Grace Day #19: The Holy Interruption
“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 25:40 (NIV)
The Journey
I had the ticket for three months. It was laminated, pinned to my corkboard, and circled in red on my calendar: The “Deeper Life” Conference. The keynote speaker was my favorite author, a woman whose books on spiritual discipline had changed my life. I was desperate for a recharge. My job was stressful, my kids were demanding, and my soul felt like a dry sponge. I needed this night of worship and teaching like I needed oxygen.
The event started at 7:00 PM downtown. At 6:15 PM, I was already fighting rush hour traffic, drumming my fingers on the steering wheel, listening to the worship playlist I had curated to get my heart ready. The rain started falling—a cold, miserable November sleet that turned the highway into a parking lot.
Great, I thought. I’m going to miss the opening song.
I took a shortcut through a side street, an industrial road that ran parallel to the highway. It was dark, poorly lit, and slick with rain. As I rounded a curve, my headlights swept over a sedan parked haphazardly on the shoulder. Its hazard lights were blinking weakly.
I saw a figure standing by the back tire. A young girl, maybe twenty years old, wearing a hoodie that was soaked through. She was kicking the tire in frustration, shivering visibly.
My foot hovered over the brake.
Don’t stop, a voice in my head whispered immediately. It’s dark. It’s dangerous. You’re a woman alone. Someone else will stop. A cop will come by.
And the loudest argument of all: You are going to church! You need this spiritual night. If you stop, you’ll miss the keynote. You can’t save everyone.
I drove past her.
I got about a hundred yards down the road. The worship music was swelling to a crescendo in my car speakers—something about “Surrender all.” The irony hit me in the gut so hard I almost gasped. Here I was, speeding toward a building to sing about loving God, while driving away from a child of God shivering in the rain.
I cursed under my breath, hit the brakes, and pulled a U-turn.
When I pulled up behind her car, she looked terrified. I rolled down the window. “Hey! Do you have a spare?”
She walked over, hugging herself. “I have a spare, but I don’t have a jack. And my phone is dead.” She looked at me, mascara running down her cheeks. “I’m supposed to be at a job interview at the mall in thirty minutes. If I don’t get this job, I can’t pay my rent.”
I looked at the clock. 6:40 PM. If I stopped to help, the conference was gone. My nice clothes would be ruined.
I turned off the ignition. “Pop the trunk,” I said.
I am not a mechanic, but I know how to change a tire. It wasn’t graceful. The lug nuts were rusted tight. The rain was freezing. I had to stomp on the tire iron to get them to budge. Mud splattered onto my cream-colored pants. My hair, which I had curled for the event, was plastered to my skull.
It took forty-five minutes. By the time we lowered the car back down, I was shivering and filthy.
The girl—her name was Tasha—looked at me with wide eyes. “Why did you come back?” she asked. “Everyone else just drove by.”
I wiped my muddy hands on a rag. I thought about the ticket in my purse. I thought about the “Deeper Life” conference.
“I was on my way to hear a speech about how to find God,” I said, smiling through the grit on my face. “But I think I found Him here instead.”
I followed Tasha to the mall to make sure she got there safely (she was late, but the manager was so impressed by her story of the ‘crazy lady in the mud’ that he interviewed her anyway).
I never made it to the conference. I drove home, wet and cold, eating a granola bar for dinner. I missed the lights. I missed the famous speaker. I missed the goosebumps of the corporate worship.
But as I stood in my hot shower that night, watching the grease swirl down the drain, I felt a warmth in my chest that no sermon could have ignited. I realized that for years, I had treated Christianity as a noun—a place I went, a thing I consumed. But tonight, it had been a verb.
I missed the event, but I didn’t miss the encounter.
Heart of the Matter
We often view interruptions as the enemy of our schedule. We have our “God time” blocked out—Sunday mornings, morning devotionals, small groups. We think that is where the holy things happen. When life interrupts us—with a flat tire, a needy neighbor, or a crying child—we feel like we are being pulled away from what matters.
But in the Gospels, Jesus rarely moved according to a schedule. His entire ministry was a series of interruptions. He was on his way to heal a dying girl when a woman touched his robe. He stopped. He was trying to rest when the crowds found him. He fed them.
The Parable of the Good Samaritan is a story about a religious man who was too busy with “spiritual duties” to stop for a dying man, and a Samaritan who allowed himself to be inconvenienced. The protagonist in our story realized that the “Deeper Life” wasn’t found in a conference center; it was found on the side of a rainy road.
The interruption is the assignment. The inconvenience is the ministry.
Faith in Action
We often miss ministry opportunities because our heads are down—looking at our phones or looking at our watches.
Challenge: Today, when you are transitioning between places (walking from your car to the store, walking down the hall at work), put your phone in your pocket and lift your head.
Make eye contact with the people you pass. Look for the “tells” of distress—the confused look, the heavy sigh, the dropped item. If you see it, stop. Even if it makes you two minutes late.
Prayer for the Day
Lord of the Interruption, I confess that I worship my own schedule. I get annoyed when my plans are derailed. Give me the eyes to see that the people in my path are not obstacles, but appointments set by You. Give me a heart that is willing to be inconvenienced. Help me to find You not just in the sanctuary, but in the rain, in the mess, and in the detour. Amen.
Grace Note
“You can’t be the hands and feet of Jesus if you aren’t willing to get them dirty.” — Anonymous