Crying about Jesus in Dunkin Donuts

Todd and I walked to breakfast a few Saturday mornings ago. And I pause here to say again how fiercely I love living across the street from places to go. So we walked to Dunkin Donuts and not a cute little sidewalk cafe, but still. If I squint I can almost convince myself that I'm a hip city girl.

What is it about sticky tabletops, the chaos of screaming, powdered sugar-covered children, and all the suburbanites in Lycra bicycle shorts that inspires so much more intention in our conversation than if we'd eaten our bagels at the quiet of our own kitchen table? Whatever it is, Todd asks me to tell him about the best thing I'd read last week. And as is so often the case, I tell him about what Rachel wrote this week, as if she is someone we know or my BFF (because I'm certain if she knew me we would be, of course). So he gets out his iPhone and he starts to read it out loud. At first I'm distracted by the man on his knees trying to fix a wobbly table and the woman sitting with her husband and children who looks like she could never possibly have eaten a donut before, but then the words wash over me and I lean in close and when he's finished, even though I'd already read it twice, tears are streaming down my face.

He asks me why I'm crying and I say random, inconsequential things for a bit because I'm embarrassed and I don't really know and I'm afraid I won't be able to say it, I'll just sob it out like a crazy person. But I know he'll understand, or try to, so I finally blurt it out, sobbing of course, I just love Jesus. We laugh for a second at the absurdity, sitting in Dunkin Donuts, crying about how much I love Jesus. And then we talk while I cry some more.

I've heard stories of people reading the Gospels and falling in love with Jesus. And I've never really understood. The Jesus of the Gospels can be cagey, vague, infuriatingly unclear, answering questions with more questions, telling parables instead of just coming out and saying it. I suppose I've loved Jesus, because of my understanding of how, somehow, he died for me and saved me and now God and I are okay, but it seems to me now like I loved Jesus for what he did for me. Like you'd love a soldier who fought for you or a teacher who taught you something you needed to know.

But the Jesus Rachel described? I didn't know him before. The one who confided first in a sinful, outcast, foreign woman that, yes, I am the Messiah you've been waiting for, and was so satisfied by this truth-telling that he told his disciples he didn't even want lunch anymore. I picture him now, offering dignity to this woman who knew so much shame, telling her to drink up, he was what she needed and she'd never have to be thirsty again and then sitting back in the sun by that well, sighing deeply, full. 

The Jesus who chose to appear after his resurrection to his female followers, commissioning Mary Magdalene to go tell the others, entrusting the most important news in history to a person whose eyewitness testimony wouldn't hold up in the court of her day. 

This one who saved the woman caught in the act of adultery, exposed to a vengeful public right at the moment of her darkest deeds, her most intimate acts, her deepest, most shameful secrets, and he saved her life and then offered her mercy and not condemnation and saved her again.

This Jesus who inspired a woman to break open a bottle of expensive perfume, pour it on his feet, and wipe them with her hair. And then the men start to grumble and accuse her of wastefulness. I wonder if she paused, stricken by the idea that she may have done something wrong, feeling shamed for her impulsiveness and emotionality, wondering if Jesus was dissatisfied with her offering. But Jesus speaks in her defense, telling them that wherever the Gospel is preached, we will tell the story of her love for him.

Jesus who tells us he came for the poor, the captive, the blind, and the oppressed. Who identifies himself with "the least of these." Who reached out his hand and touched lepers, these disfigured men and women who had gone who in the world knows how long without the touch of another human being, placing compassion far above any concerns about religious cleanliness.

Maybe all this is another gift infertility and miscarriage have given me. My story is small, but I relate to the shame and the brokenness just a very little bit. I think I understand a fraction of the desperation that caused the woman who had been bleeding for 12 excruciatingly long and lonely years to fall on the ground and reach her fingers out to brush the hem of Jesus' robe, on a hope that he'd be willing to heal her, too. And I think I can imagine what it must have been like, not just to feel healing flood her body at that moment, but for Jesus to turn around, seek her out, and see her.

I keep saying I feel seen. It's more accurate to say that I'm convinced I'm seen, even when I don't feel like it. Because it's easy to doubt, when yet another friend posts their happy news on Facebook (no offense! I'm excited for y'all, really!). When I'm happily cuddling my friends' babies, it's easy to believe that no one sees the longing that feels like it'll split my heart wide open. But if Jesus came to show us what God is like, I believe in a way I never would have dreamed that not only am I seen in these moments, I'm saved in them, too.