Today will be my last official post in the “My Greek Adventure” series, but I snootily reserve the right to mention some cool relevant-to-everyday-living things I picked up along the way in future posts.
BTW, I want to thank you for all the heartfelt feedback I’ve received on my “Sometimes When You Fly, You Meet Angels” post, which was second in this Greek Adventure series (feel free to scroll back to reread it) – more responses than I think I’ve ever received on any post since I started blogging ten years ago. I’ve been emailed, texted, phoned, and even stopped in the grocery store by readers feeling the need to express their stirred emotions. Something about dear Father Frankie moved many of you to tears (alongside me!) and I’ve been amazed how (and why?) that little slice of a believer’s life resonated so deeply. I’d love to hear your theories about that in the comments below.
P.S. Did I tell you my beloved daddy was named Frankie (and my granddaddy was Big Frank)? I think that’s part of the reason I felt like Papa God sent Father Frankie as a special grace note from His divine hand just to remind me that He’s there, He’s aware, and He cares.
Okay, so today’s story is an interesting one too, and perhaps a bit offbeat. But then … aren’t most of my stories?
Our tour group arrived in the early morning at the crowded Parthenon ruins in Athens and then followed our local guide (who was holding aloft a red flag for greatest visibility) – like sheep dumbly following their shepherd – through the masses. The normally sweet, polite, soft-spoken tour guide lady shocked us all by barking out angry retorts in Greek to the other pushy tour guides jockeying for position and proved without a doubt that she would’ve held her own in any ancient gladiator colosseum. We joined snaking lines inching up the Acropolis into the fray of complete tourist bedlam surrounding the ancient artifacts most of the civilized world had apparently decided to experience on the very same day.
Well, sadly, some weren’t so civilized.
Bear in mind, I was still rehabbing two total knee replacements and after about an hour on my aching legs, I decided to scootch my derriere up onto a nearby boulder and wait on the others in my group to finish oooh’ing and ahhh’ing over the amazing ediface skeletons before us.
I noticed a group of four college-age girls (in the vicinity of age 20) posing here and there for selfies, making those kissy-faces that giggly girls that age like to make (goodness, what do they think they look like???), and gushing profoundly over every little thing. One of the girls made a big deal about hoisting herself atop a large rock near me while the others all pointed their phone/cameras at their courageous companion, awaiting her inevitable smooch pose. Yes, that’s actually her in the photo (right) after she’d reached the summit of her destination and before turning around for the snapshot.
But the shot never snapped.
As she stepped precariously forward on the rock for the benefit of her peers, her posed kissy face suddenly turned into the “Scream” mask you see at Halloween. She lost her balance, flailed wildly for a long frozen second in time, then fell headfirst off the boulder onto the unforgiving rocks below.
I rose halfway up on my own rock and issued forth an involuntary horrified screech, which was drowned out by the din of a thousand voices surrounding us. As I scrambled to disengage myself from my own precipice, I couldn’t imagine what kind of damage had been done to that young, naieve, foolish girl. My compassion was jolted from its deep slumber.
We all do foolish things sometimes, don’t we? But we shouldn’t be maimed for life because of them.
To my utter astonishment, by the time I made my way over to the fallen girl, I realized that I was the only one rushing to assist her. Her three friends were bent double in hysterical laughter, totally oblivious to the pain she must be feeling at the expense of a ridiculous photo. They slapped each other on the back while laughing their brains out and one even rolled into a human “rolly-polly” ball, her face beet red from unbridled mirth.
I helped the poor abandoned media-abuse victim to her feet, bruises already beginning to form on her face and shoulder. She appeared dazed for a few moments, but then thankfully her world seemed to come back into focus, as we checked out her joint mobility, bone stability, and mental acuity. I helped her dust herself off and suggested she go straight to a concession stand and apply ice (fairly hard to find in Greece) to her multiple contusions if she was interested in being able to function tomorrow.
By now three or four minutes had passed since her stone swan dive and many other tourists had to have witnessed her fall, but no one – no one – came to her aid. Tourists from all countries stared, gawked, and even altered their route to avoid the accident site, but kept on walking by. Some stared longer at her three useless friends making a hysterical spectical of themselves than they did at the beaten-up victim herself.
Which biblical story pops into your head about now, dear BFF?
Yep. Me too.
Only most of the time, I identify with one of the preoccupied religious-in-name-but-not-so-much-in-practice people who passed right by the person in need (see the Good Samaritan story in Luke 10:30-37) in order to stick to their preconceived agendas and check off their daily to-do list. Productivity first, above all. Sadly, I don’t generally identify with the Good Samaritan. But this time, Papa God shoved the shoe on the other foot. I got to be the one who actually did something useful for someone, even if it was only a little dusting off and offering moral support when her own besties deserted her.
That young woman hugged my neck – me, a total stranger – until I thought it would pop off.
Because of two bum knees and weariness from a half-dozen decades under my belt, Papa God had me positioned in the right place so that the tyranny of the urgent didn’t have me consumed with completing projects or hustling on down the road to accomplish my to-do list (like I usually am). No, I had nothing else to do at the moment, nowhere else to be, when someone needed help. She had my undivided attention. Not because of anything I did to arrange the scenario, but because Papa God ochestrated the details to use me when I’d just prayed that very morning to be more of a willing servant in whatever capacity He needed me to act as His hands and feet.
I’ve been thinking about the Good Sam story from a whole new angle ever since.
I see now that Sam wasn’t specially trained in first aid or crisis intervention when he encountered the person needing help. He was just there. At the right place and the right time to offer his presence. His unskilled, unauthorized, underqualified presence. And that’s all the Almighty wanted from him – to be willing to serve as His hands and feet to someone in need.
To be willing.
And that’s something all of us can do. We can simply be there. We can offer our presence when someone Papa God has placed in our path needs help. As unskilled, unauthorized, and underqualified as we may be, our presence and willingness are just what the Great Physician ordered.
So dear BFF, when have you been someone’s Good Sam? How did it affect your POV of the Luke 10 passage?
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