The Story of the Welcomer

It was really the sweetest thing.

A woman pulled up next to our campsite, got out of her truck, and walked toward us holding a white paper bag with handles. It was early and we were still drinking our first cup of coffee, having that moment that makes all the aggravation of camping worthwhile.

She handed us a welcome bag. In it were these many things: a tiny pad of paper, hand sanitizer, soap, Band-Aids, dish sponge, fire lighter, beef sticks, chips, a can of tuna, sunscreen, cookies, Vienna sausages, and two small books of Bible verses and commentary. On the bag was a sticker that thanked Jesus for saving her life. She invited us to a cookout at noon. There would be singing, she said.

We smiled. So often, we’ve closed the front door on missionaries before they ended their sentences. We were never rude, just resolute. Ours is a Jewish household (well, mostly) and Jews don’t proselytize. Nor do Jews indulge others’ attempts to proselytize them.

But she didn’t proselytize. She just handed us the welcome bag, complimented our dog, invited us to the cookout, and lightly stepped back to her truck. She waved like we had become friends.

We ate the Vienna sausage with our fingers right out of the can. We were on the road to somewhere, Leech Lake, I think, and it seemed like a very road-worthy thing to do. We also ate the cookies and the beef sticks. It was like Mom had packed us a lunch.

When we got home, I looked at the little books. I have a Bible on my bookshelf. It’s black with a zipper. I don’t need another Bible or evangelical commentary, but I couldn’t bear the thought of throwing the books out. That seemed wrong and unfriendly. So they are there on my bookshelf, probably forever, or until someone (not me) clears out my office. They make me remember the welcomer, her manner and her intention. Her lightheartedness, maybe her quiet gladness. Just a five-minute piece of time.

I told you it was the sweetest thing ever.