It’s 32 degrees outside, freezing, and it’s still dark on a Monday morning. She’s sitting in her running car trying to calm the nerves that have her hands shaking and her pores beginning to sweat beneath her black sweater. She’s wondering if she’s crazy. She’s been up for hours already, and she’s been sitting in her Toyota Corolla for the last twenty minutes with the engine running and nothing but the motor’s hum and her nervous breath for company. Maybe she is crazy.

It’s 32 degrees outside, freezing, and it’s still dark on a Monday morning. His gloves are slightly wet and smelling like rot. His jacket barely keeps in the heat that exerting himself has created in his chest. He’s crazy, he’s sure of it. He’s been awake since 3:30 AM. Six years ago, that would have been more along the lines of a bed time than a time to set an alarm clock for.

Her hands are clammy from the nerves and her breath is coming a little shallow. She has no idea how he’s going to react; if he’s going to react; if he’s going to just flat out reject her. Though, she can’t imagine why anyone would reject her for this. Nonetheless, she’s finding her heartbeat tap tap tapping on her windpipe as she opens the door with one last deep breath of the car’s warm air and the almost overwhelming smell of fresh baking.

His hands are sore, cut, cold, and rough from picking up every body else’s messes. Sometimes he has another guy with him to help with the lifting, but that is usually only during the holiday season, when mountains of gift packaging and empty bicycle boxes line the streets. Today, he’s by himself and over and over again, he repeats that there are only ten more blocks to go. He’s gritting his teeth as he tosses another empty trash can back to the curb when he notices a woman approaching him from the left. She’s flushed and focused, staring right at him, and she’s moving with the determination that lets him know that he’s got to get ready to defend himself. Ladies moving toward him with that kind of determination have something to complain about.

As she approaches, she starts to have second thoughts. She’s concious of herself asking out loud, “What am I doing?” She doesn’t answer and just keeps moving. She tells herself not to flinch as he assumes an annoyed stance; arms crossed, legs shoulder-width apart, and a cross between a grimace and a bemused smile on his face. In a rush, she pushes the plate toward him and like water at Niagra Falls, her words spill out, “Imadetheseforyou.”

“What?” He asks as she shoves something at him. Her words came out so fast, it takes a few seconds for him to decide she was actually speaking English. He looks down at her visibly shaking arms extended with a paper plate of cellophane cookies. He knows the shaking isn’t from the weight of the plate or even the cold, though he can tell by her hunched stance that the cold is starting to touch her. He relaxes a bit, so as not to frighten her further.

Taking a deep breath, she says, “I made you these cookies this morning. I just thought you’d like them on this cold day. I appreciate all the hard work you do.”

He’s considering pinching himself to see if he’s awake, but he decides that if he is in fact dreaming, he should just run with it, so he says, “Thank you so much. Usually when well dressed ladies come running up to me, it’s to tell me about how pissed they are about how I treat their precious trash cans.”

She smiles and says, “Well. I think you treat my trash cans fine. Have a great day, and enjoy.” Without another word, she turns around, gets in her car and slips the transmission into reverse. When she gets to work, she tries to remember all the details of the mornings events, but the adrenaline pumping through her veins tries to induce amnesia.

He smiles and says, “Thank you.” He watches her drive away before grabbing a cookie off the plate, shoving the entire thing into his mouth (thanking God that the cookies weren’t hot enough to burn him), and putting the plate on the passenger seat of the big truck. He turns his attention to the next set of trash cans and continues his day, laughing. He can’t wait to tell his wife what happened today.

—–

This is a dramatization of a true story I heard at the men’s retreat. This is such a great example of someone showing someone else some love and respect for no reason but that ALL PEOPLE need it, and we should love ALL PEOPLE. Vince, the speaker at the men’s retreat, referred to the girl in this story as a “Guerilla Lover.” They come out of nowhere, do what is right, and change the world by starting a revolution of love. It works. Will they know who we are by our love? I don’t always know. Will they know who we are by our judgements of them? I hope not. God, I hope not.

Jesus was revolutionary. He came here to DIE, so that we may know life. He came here with a message of hope and love. He turned the world upside down.

So, why don’t we do this? Why aren’t we out there performing crazy acts of love? Why not? Why aren’t be being “Guerilla Lovers?”

1 Cor. 4 (The message, verses 9-13): It seems to me that God has put us who bear his Message on stage in a theater in which no one wants to buy a ticket. We’re something everyone stands around and stares at, like an accident in the street. We’re the Messiah’s misfits. You might be sure of yourselves, but we live in the midst of frailties and uncertainties. You might be well-thought-of by others, but we’re mostly kicked around. Much of the time we don’t have enough to eat, we wear patched and threadbare clothes, we get doors slammed in our faces, and we pick up odd jobs anywhere we can to eke out a living. When they call us names, we say, “God bless you.” When they spread rumors about us, we put in a good word for them. We’re treated like garbage, potato peelings from the culture’s kitchen. And it’s not getting any better.) Why aren’t we (I) a misfit for Christ/a fool for Him?

God has people do crazy stuff (Ezekiel 4 for one of hundreds of examples from the word and from real life). Let’s get crazy and be misfits for God’s glory.