My desk is a humble desk. It’s only two feet wide but it serves in many roles. It carries a heavy burden because it is the most versatile and used piece of equipment at onePlace. It must be flexible with the different jobs and has to be ready to adjust at any moment. I love my desk for many reasons. I wouldn’t change it for anything. Here is the reason why…if my desk could talk, this is what it would say:
“I got my first tattoo only a couple of months ago. It wasn’t something I really wanted but kind of just came to me. I was working a show for the venue when a teenage girl decided to make her mark. She wrote “Brittany J Andy J”. I don’t know either of them but she obviously thought it was important. It opened up Pandora’s Box because ever since that day everybody and their mother felt the need to give me more tattoos, more random statements, more personal declarations. At first it kind of bothered me, but the more it happened, the more I questioned its purpose. Why do people ‘tag’? I think the answer is rather profound. The artist wants to be noticed, wants to be seen, wants to be heard, wants to make an impact, and wants to belong to something. Can I be upset at a person who longs for those things? Not really. In fact, I want to be the object that displays the art of the unseen. I carry it with pride. Because when the day is done, I know that the marginalized man was noticed and the silent soul was heard.
My other job is being Mark’s desk throughout the week. He’s a brut of a man, handsome, intelligent, sophisticated, and stylish yet the sensitivity of a mother Teresa type. He makes me want to be a better desk. (maybe my desk didn’t say all those things, but it’s my fabled personification, just let me dream) My purpose here is practical. I support the work of a man who loves and serves the church. There is nothing glamorous about this job. I don’t get noticed. I don’t draw attention. I’m simply here to support the work of the guys who dream.
My favorite job throughout the week is the one I have on Sunday nights. That’s the night onePlace has church. It’s the most sacred job any one person can have. I sit in the back corner, I dress in black, I am the hand that holds communion. I see people focused on a time of remembering. I see people trying to reconnect with God. I see others with completely broken lives. I can’t tell you how many tears have been shed in my presence…men and women who have knelt in front of me begging for mercy. Their prayers came out in whispers but this is what I remember. I remember a young lady praying for her dad who was dying of cancer. I remember a man asking for God to restore his broken marriage. I remember a couple who just lost a child. I remember a young man who was devastated by his parents divorce. I remember a man who just lost his job. I remember a lady suffering from bouts with depression. I remember the man who was pleading for God’s forgiveness. I remember the lady that was shackled with fear. I remember all of them. I remember them because we shared communion together. They all come to this place of reckoning because of one thing. It’s not because of me. It’s not even because of what I hold. It’s because they want to meet with God, the true and living God. I don’t know if I told you, this is my favorite job.”
That is a whole lot for a desk to say, but I believe it to be accurate. In fact, my desk might be a better Christian than I am. These are simple yet profound goals; display the art of the unseen, support the guys who dream, and be the hands that help others commune with God. My desk is a humble desk, but I love what it teaches me.
“I got my first tattoo only a couple of months ago. It wasn’t something I really wanted but kind of just came to me. I was working a show for the venue when a teenage girl decided to make her mark. She wrote “Brittany J Andy J”. I don’t know either of them but she obviously thought it was important. It opened up Pandora’s Box because ever since that day everybody and their mother felt the need to give me more tattoos, more random statements, more personal declarations. At first it kind of bothered me, but the more it happened, the more I questioned its purpose. Why do people ‘tag’? I think the answer is rather profound. The artist wants to be noticed, wants to be seen, wants to be heard, wants to make an impact, and wants to belong to something. Can I be upset at a person who longs for those things? Not really. In fact, I want to be the object that displays the art of the unseen. I carry it with pride. Because when the day is done, I know that the marginalized man was noticed and the silent soul was heard.
My other job is being Mark’s desk throughout the week. He’s a brut of a man, handsome, intelligent, sophisticated, and stylish yet the sensitivity of a mother Teresa type. He makes me want to be a better desk. (maybe my desk didn’t say all those things, but it’s my fabled personification, just let me dream) My purpose here is practical. I support the work of a man who loves and serves the church. There is nothing glamorous about this job. I don’t get noticed. I don’t draw attention. I’m simply here to support the work of the guys who dream.
My favorite job throughout the week is the one I have on Sunday nights. That’s the night onePlace has church. It’s the most sacred job any one person can have. I sit in the back corner, I dress in black, I am the hand that holds communion. I see people focused on a time of remembering. I see people trying to reconnect with God. I see others with completely broken lives. I can’t tell you how many tears have been shed in my presence…men and women who have knelt in front of me begging for mercy. Their prayers came out in whispers but this is what I remember. I remember a young lady praying for her dad who was dying of cancer. I remember a man asking for God to restore his broken marriage. I remember a couple who just lost a child. I remember a young man who was devastated by his parents divorce. I remember a man who just lost his job. I remember a lady suffering from bouts with depression. I remember the man who was pleading for God’s forgiveness. I remember the lady that was shackled with fear. I remember all of them. I remember them because we shared communion together. They all come to this place of reckoning because of one thing. It’s not because of me. It’s not even because of what I hold. It’s because they want to meet with God, the true and living God. I don’t know if I told you, this is my favorite job.”
That is a whole lot for a desk to say, but I believe it to be accurate. In fact, my desk might be a better Christian than I am. These are simple yet profound goals; display the art of the unseen, support the guys who dream, and be the hands that help others commune with God. My desk is a humble desk, but I love what it teaches me.
No comments:
Post a Comment