The Ministry of Tea & a Tissue
I opened the door and a gust of cold air blew past me, sending a chill through me. Pulling the sides of my cardigan together, I stood in the open doorway, frost swirling invisibly around the entryway. She stood there on the front porch, smiling stiffly at me.
I hadn’t seen her in years. This young woman who went to school with my daughter. I remember her as an awkward pre-teen--as all girls tend to be in those ages somewhere between no longer child and not yet woman. She attended birthday parties at our home over the years. Eleven, Twelve, Thirteen. And then they grew apart. It wasn’t acrimonious or dramatic, just a slow acknowledgment that they shared little in common, other than being classmates. Different interests. Different personalities. Eventually, different friend groups. And then she disappeared from our lives.
Until my doorbell rang on that quiet afternoon. The weather outside was brisk, but inside the house it was cozy and warm—a candle lit on the living room ottoman, the fireplace flickering. It’s one of those direct-vent ones that light with the flick of a switch but lacks the sound and smell of real logs crackling in the grate. But the ambience and warmth it provides is welcome between October and March.
Afternoons are low ebb times for me. My most productive hours are first thing and so I tend to fill my mornings with tasks and appointments and by mid-afternoon, when my energy is flagging, I curl up on the sofa with a mug of tea and a book. Sometimes I set an alarm and lie down for a nap.
I typically don’t make plans for my afternoons, knowing that rest time is essential for me if I’m going to make it through my evenings intact. Cancer takes a toll on the body and while I live mostly symptom-free, fatigue is a thing. Blood cancer courses unseen through my veins, populating my white blood cells with immature lymphocytes that do nothing but take up valuable space. They crowd out the good cells I need, including oxygenated red blood cells. And so, an afternoon nap is sometimes necessary medicine depending on what my evening holds.
This particular day, I had set the kettle to boil and put a fresh teabag in the pot, ready to steep. The fireplace switch had been flicked to on and I had a book waiting for me on the sofa. I wasn’t expecting any visitors or packages, so when the doorbell rang, it took me by surprise.
“Esther!” I said, stunned to see her standing there after all these years. A willowy, blonde 24-year-old had replaced the freckle-faced young lady I remember from the days she came over to play. Her presence on my doorstep was completely unexpected and I struggled to make sense of why she was there.
“How are you?” I asked her gently. It quickly became evident that the smile pasted on her face was covering something deeper. And with my simple question, her smile crumpled and twisted, and her clear blue eyes began to glisten. She asked if she could come in, even as I was opening the door wider to usher her in out of the cold.
She stepped to the side as I closed the door behind her, and before she could even get her coat unzipped, I wrapped my arms around her and we stood in the foyer together, her steady resolve melting into tears on my shoulder.
Once the tea was poured and we sat together in the living room, her story tumbled out. Her mom had just been diagnosed with lung cancer. Her active, otherwise healthy, non-smoking mother was dying. She had flown in from Vancouver as soon as she got the phone call earlier in the week, taking a brief leave from her job as a paediatric nurse. And now, after spending the past few days helping her mom navigate a plethora of medical appointments and doctor-speak, she needed to get out of the house. Needed to take a walk and clear her head.
And she found herself in front of my house. Standing on the sidewalk. Looking at the front door. Knowing that I had a diagnosis of my own. Though we hadn’t seen each other in person in many years, our status as Facebook friends entitled her to a window into the events of my life over that time. She had seen my posts and read my blog. She knew I would understand.
She would tell me later that her walk past my house wasn’t an accident. She was sure she walked by hoping for a sign that I might be home, that I might welcome her in—even though it was out of nowhere and might be asking a lot of me.
No one was more surprised at the way that afternoon unfolded than me. As much as I enjoy opening my door to people, the truth is I’m much more of a Martha than a Mary when it comes to hosting company. I confess that I can be bent out of shape over appearances. The house needs to be tidy; the food needs to be planned. I will run around like a chicken with my head cut off before people arrive ensuring bathroom candles are lit and—at a minimum—the main floor appears neat. Ideally, a pan of muffins will just be coming out of the oven and the house will smell of fresh baking and sunshine.
I’m a great host—when I know my guests are coming. Surprise visits, although I like the idea of them, make me very uncomfortable.
And so, when Esther landed on my doorstep without any warning, you might well expect that I would have hesitated before ushering her in, wrapping my arms around her in welcome, and settling her on the sofa, where we would spend the next two hours sipping tea, talking, crying and praying. But I didn’t. In fact, not once during that time did I worry that my side chairs were covered in cat hair (they totally were). Not once did I fret that I had nothing to offer her to eat (she didn’t seem to mind only tea). And when the thought occurred to me that I would not be prepping dinner for my family in advance that afternoon, I brushed it aside as quickly as it came. My family would not starve. Dinner would eventually get made.
The only thing that mattered that day was that I was willing. I saw the person at my door—the heartbroken little girl in a woman’s body standing on my front step—and knew that God had brought her to me for a reason. It was completely an inside job—that I was home, making tea, ready to settle in and had no plans that couldn’t be set aside—these things were all perfectly orchestrated by a God who knows exactly what we need before we know we need it. That chilly afternoon, Esther needed a soft place to land in a world that had suddenly gone hard and cold. And God knew I’d be home. It didn’t matter the state of my house. What mattered was the state of my heart.
I used to think that my calling—my “ministry”—would somehow involve writing. I dreamed that I would pen a book and it would be a best-seller and people would read my words and my story and be moved. That my eloquent sentences would point people to God. I wanted to make an impact and create a legacy that would outlast me. I wanted to write stories that would outlive me. Well, clearly that has not happened.
Maybe, someday, that dream will still be part of my story.
But it occurred to me after Esther left my house that putting a mug of steaming tea in a young woman’s shaking hand and placing a tissue box within arm’s reach of her; sitting with her and holding her hand while she cried, that was ministry. Opening my door and my heart to what God needed to do for Esther that day was, in fact, my calling on that wintry afternoon.
Really, it was my writing that brought Esther to my doorstep that day. If I had not shared my own journey on my blog and on my social media channels, it might not have occurred to her to seek me out. And, while my writing career has not yet looked like I originally thought it might, in smaller ways, God is still using it for his purposes and—ultimately—for His glory.
“Do not despise these small beginnings, for the Lord rejoices to see the work begin…”
~Zechariah 4:10a
In the four years since Esther and I visited that chilly afternoon, my tea & tissue ministry continues to thrive—which is more than I can say of my writing career. Instead of hiding behind my computer screen, God regularly has me sitting face-to-face with friends, mugs of tea in hand, listening. Crying. Praying. In these recent pandemical times, it’s looked more like walks in the fresh air, text messages before doctor appointments, and phone calls. It looks like me being willing to setting aside my plans for God’s on any given afternoon.
Saint Teresa of Avila, a 16th Century nun who is also regarded as a mystic, wrote these words that I take very much to heart:
"Christ has no body now, but yours. No hands, no feet on earth, but yours. Yours are the eyes through which Christ looks compassion into the world. Yours are the feet with which Christ walks to do good. Yours are the hands with which Christ blesses the world."
Saint Teresa’s words echo a scripture passage that Esther reminded me of when I reached out to her to ask if she was ok with me sharing this story.
“Then the righteous will answer him, ‘Lord, when did we see you hungry and feed you, or thirsty and give you something to drink? When did we see you a stranger and invite you in, or needing clothes and clothe you? When did we see you sick or in prison and go to visit you?’ The King will reply, ‘Truly I tell you, whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers and sisters of mine, you did for me.’”
~Matthew 25:37-40
And, so, while I continue to plug away with my writing, I will also continue to keep my heart open to the people and purposes God puts in my path. Perhaps, these two things were always meant to go hand in hand?
So, here’s my question for you? What do you see as your “ministry” and how does it look different than you thought it would? Drop me a note: janine@janinedilger.com and let me know. In the meantime, I remain…
Ever grateful for grace,
