I used to believe that some people weren’t worth my time, but that was before I discovered how sorely I was missing out.
When I was in high school, I spent a lot of time with people no one else wanted to spend time with. Granted, they were a little awkward. But I was always weirdly drawn to people like that. Partly because they didn’t bother to care what others thought—mostly because I was a little awkward myself.
One afternoon while I was driving home from school, I noticed a younger student walking home on the side of the street. It was a miserable day and the clouds cast a deep shadow on the Shenandoah Valley, where I lived. It was also pounding rain. Pulling over, I rolled down my window and offered the straggler a ride. Surprised, he glanced at me, or rather, through me. I think he was trying to figure out if he had heard my voice or a clap of thunder.
“Uh, me?” he replied nervously.
“Well, you could always walk home in the rain,” I said with a twinge of sarcasm and a smile on my face, curious how he would respond.
He stared at me, then at the lonely road ahead full of puddles, then back at me. This continued on for about thirty seconds until finally, with a bit of hesitation, he opened the passenger seat and climbed in. “Thanks I guess,” he mumbled.
That’s when I first met Matt.
I soon began to notice that Matt wasn’t the kind of person trying to impress girls or be like the quarterback, and that made me like Matt. That is, until he started sporadically punching me in the leg every time we hung out. I would bring him to youth group or Young Life, and halfway through the chorus of “Amazing Grace” Matt would sink his fist deep into my thigh. I still don’t know whether it was a sign of affection or a random, uncontrolled impulse. Sometimes when I hear those songs I still tense up, like I’m expecting someone to punch me in the leg. I call it phantom punch syndrome.
I still made an effort to bring Matt along on each of my mundane errands. I would bring him grocery shopping, to the mall, the post office, and pretty much anywhere else I needed to go. Matt spent more time in the passenger seat of my car than he did anywhere else. I had to tell him he couldn’t punch me in the leg while I was driving. He still did.
One day after returning home from a weekend Christian camp that I dragged Matt to, I dropped him off at his house. Before leaving, his mom stopped me at the door. She looked at me for a moment; I thought I could see tears forming in her eyes. Before I could say anything, she handed me a blank envelope. I didn’t know what to do or say, so I simply took it and left.
I sat in my car for what felt like eternity, staring at that envelope. Was this his mom’s way of telling me to leave Matt alone? Was it financial compensation for our trips to McDonald’s? Did she feel sorry for the bruises I had on my leg?
Finally, I couldn’t take it anymore. Opening the envelope and then the card, I read ten words that I have never forgotten:
You have made such a difference in our lives.
That’s what it said. No money, no lawsuit, simply ten shy words of gratitude.
It was in that moment that I realized something critical about Matt, and really everyone. We all have this basic need to feel like we belong. It’s like we need to know people actually see us. We want to be noticed, and we want to be treated fairly. That may sound simple. I feel it probably is simple. For the first time in Matt’s life, someone loved him.
Interestingly, Matt taught me more about God than any sermon I’ve ever heard. It’s funny how great a teacher experience can be. I’ve come to the conclusion that if people desire love so much, it must be because God made us that way. And even though we often punch God in the leg, he still wants to do everyday life with us. God sees past the annoying and messy parts and moves closer, not further away. That’s just who he is.
We sometimes spend so much time looking for God in the high and lofty, expecting that we can discover who God is without loving and caring for people, especially broken people. In reality, we have it backwards. I wonder what church would look like if we became people of refuge for people of neglect. It isn’t about adding a program that happens once a week, it’s an all-encompassing attitude that reflects Jesus Christ. “Blessed are the poor in spirit.” Or, in my own personal words, “Blessed are the overlooked.”
When I envision heaven, I picture a whole lot of Matts, people who knew they weren’t anything special, but people who had become special because of Jesus. I had the chance in high school to do life with a person who felt massively unimportant to others, and it changed me forever. My generation sometimes mistakes justice and mercy as attitudes and humility as an action, but you can’t do humility anymore than you can be justice. You either are, or you aren’t. You’re either loving people, or you’re trying to impress them. God has made it plain and clear what he expects from people who walk with him. He wants them to be compassionate, to treat others with inequality, and to show loyal love to those who need it most. I’m not saying you have to go and find a Matt for yourself (save yourself the bruises). That’s simply how God taught me this lesson.