Show Me a Sign

In my flat, Lowestoft, England, 1981.

“Show me a sign!” the man said. He’d come to the door looking tired and ornery.

I was a naïve young missionary in Lowestoft, England, proselyting door-to-door. Normally, I’d have let it roll off unanswered, but that time, without thinking, I opened my mouth.

“We don’t normally do this,” I said, with a solemn tone and expression, “but, in your case, I’ll make a special exception. Hold out your hand and I’ll wither it.”

I smiled inside, but I was the only one smiling.

I don’t know who was more surprised, the man in the doorway or the missionary standing next to me. No one spoke. The man offered a somber stare, put his hands in his pockets, took one step backwards without breaking eye contact, and kicked the door closed.

I didn’t think much about the incident until a few weeks later when a high-ranking church official gathered the missionaries for a conference. To my amazement, my proselyting partner shared my impetuous outburst over the pulpit. I slunk into the pew knowing everyone except the visiting official knew he was talking about me. Worst of all, he spoke with complete sincerity and concluded by saying, “And you know what? He could have done it.”

“No, I couldn’t,” I thought to myself. “I was being stupid and arrogant.”

Moral of the story: Sometimes I say and do ridiculous things, and I’m grateful I get to learn, grow, and do better.