Pit Stop #1: The Shiny Gold Box

{In case you are new, or haven’t stopped by The Kitchen Mission in a while, I’m sharing part of my story that came from an exercise called My Life is Gospel. Feel free to read the introduction and back story, or just dive in! If you haven’t subscribed yet, you can receive The Kitchen Mission via email by filling out the subscription box on the right. And, of course, The Kitchen Mission is on Facebook. Welcome, friends! I’m glad you are here.}

Me. About the age this story took place

Do you remember the first time you encountered God? I happened to be about eight or nine years old.

Directly across the street from Preston Hollow Elementary School, exactly seven blocks and three major break-your-mother’s-back cracks up the road from the green bedroom I shared with my baby sister, is the Methodist Church we attended when I was young. In this place we worshipped on Sundays, I first encountered God. But, it wasn’t exactly how you might suppose.

Wax covered fingers from acolyte candles, the arrival of a new tapestry for the sanctuary, a time capsule to be opened at the new millennium and sugar glazed covered donuts are memories of childhood church. But, my first encounter with God wasn’t warm and fuzzy.

Somewhere in or about the second or third grade, our Sunday School class gathered expectantly for a game. Our teacher placed two packages on a table and called for volunteers. I soared up out of my seat, dying to be picked despite the fact I had no idea what would be asked of me. All I knew was the shiny gold box on the table was MINE. The teacher couldn’t have missed how perfect a subject I was for the lesson du jour. And, so I was picked. I have absolutely no recollection of the Bible story associated with the activity, but here’s how the lesson went down in my book.

Two of us were picked that day. I don’t remember the boy’s name who stood beside me waiting for the teacher to finally let us open the shiny, gold box. In fact, I wasn’t listening at all, until she said something like, “Kristin, there are two boxes on this table. Choose carefully, you may pick just one.” My hands grabbed the shiny, gold box (did I mention it had a BIG bow on it?) so fast, I hardly noticed there was a tiny box wrapped in newspaper sitting on the table. The boy quietly picked up the ugly box. My moment of glory was short lived. As I heard the words, “open…” the bow and shiny gold wrapping paper fell to the ground, discarded in anticipation of what greatness was sure to be nestled inside the perfect box. It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out where this story is headed. Inside my  beautiful box were three Saltine crackers. Inside the ugly box? Three Oreo cookies.

Do you know what my immediate response was? I lied. A Big Fat Ugly Lie. As quickly as I had torn through the coveted gold paper, the lie flew out of my mouth, “Oh, good! I got crackers. I hate Oreo cookies!”

Seriously? Hate Oreo cookies? The only person in the room I was fooling that day was me. And, it sucked. I didn’t mean to lie. I didn’t want to lie. But, the thought of being wrong, of admitting I had made the wrong choice, caused my tiny, young self to hide. I put up a wall, a facade to prove to the class, my teacher, the boy with the cookies, and even myself that I was happy, in fact glad that I had, as if on purpose, chosen the Saltine crackers. The irony here is rich, friends. Nothing against Saltines, but I am totally a Ritz Cracker girl.

My inner eight, maybe nine year old self got the ‘you can’t judge a book by the cover’ lesson. But, this forty-three year old self sees the story with a bit of perspective.

It would be years, two decades to be exact, before I realized I was not the first child of God to choose poorly. The Oreo was my apple, when I first hid in shame and let pride rule with a lie. Now, before you think I need to seek psychotherapy over the whole Oreos = the sin of pride thing, rest assured I’m ok with this event. In fact, I’m grateful for it. On that day, the day I tried so hard to hide, God showed up. He met me in my dark, hiding place. He didn’t talk to me or give me a grand vision, but I felt His presence. As far away as I tried to run that day, He was present.

And that was how I first met God. It’s not a grand story and I, myself, didn’t recognize it for years. He came to me, when I was busy being mad and hiding in the consequence of making a bad choice. He didn’t yell, or punish me. Nor did He fix my situation or give me an easy way out. In fact, He let me wrestle with my choice for several days. It was as if He installed a moral compass in my soul. Mostly, He simply let me know He was present. And on that day a seed was planted. I had no idea as I wrestled with not getting an Oreo, that a far greater gift awaited me…

Love,