I hadn’t been to church in a few weeks. Not because I’d lost my religion—just my mojo. By the time Sunday rolls around, sometimes there’s nothing left in the tank. That’s the math of chronic illness: six days of holding it together can leave you with nothing but lint in your pocket by the end of the week.
Still, today, I made it in. I’d showered, put on the good shirt, had to try a couple of times to remember how to tie a tie, and put on a v-neck sweater with only the littlest bit of help from my wife. I stepped through the foyer doors with the quiet hope that no one would notice I was running on fumes.
And that’s when I saw him—a young man from our congregation, who looked at me and greeted me brightly, “Your face is very pale.”
Bless him.
That’s when I realized: I may not be pulling off the “I’m fine” look as I thought. It’s funny how we can talk ourselves into believing the mirror if we squint just right.
And that’s when I saw him—a young man from our congregation, who looked at me and said brightly:
“Your face is very pale.”
I had to smile and reply, “you’re not wrong” then press forward to the chapel for the service. Halfway through the meeting, a female soloist delivered the most soulful version of “Amazing Grace” I’ve ever heard in a Sacrament service in our church, part of a new batch of hymns included in our hymnbook. It was a timely reminder to give plenty of grace, including to a 20-something welcomer who only speaks the truth and with no indoor voice.
To his credit, it wasn’t meant to be unkind. I was pale. I was tired. I was running on grace fumes. And maybe that’s okay.
Sometimes, we need these little human speed bumps—awkward and unexpected reminders that we’re not as invisible as we feel. That even when we’re weary, we’re still seen. Even when we’re quiet, someone notices. Even when we’re not there, we’re remembered. And sometimes, the truth, though unvarnished, is a strangely comforting thing.
So I smiled and took a seat—pale, imperfect, but present.
And honestly, maybe that’s enough. Some Sundays, just showing up might be the bravest thing we do all week. And if someone points out our pallor along the way, well… at least they’re looking.
I remember the months of being flat on my back with a debilitating
back injury.. You were one of the people who encouraged me when I was not getting better after surgery. Recognizing my struggles
and acknowledging them helped me to be seen. So now it’s my turn. I hope they can find some good ways to manage your symptoms. You have the very best of cheerleaders, but just know I’m rooting for you!
A helpful reminder, Dennis. And gracefully recounted, as always. I am glad you were seen — and that you heard that music. 🩷
I love this story and your perspective. A great thing for me to read and think about today. Thank you.