Card Carrying Members
I like that Severn River Church has little business cards made up with the church information on them. They contain the meeting time and location, complete with a little map. On the front they have a picture of a welcome mat; others have toast with the caption, “Burned out?” I carry the welcome ones in my wallet, because on occasion a conversation with someone will introduce the idea of church or religion or something I can use to mention the church. A card like that is a powerful visual aid and serves as a personal invitation.
In recent weeks—exactly one month, really—I have had two such conversations. One was during Valentines week, when I helped out as day labor at my sister’s employer, A Blooming Basket. They had several thousand roses in stock for Valentine’s Day and needed day help cleaning the roses. I scraped thorns off and put little green plastic sleeves on the necks of the roses to keep them firm. It was monotonous and hard on the hands, but everyone kept cheerful conversations going in the chilled workroom. The lady I worked with the most shared, unexpectedly one day, that she was backslidden. She was raised in an Assembly of God church and had given up her faith years before. Now, she was contemplating finding a local church; did I know one? I was shocked that she would confide these details (and many more to this story), and I wished then that I had a card with me for the church. Instead the best I could do was to tell her audibly, but I knew that was weak. What if she forgot? After that conversation I got ten cards in my wallet the very next Sunday.
Last week, my sister and I were doing some volunteer labor at my home church, and on our dinner break, we popped into Quizzno’s. We sat with Olivia, her daughter, and ate our subs in peace; the place was dead. A young couple came in and contemplated the menu, and “The Locomotion” came on the stereo. My sister and I were joking with Olivia, trying to get her to dance, and the young couple smiled over at us. Immediately the man came to the table, right across from me.
“Is your name Ariel? Do you remember me?”
“Bobby! Of course, I remember you!”
A guy I hadn’t seen since high school stood there, looking slightly more paunchy, slightly balder, and a lot friendlier than he did when he was a teen. I know I looked twenty years older, more paunchy, and a lot less judgmental than I was at fifteen when he was a troubled kid in a difficult situation. His father died recently, and I had heard about that, so I expressed my regrets. He mentioned that he had heard at the funeral that my brother was a pastor now. I verified it; he mentioned that he lived nearby, and after that brief exchange, he and his wife picked up their order and sat down across the restaurant to eat. My sister reminded me of the welcome cards, and got one from her wallet. Just before we left, I went over and gave the card to Bobby.
“I happen to have a card for my brother’s church, and I know he would be glad to see you again. The information is on the back. It was good seeing you, Bobby.”
At best, Bobby went home and thought about it, or maybe talked to his wife about it. At worst, he stuck it in his jacket pocket until one day when he’ll clean out the gum wrappers, old receipts, and find that card. It will be another reminder, one that might even work the second time.
That’s why I carry the cards.
In recent weeks—exactly one month, really—I have had two such conversations. One was during Valentines week, when I helped out as day labor at my sister’s employer, A Blooming Basket. They had several thousand roses in stock for Valentine’s Day and needed day help cleaning the roses. I scraped thorns off and put little green plastic sleeves on the necks of the roses to keep them firm. It was monotonous and hard on the hands, but everyone kept cheerful conversations going in the chilled workroom. The lady I worked with the most shared, unexpectedly one day, that she was backslidden. She was raised in an Assembly of God church and had given up her faith years before. Now, she was contemplating finding a local church; did I know one? I was shocked that she would confide these details (and many more to this story), and I wished then that I had a card with me for the church. Instead the best I could do was to tell her audibly, but I knew that was weak. What if she forgot? After that conversation I got ten cards in my wallet the very next Sunday.
Last week, my sister and I were doing some volunteer labor at my home church, and on our dinner break, we popped into Quizzno’s. We sat with Olivia, her daughter, and ate our subs in peace; the place was dead. A young couple came in and contemplated the menu, and “The Locomotion” came on the stereo. My sister and I were joking with Olivia, trying to get her to dance, and the young couple smiled over at us. Immediately the man came to the table, right across from me.
“Is your name Ariel? Do you remember me?”
“Bobby! Of course, I remember you!”
A guy I hadn’t seen since high school stood there, looking slightly more paunchy, slightly balder, and a lot friendlier than he did when he was a teen. I know I looked twenty years older, more paunchy, and a lot less judgmental than I was at fifteen when he was a troubled kid in a difficult situation. His father died recently, and I had heard about that, so I expressed my regrets. He mentioned that he had heard at the funeral that my brother was a pastor now. I verified it; he mentioned that he lived nearby, and after that brief exchange, he and his wife picked up their order and sat down across the restaurant to eat. My sister reminded me of the welcome cards, and got one from her wallet. Just before we left, I went over and gave the card to Bobby.
“I happen to have a card for my brother’s church, and I know he would be glad to see you again. The information is on the back. It was good seeing you, Bobby.”
At best, Bobby went home and thought about it, or maybe talked to his wife about it. At worst, he stuck it in his jacket pocket until one day when he’ll clean out the gum wrappers, old receipts, and find that card. It will be another reminder, one that might even work the second time.
That’s why I carry the cards.