Missionaries

A few days ago, at dusk, the doorbell rang at the house where I am living. No one else was home, so I went to the door. There stood two young missionaries, 19- or 20-year-old men, pale, clean and earnest looking. I opened the door, and they immediately commented on a piece of art on the living room wall. "That's nice! Did you paint it?" No, I said, but I could tell this was what they had been trained to do -- engage the person about something totally neutral so they won't get turned away in the first two seconds. Before they could turn to their "spiel," however, I said, "Listen, guys, I don't think you will get anywhere with me. I am a post-Christian feminist and have spent a lifetime figuring out my spiritual views." (Christianity is my ground. It is my frame of reference and the home of the music I love, but the lives and perspectives of women will almost always be my highest spiritual priority. It's a hard paradox, and I am sure these few words don't completely encapsulate it, but it's the best I've been able to come up with.) In the past, this has elicited a sort of bug-eyed terror, and the young men have quickly turned tail and power-walked down the sidewalk. However, these guys were pretty nonplussed. "Oh," said the guy on the left. "Well, do you know of anyone who needs their leaves raked?" I suggested that they bring a notice to the senior center about two blocks away.

That would probably have been that, but something in me found it in me to say to the (ahem) elder of the two "elders" (which is hysterical; what do they know about being an elder?): "Hey, I just want you to know that I appreciate the fact that whenever some of you come to the door, you are always friendly, well-mannered, and nicely dressed (although it's cold out! I hope you have warmer coats with you!)," kind of thing. He teared up. I am sure these guys are so used to rejection and so prepared for it in any form, that he was genuinely shocked to receive praise. He looked me in the eye and said, "My name is John. What is yours?" I said, "My name is Liz." He held out his hand and I shook it, the other kid shook my hand, and then they turned around and headed to their next stop.

Zing.

There have been relatively few bright spots like this, this week, and it may take until Friday to write my next post, trying to assess what's happening "one week on." Let's all dig deep and find our courage.