to everyone's games and matches, plays and performances. She was there with signs (because she hated flowers) and loud claps. She would wait in the back until you got off the stage or the court or the field to hug you tightly and whisper how proud of you she was. She would surreptitiously sneak rolled up 10 dollar bills into your palm with a wink and tell you to have fun with your friends. She'd send me (all of us) hand written letters when we went off to camp or college with boxes snacks for our entire dorm. She cried at our weddings. She held our hands when we lost babies and direction and sometimes, our minds and she promised to pray and we believed her because Aunt Marge never backed out of a promise. No matter what secret we revealed to Aunt Marge she was never appalled or shocked- and we've collectively, I'm sure, told her some pretty shocking things. The fact that a sixteen year old girl would reveal anything to an elderly woman should be testimony enough to what type of lady she was. She was always present, available and willing.
Aunt Marge loved Christ with her whole self and it changed me. It changed us. She didn't need a disco ball or a multi-million dollar sound system to capture a bunch of wayward kids, she just loved us so completely we couldn't help but reciprocate.
I'm remembering Aunt Marge today and how she lived her life as it's the day she went home to be Jesus and am so incredibly thankful for what she taught me.
Above all else, the greatest of these is love.
The greatest.
She certainly was.