How Many Katies?
“I think I’ll bounce it off the van and into the basket,” my husband, David, joked as he aimed his disc. We were visiting western North Carolina, where rec center disc golf courses are ringed with blue mountains, gurgling streams, and lush nature.
I turned to look at the U-Haul rental van parked near the basket he was aiming for. I laughed off his comment until I noticed a woman sitting in the driver’s seat with her window rolled down. I hope she didn’t hear him. She might not take kindly to his only-in-jest threat.
He let the disc fly, and it landed several feet from the basket (and the van). Whew.
“I wanted to see the rebound,” the woman called from the van. “That would have been some shot.”
A relieved laugh bubbled out of me, and she laughed too. We waved and strode off to the next tee. When we circled back a few hours later, weary from playing eighteen holes and tromping through the wooded course, she was still there—gazing through her windshield at the woods, the trees, and the families enjoying the rec center grounds.
Why is she still here? I’d assumed she was making a delivery, but hours had passed. That’s a long lunch break. I shrugged off my question, and we drove away.
The next day, we went to another course, but the gates were locked. “Oh well,” David said. “Let’s head back to the rec center. Maybe I can beat my score from yesterday.”
As we rounded the corner into the parking lot, David said, “Hey, the van’s still there.” He pointed to the parking spot near the fourth basket.
This time, our new friend wasn’t sitting in the driver’s seat. She was reclining on a blanket spread on the cool, clover-scented grass. She had an open book beside her and another in her lap. As we watched, she wrote a few lines, then paused. I could tell her thoughts were far away.
“You’re back!” my husband said in greeting. “So are we.”
“I hope you’re not on the clock,” I joked, gesturing to the rental van.
“I’m on a grief journey,” she said, surprising us with her candor.
“I’m so sorry,” I said. “Who did you lose?”
“My parents. I was their caregiver. The end didn’t come easily.” She took a deep breath. “I live in Florida, but I needed to take this trip—by myself—to try to find peace. I’ve hiked to fourteen waterfalls so far. Friends wanted to come with me, but I knew they’d try to cheer me up. And I just need to cry.”
“Tears are important,” I nodded, meeting her eyes. “I believe we have to cry in order to heal.”
She nodded.
“You know,” I paused, my heart aching in sympathy, “there’s a verse in the Bible that talks about how God captures our tears in His bottle.* It comforts me to know that not only does He see our tears, He treasures them.”
“Wow,” she said. “That’s special.”
“We’re visiting the area too,” I said, “and we just attended a really cool church. Contemporary, friendly, lots of truth shared. If you stay in the area, you might want to check it out. It’s called Pinnacle Church.” I steepled my hands into a point. “You know, like the mountain. It’s not too far from here.”
She nodded. “That sounds great.”
“May I have your first name?” I asked. “We’d like to pray for you—that God will comfort and heal your heart.”
“Katie,” she said, glancing down at the journal lying open in her lap. “Thank you.”
“God bless you, Katie,” I said.
As we walked away, David and I prayed, “Lord, meet Katie in her sorrow. Reveal yourself to her. Help her find hope, healing, and peace in you. Amen.”
Katie reminds me of another hurting and hopeless seeker, the man lying at the temple gate called Beautiful.
Like David and I passed Katie as we walked around the rec center, Peter and John had probably passed this man often on their way in and out of the temple courtyard. Lame since birth, he sat there every day, begging from the religious worshippers.
When he spotted Peter and John, he asked for money. Peter acknowledged his request, and “the man gave them his attention, expecting to get something from them” (Acts 3:5).
You may know the rest of the story. “Peter said, ‘Silver or gold I do not have, but what I do have I give you. In the name of Jesus Christ of Nazareth, walk.’ Taking him by the right hand, he helped him up, and instantly the man’s feet and ankles became strong. He jumped to his feet and began to walk” (v. 6-8).
It would have been easy for the apostles to walk right past the man. The temple grounds likely teemed with beggars asking for handouts. Peter and John had important things to do. They were on their way to pray in the temple. Just toss him a coin or two and be on their way.
Instead, they saw the man through God’s eyes—past his request for money and to his greater need—for healing. And he needed to know that Jesus Christ of Nazareth was the only source of true healing.
Peter and John’s miracle at the temple was much more dramatic than our conversation with Katie, but I believe they were both divinely ordained.
We hadn’t planned to visit that course again, but our first choice was closed. Divinely closed, apparently, because, like the beggar at the gate called Beautiful, Katie needed to talk with someone who knew Jesus.
First Peter 3:15 reminds us, “Be prepared to give an answer to everyone who asks you to give the reason for the hope that you have.”
But before we can share our hope, first we must see them. In our busyness and self-absorption, we don’t always see people through Jesus’ eyes. Or we interact with them superficially, anxious to be about our business.
I wonder. How many Katies do we walk by every day?
Lord, give us eyes to see the people around us who need you and courage to reach out in Jesus’ name.
–Written by Lori Hatcher. Used by permission from the author.
