A Tow Truck, A Man Named Joe, and the Church as a Family
I had just fought with my mom over the phone. Maybe it was some disagreement about where I would be spending Christmas, the way my brother was behaving, or maybe my neglecting to get enough oil changes on my car. For whatever reason, things got heated. It was 10:57 by the time I hung up and rushed into the 11 a.m. Mass at the large urban parish nearest to the hotel I was staying at for a work function that weekend in a big midwest city.
I was by myself and snuck into a back pew of the semi-circle church, with eyes still watering with a mix of hurt feelings and frustrated tears.
Going to Mass by oneself is often a lonely experience, but I guess I’ve grown accustomed to it after a couple years of living on my own post-college. This particular morning though, I felt painfully isolated. Maybe it was because I was at an unfamiliar parish, or because I was reeling from my mother’s harsh words, or because of the stress of my class that weekend.
I quietly cried straight through the readings and Gospel. The only thing I heard from the homily was something about Jesus teaching us to welcome strangers. During the sign of peace, a couple of people nearby shook my hand, said “Peace be with you”, made eye contact with my still teary eyes, gave an awkward half smile, and turned away.
After communion, I knelt praying with my face in my hands asking God why I still felt so alone even though I was surrounded by other Christians.
“I thought Your Church was supposed to be a family” I whimpered in prayer.
After Mass, and endless announcements about all the happenings that week at the parish, I remained slouched in the pew, chin resting on my folded hands, elbows resting on my knees, staring at the crucifix asking God what He wanted my response to be in the face of my frustrated mom and this lonely church.
No one approached me, no one said hello, no one asked if I was new there. I finally decided that perhaps God would answer my loneliness later on and got up to leave. The vestibule was still buzzing with circles of parishoners chattering after Mass. A man with a stack of bulletins handed one to me without saying a word. As I walked to my car, I was still saying to God, “Seriously, that guy with the bulletins didn’t even say good morning or have a good day, I thought your Church was supposed to be a family.”
As I stood at my car door, I reached into my jacket pocket and my heart sank lower than it already was: in the rush of hanging up with my mom and heading into Mass, I had locked my keys in my car. There they were, set on the driver’s seat in plain view, yet I was locked out. My phone was locked in my car too since I didn’t take it into church with me. I had no choice but to head back towards the clusters of parishoners, choose whoever looked kindest, and see if they would let me call a locksmith with their phone.
The first woman I approached said she didn’t have her phone on her, and she pointed me towards another lady. I explained my situation to this second woman. She pointed to a tall older gentleman at the other end of the hall and assured me that he could help. I crossed the hall, and mustered the courage to explain myself to a third stranger.
“Excuse me, sir,” I started. He turned from the group he was chatting with and smiled,
“Hello, I don’t think we’ve met, I’m Joe, what’s your name?”
“Oh, um, it’s Kate, I haven’t been here before,” I replied, relieved that someone had finally bothered to introduce themselves and ask my name too.
“Well welcome, what brings you to church today?” he inquired, still smiling. I had a feeling that if I just wandered to Mass searching for God, Joe would have done everything possible to help me find Him.
“Oh, I, uh, actually go to Mass every Sunday, I just haven’t been to this church before, I’m just visiting town for this weekend,” I shared.
“Great, I’m glad coming to our parish was part of your visit here. Is everything okay though? ...You seem worried…” he slowly questioned.
“Actually, yes, I accidentally locked myself out of my car, my phone’s in there too, could I borrow your phone to call a tow truck?” I shyly asked.
“Oh that’s the worst, I’ve done that a time or two. And every one of my kids did it at the most inconvenient times! Of course you can use my phone, nearest tow truck service is Northwestern, and if they try to charge you more than $35, you come find me.”
I borrowed Joe’s phone, and he helped me explain to the tow truck company which parking lot to meet me at. I thanked Joe, he wished me luck with everything, and he promised to pray for me in the coming days. I headed towards the door to wait for the tow truck.
After 5 minutes, Joe came and found me and handed me a folding chair to wait in. I smiled and thanked him again. He walked away, but paused, and turned back as if he’d forgotten something. I think it was the Holy Spirit that inspired Joe to say words I’ll never forget:
“Hey, the Church is supposed to be a family, right? If we were in Vietnam, where I went on a mission trip, I’d call you ‘em gai,’ it means little sister. The Church is supposed to be a family.”
It was exactly what I had been asking the Lord for the past hour. The Holy Spirit used Joe to remind and reassure me of the truth I already knew deep down: the Church is meant to be a family.
How do you treat the strangers who wander into the back pews at your church?
Who do you treat as family? How might God be asking you to widen that circle?
Who’s treated you like family at a time you needed it most? How can you thank them or pray for them?
