Note: This subject of this post (God's use of the flawed) was recommended by my friend Christina. She sent me the message after a long night a long night of sitting around a campfire with friends and family talking about big issues - with the help of a little wine. Thanks Christina. I really appreciate the guidance.
December 2000
I looked down at the brace on my left leg then down into the trench. It was decision time. Take shovel from Father David and shimmy down into the dirt or join the confirmation kids in picking mangoes with the nuns.
Father David wasn't overly concerned about my ankle's mangled ligaments and tendons. It was pretty simple. God had sent him two strong adults to help him shovel dirt all day so they were supposed to shovel dirt.
I reached for the shovel.
We were in-filling dirt around the foundation of Benedictine Monastary of Hawaii's new church. The Monastery had some funds for the architect and a construction crew, but relied on Father David and volunteers to complete a lot of the work. Our church in Waipahu sent volunteers out once a month.
This was my first time volunteering with this group and I didn't think that they would give me anything to strenuous to do. It had been six months since I injured my ankle in Ranger School. While I was well on my way to proving the doctor wrong who'd said I would never walk again without the brace, I felt like I was a shell of the man that I used to be.
It had been a long six months. That injury had destroyed my career. My relationship with my fiance collapsed in a spectacular and humiliating manner. Through the help of God and a wary doctor, I'd managed to avoid suicide and a potential painkiller addiction; but overall I didn't see myself as the person I was before my injury. Weakness replaced strength. Doubt corroded through my self-confidence and sense of purpose.
Father David didn't seem to notice or care about my inner angst. He pointed out a dark line on the foundation. That was the line that we had to fill the dirt up to. The game plan was simple. Father David would use the Monastery's small tractor to dump piles of red volcanic dirt in the hole. Matthew, the volunteer coordinate-fellow dirt mover, and I would stand at the bottom of the trench and redistribute the dropped dirt so it gradually filled up to the line on the concrete.
Father David jumped in the tractor and headed off in the direction of the dirt pile. Matthew dropped down into the trench. I slid, braced, and scooted down after him. My grimace reflected my fear of that any loss of hold might lead me to fall onto my injured left ankle. It seemed like it took me five minutes to lower myself down into the trench.
I made it to the bottom and looked up at Matthew. He smiled in support, but that only made me feel worse about the big production that I'd just made of getting down into a hole. I was happy to look up and see the bucket of the white tractor above us.
Father David looked down into the trench to make sure we were clear. Matthew gave him the thumbs up and the tractor dropped a pile of red dirt. The fine volcanic sand hit the ground in front of us and then rose again as dust.
We coughed and wiped the grit out of our eyes then got to work leveling out the mound of dirt with our shovels. Matthew had two shovelfuls to ever one of mine. I was worried about my ankle. I'd felt a few sharp pains, nothing serious yet; but enough to have me worried.
I thought that I'd help with a two or three loads before giving up. I didn't want to push it. I was a lifetime away from the Ranger School student who'd hopped down Mount Jonah one leg after blowing my left ankle out. I'd drug that left leg for three days, before my right knee gave out and I couldn't stand. That version of me hadn't been afraid of crippling myself for life, this version was scared to set my physical therapy back a few weeks.
I heard the tractor pull up above us with another load of dirt. Matthew and I pulled our shirts up over our noses this time. We went after the mound of dirt with our shovels again. We'd barely cleared it before Father David's tractor pulled back up for another drop.
The dirt kept falling. Matthew and I kept shoveling as the sun rose higher in the Hawaiian sky. My two or three load limit gave way to five, then ten, then was forgotten all together. I felt the muscles stretch and flex in my shoulders and back. Sweat dripped down my arms running through the red dust then dripping down like drops of blood.
My shovelfuls began to match Matthew's. I forgot my fear. I forgot my weakness. My ankle ached, but it was from weak muscles learning how to work again - not from damaged ligaments and tendons. I felt the blisters building on my once-calloused hands. I smiled at the thought of how sore I was going to be on Monday.
It was clear that despite all my doubts that this was exactly what I needed. For some reason, I was supposed to be here helping to build this church. I felt like the reason probably had more to do with rebuilding me than leveling dirt.
We broke for lunch around noon. We'd filled the trench all the way to the other side of the foundation and it was clear that we'd be able to handle the rest of the in-fill later that day.
I told Matthew and Father David to go on ahead of me while I hobbled behind. I'd been so focused on my own weaknesses that I hadn't realized that Father David probably didn't feel qualified to be leading our construction crew. Or, that Matthew, the diesel mechanic from Hickam Air Force Base, wouldn't have chosen himself from a lineup of two to be volunteer coordinator.
They did the tasks because they had to. God hadn't sent a skilled construction foreman to take Father David's place on the tractor. He hadn't sent someone with a master's degree in nonprofit management to coordinate the our little church's volunteers. God didn't need to. The people he sent were up to the task, even if they didn't believe it.
My mind analyzed and then expanded the lesson. I'd spent my whole life trying to build the perfect resume to qualify me to do something important for the world. It was time to quit worrying about being qualified for some future job and to start working on the problems that the Divine had put in front of me - regardless of whether I felt capable of solving them.
The Spirit works through the flawed and incomplete. It always has. Moses was a murderer, but that didn't keep him from freeing the Israelites from Egyptian slavery. Exodus 2:12. Saint Peter was a lowly fisherman whose weakness led him to deny knowing Jesus when Jesus needed him the most. That weakness in Peter did not prevent Jesus from giving him the "keys to the kingdom of heaven." Matthew 16:19. Saint Paul persecuted Christians and tried to destroy the early Church. Galatians: 1:13. That didn't prevent God from using him to spread Christianity through the Roman Empire.
Who we are is good enough to do the work of the Divine. Where we are is the perfect spot do the work of the Divine. It is okay to fear and it is okay to doubt, but we can't let that stop us from grabbing a shovel and getting to work.
End Note: Here's a link with a picture of the church described in this story. . The church is the white building in the foreground.
December 2000
I looked down at the brace on my left leg then down into the trench. It was decision time. Take shovel from Father David and shimmy down into the dirt or join the confirmation kids in picking mangoes with the nuns.
Father David wasn't overly concerned about my ankle's mangled ligaments and tendons. It was pretty simple. God had sent him two strong adults to help him shovel dirt all day so they were supposed to shovel dirt.
I reached for the shovel.
We were in-filling dirt around the foundation of Benedictine Monastary of Hawaii's new church. The Monastery had some funds for the architect and a construction crew, but relied on Father David and volunteers to complete a lot of the work. Our church in Waipahu sent volunteers out once a month.
This was my first time volunteering with this group and I didn't think that they would give me anything to strenuous to do. It had been six months since I injured my ankle in Ranger School. While I was well on my way to proving the doctor wrong who'd said I would never walk again without the brace, I felt like I was a shell of the man that I used to be.
It had been a long six months. That injury had destroyed my career. My relationship with my fiance collapsed in a spectacular and humiliating manner. Through the help of God and a wary doctor, I'd managed to avoid suicide and a potential painkiller addiction; but overall I didn't see myself as the person I was before my injury. Weakness replaced strength. Doubt corroded through my self-confidence and sense of purpose.
Father David didn't seem to notice or care about my inner angst. He pointed out a dark line on the foundation. That was the line that we had to fill the dirt up to. The game plan was simple. Father David would use the Monastery's small tractor to dump piles of red volcanic dirt in the hole. Matthew, the volunteer coordinate-fellow dirt mover, and I would stand at the bottom of the trench and redistribute the dropped dirt so it gradually filled up to the line on the concrete.
Father David jumped in the tractor and headed off in the direction of the dirt pile. Matthew dropped down into the trench. I slid, braced, and scooted down after him. My grimace reflected my fear of that any loss of hold might lead me to fall onto my injured left ankle. It seemed like it took me five minutes to lower myself down into the trench.
I made it to the bottom and looked up at Matthew. He smiled in support, but that only made me feel worse about the big production that I'd just made of getting down into a hole. I was happy to look up and see the bucket of the white tractor above us.
Father David looked down into the trench to make sure we were clear. Matthew gave him the thumbs up and the tractor dropped a pile of red dirt. The fine volcanic sand hit the ground in front of us and then rose again as dust.
We coughed and wiped the grit out of our eyes then got to work leveling out the mound of dirt with our shovels. Matthew had two shovelfuls to ever one of mine. I was worried about my ankle. I'd felt a few sharp pains, nothing serious yet; but enough to have me worried.
I thought that I'd help with a two or three loads before giving up. I didn't want to push it. I was a lifetime away from the Ranger School student who'd hopped down Mount Jonah one leg after blowing my left ankle out. I'd drug that left leg for three days, before my right knee gave out and I couldn't stand. That version of me hadn't been afraid of crippling myself for life, this version was scared to set my physical therapy back a few weeks.
I heard the tractor pull up above us with another load of dirt. Matthew and I pulled our shirts up over our noses this time. We went after the mound of dirt with our shovels again. We'd barely cleared it before Father David's tractor pulled back up for another drop.
The dirt kept falling. Matthew and I kept shoveling as the sun rose higher in the Hawaiian sky. My two or three load limit gave way to five, then ten, then was forgotten all together. I felt the muscles stretch and flex in my shoulders and back. Sweat dripped down my arms running through the red dust then dripping down like drops of blood.
My shovelfuls began to match Matthew's. I forgot my fear. I forgot my weakness. My ankle ached, but it was from weak muscles learning how to work again - not from damaged ligaments and tendons. I felt the blisters building on my once-calloused hands. I smiled at the thought of how sore I was going to be on Monday.
It was clear that despite all my doubts that this was exactly what I needed. For some reason, I was supposed to be here helping to build this church. I felt like the reason probably had more to do with rebuilding me than leveling dirt.
We broke for lunch around noon. We'd filled the trench all the way to the other side of the foundation and it was clear that we'd be able to handle the rest of the in-fill later that day.
I told Matthew and Father David to go on ahead of me while I hobbled behind. I'd been so focused on my own weaknesses that I hadn't realized that Father David probably didn't feel qualified to be leading our construction crew. Or, that Matthew, the diesel mechanic from Hickam Air Force Base, wouldn't have chosen himself from a lineup of two to be volunteer coordinator.
They did the tasks because they had to. God hadn't sent a skilled construction foreman to take Father David's place on the tractor. He hadn't sent someone with a master's degree in nonprofit management to coordinate the our little church's volunteers. God didn't need to. The people he sent were up to the task, even if they didn't believe it.
My mind analyzed and then expanded the lesson. I'd spent my whole life trying to build the perfect resume to qualify me to do something important for the world. It was time to quit worrying about being qualified for some future job and to start working on the problems that the Divine had put in front of me - regardless of whether I felt capable of solving them.
The Spirit works through the flawed and incomplete. It always has. Moses was a murderer, but that didn't keep him from freeing the Israelites from Egyptian slavery. Exodus 2:12. Saint Peter was a lowly fisherman whose weakness led him to deny knowing Jesus when Jesus needed him the most. That weakness in Peter did not prevent Jesus from giving him the "keys to the kingdom of heaven." Matthew 16:19. Saint Paul persecuted Christians and tried to destroy the early Church. Galatians: 1:13. That didn't prevent God from using him to spread Christianity through the Roman Empire.
Who we are is good enough to do the work of the Divine. Where we are is the perfect spot do the work of the Divine. It is okay to fear and it is okay to doubt, but we can't let that stop us from grabbing a shovel and getting to work.
End Note: Here's a link with a picture of the church described in this story. . The church is the white building in the foreground.
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