As my wife and I waited for the elevator up to the theater level, I found myself in a conversation with a volunteer greeter, who was disfigured by what looked like fire. We talked for a few minutes, and for the most part I maintained eye contact, but I have to admit that it was hard not to stare.
I felt that the woman had the right to expect me, if anyone, an upper middle-aged man, in a wheelchair, wearing a festive green and red crocheted hat, at a small town venue, there to celebrate the birth of the baby Jesus, to not be judgemental or look on in pity, or worse. But much to my regret and shame, I fell short of the mark.
God works in mysterious ways, and never more so than during this season of miracles. I cannot now help but think that this fellow human was put in my path to remind me that we are not here to judge, nor to pity, nor to regret, nor to feel guilt, but that we are here to love.
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