What If We Let the Spirit Lead?

One bright Saturday morning, at the dawn of summer, I got up for work. I donned my signature outfit—black skirt and blouse, bright turquoise necklaces, sparkly sandals—and piled my brown curly hair atop my head in a messy updo. For the finishing touch, I applied mauve lipstick and glittery brown eye shadow and beamed at myself in the mirror.

It is a spiritual practice to enjoy the body one has been gifted with, and that day was no exception to my daily gratitude practice.

After kissing my husband goodbye, I drove to work in the next town over and sang loudly to Maggie Rogers from my iPhone—my form of prayer for the day.

As I pulled into the work parking lot, I experienced a wash of familiar emotions filling my body—dread and patience, compassion and hope. I work at a hospital, in an acute behavioral health unit. In layman’s terms, this means I work with people who are in the throes of emotional turmoil—despair, hopelessness, and suffering are some of my daily companions. As a counselor, it is my honor and privilege to use my body, mind, and soul as an instrument for healing, for instilling hope in others who live on the seemingly dead-end street of desperation.

Some days are easier than others to cope with the daily tumult of hospital work. This was not one of those days.

After running two groups in which hostility, cruel words, and vengeful behaviors were directed my way, I ended the group gracefully and practically ran to the tiny office at the front of the unit, known affectionately as the janitor’s closet. I was grateful for a much-needed respite.

As I sat in the tiny office with the door closed, I plunked away on the ancient desktop computer, completed my notes from the sessions, ate lunch, and made some phone calls to families.

Sometimes we need to pull away from others to come back to ourselves.

Suddenly I heard plaintive wailing from a small child outside the office door. Her mama hushed her gently, telling her to stop crying, that she was fine. But she’s not fine, I thought to myself. I listened to the child crying, and her identity as a beloved human being bloomed into my consciousness.

I could not just sit there, so instead, I got quiet and listened for the promptings of the Spirit, telling me to go ahead, that I would be guided through this new possibility for relationship.

I broke through the chains of fear, of looking weird and socially awkward, which for me, is a real gift. I stepped out of the office.

I looked at the little girl, smiling at her as she struggled in her mother’s arms. Our eyes met. I spoke to her mother and grandmother, telling them I don’t have children, that my friends jokingly call me the baby whisperer, that I simply enjoy kids.

The child’s family smiled politely as I conversed with them but demurred at my request for connection. I understood—the almost impenetrable wall of societal roles, as strangers remaining strangers, stood between us. It was almost palpable, the layer of sweat and fear that moved around us, an ocean of emotions coursing through the air.

But building connections, I know, is the work of the Spirit, and following my intuition, I returned their strained smiles, wishing them a pleasant day, and walked back into my office, closing the door gently behind me.

Soon I heard tiny knuckles rapping on the office door. My heart beat excitedly in my chest, and I slowly opened it. There stood the little girl, clothed in a green-and-beige striped dress, with golden curls piled atop her head. Our eyes met, and I let the Spirit speak for me. “Well, hello there! How are you?” I said. I bent down to her level, and she stretched out her arms for me to hold her.

Her family stood, transfixed at the sight. Her mother motioned for me to pick her up, and I did, delighted to hold one of God’s babies. I cooed at her, reveling in the embrace, leaning into the present moment, as she looked at me in the eyes. I called her by name, and she smiled shyly, as I let the weight of her against my chest fill me with glory.

There, I see it, I thought. There is God, right in front of me, there in the form of a little child, a glimmer of hope against the tumultuous times we live in.

After a short while, she wanted her mother, and I handed her over, but not before I realized, with the Spirit’s nudge, that she wanted to play. I got her purple ball and bounced it for her, and she squealed excitedly, her musical laughter filling the lobby with joy.

For a moment, her caregivers, the child, and I stood on the holy ground of human connection, hearts bumping up against each other, in the delightful enteral now. We all of us were caught in a web of luminous grace, a gift of laughter and song and innocent desire for play.

I returned to my cramped office, smiling from ear to ear, buoyed by the hope that comes from breaking free from societal expectations that tell me to look away from strangers, to keep my head down for the sake of efficiency, to ignore the cry of the helpless.

That day, I busted through the invisible barriers that separate us from each other, the ones that threaten to keep us in uncaring social systems that tell us to stay with our clan, that keep lonely strangers from becoming neighbors and friends.

What if we stopped pretending that we are not part of a vast family called humanity? What if we stayed alert and awake for moments such as this, to bless the children, to comfort the needy, to welcome the stranger and remember that we belong to the One who calls us friend and asks us to do the same with others?

Jenn Zatopek is a recovering perfectionist, writer, and licensed therapist. She has a master’s degree in counseling psychology from Tarleton State University, and has been accepted to Brite Divinity School to pursue a degree in theology. Her work has been featured in SheLoves Magazine, The Glorious Table, and Panther City Review. Jenn believes in radical kindness and her heroes include Fred Rogers, Henri Nouwen, and Brene Brown. You can find her writing about the intersection of psychology and theology at theholyabsurd.com and Instagram at
@theholyabsurd.

Photograph © Avi Richards, used with permission