I was a contemplative prayer evangelist at the time. Like Father Keating before me, I preached that you should shut up and listen for a change. God did not create Chatty Cathy. It was a zeal akin to tent revival preachers. People looked at me funny sometimes. Eyes glazed in puzzlement.
During that time, I taught at a spiritual institute. A
woman in my class who stood out like a sneaker on a rack of dress shoes returned
sad-eyed. “It doesn’t work for me,” she said. “I tried and couldn’t be still
five minutes, let alone twenty. Besides, I have work to do and must be about my
Father’s business. There’s a dying world out there.”
For some crazy reason she reminded me of the dry
cleaner portrayed by Steve Martin – who could take your filthy garments and
make them like brand new. I thought to myself, wow, when God made her he must
have said, “Now there’s a piece of work.”
Not another soul in the world would start a mission in a coin-operated laundromat at a camp ground. No one but her – or a SNL skit writer. This image of The Washer Woman remained in my mind’s eye until I had the following dream:
It’s nightfall and we are sitting on her narrow front porch. As I leave and cross the street my glasses fall off my nose and shatter. And I’m thinking, now there’s nothing left to do but pray.
Really?! Nothing left to do but pray? No reading or writing? Just pray? Is this what my life has been reduced to now that I have no vision?
That’s when I changed my tune. Or rather my lens. I took the Washer Woman up on her invitation to visit her mission. More out of curiosity than anything. Then came home and wrote what I saw and heard. And just in case you’d like to come and visit too, here are directions and a heads up on what to expect.
Drive north down Highway
301, past the school where, weekdays, deaf children run wild on the playground.
Keep going until you see the sign, “Snake Man,” then turn left into Kamper’s
Lodge and swing on around pass the turquoise pool in front of the Laundromat
and park your car. Get out and go inside – any wayfaring stranger is welcome
here of a Sunday morning, rain or shine. Take a seat in one of the six pews
painted white as the washers and dryers lined up in back of the room.
If it’s winter when you
arrive, I’d advise you to bundle up in layers, and don’t forget your thick
socks, gloves, and lug soled boots. The cold north wind creeps through these
cinderblock walls like pneumonia into lungs. Soon you’ll meet the “Preacher
Lady” and members of her flock, the snake man included, and Sister Kim, newlywed,
along with her husband Blinky. Don’t worry if you’ve been drinking, just leave
your bottle outside for the time being. You never know, this could be your
lucky day.
If the weather is warm,
short sleeves are fine. No need to hide the craters on your arms. To these
folks, needle marks are common as acne on a teen, tractors on a farm. You won’t
hear any Trinity chimes or sing the usual hymns, recite the Apostle’s Creed,
drop a check in the offering. Just come as you are. You have nothing to fear,
nothing to dread. There is no religion here, but for the laying on of hands and
the resurrection of the dead.
What’s
your story?
When
have you needed new lens?
