A Talent for Willingness
Blog / Produced by The High Calling
The night began with a black-tie event at the convention center, with the emcee calling my wife and me onstage to a standing ovation. Heady stuff to see a crowd laud one's work—in this case, a videotape for our church's building campaign. For one of the first times I had deliberately chosen to channel my professional talents into the service of God's work and . . . well, look at the results.
Stepping to the microphone, I mentioned leaving my last job at a seemingly foolish time, at a career high-point. More good news flowed onstage about record fund raising, and the convention center crowd reached an even higher pitch when my cell phone rang.
It was Carl, a good friend from my career-transition group, calling from the hospital room of a man cut off from his family and now dying of AIDS. Determined that this man would not die alone, Carl had asked Kent and me weeks before to be there with him and this stranger in his final moments.
Scanning the convention center crowd, I located Kent and we made our way to the exit. Joyful noise dimmed behind us as we drove out of the convention center. A while later, walking into the hospital room we found Carl with his friend, the friend gasping for breath. After a few moments of small talk, Carl asked if we could pray with him. The man reached out to us, and each of us took his hand, each of us wishing to give as much as possible with human touch. In contrast to an hour before, this room was quiet and the mood was tender. We sat together and prayed; then we left. Ten minutes later, I reached my house; Carl's call was already on my answering machine: "I was with our friend when he made his way home."
Before that night, I'd imagined God using me in terms of my career. I defined talents as capabilities I could give through professional service. I confess that leaving the convention center that night was an act of will, of obedience. In going from a large room of people full of praise and excitement to the silence of a hospital room, however, I saw the profound power of simple willingness to be available to God—and of the value in His economy of a single soul.
Stepping to the microphone, I mentioned leaving my last job at a seemingly foolish time, at a career high-point. More good news flowed onstage about record fund raising, and the convention center crowd reached an even higher pitch when my cell phone rang.
It was Carl, a good friend from my career-transition group, calling from the hospital room of a man cut off from his family and now dying of AIDS. Determined that this man would not die alone, Carl had asked Kent and me weeks before to be there with him and this stranger in his final moments.
Scanning the convention center crowd, I located Kent and we made our way to the exit. Joyful noise dimmed behind us as we drove out of the convention center. A while later, walking into the hospital room we found Carl with his friend, the friend gasping for breath. After a few moments of small talk, Carl asked if we could pray with him. The man reached out to us, and each of us took his hand, each of us wishing to give as much as possible with human touch. In contrast to an hour before, this room was quiet and the mood was tender. We sat together and prayed; then we left. Ten minutes later, I reached my house; Carl's call was already on my answering machine: "I was with our friend when he made his way home."
Before that night, I'd imagined God using me in terms of my career. I defined talents as capabilities I could give through professional service. I confess that leaving the convention center that night was an act of will, of obedience. In going from a large room of people full of praise and excitement to the silence of a hospital room, however, I saw the profound power of simple willingness to be available to God—and of the value in His economy of a single soul.