Amelia is learning to write. Her letters are whispery lines attached at delicate angles. She practices her waif letters at church, on all of the post cards and offering envelopes located in pockets in the back of the pews. She writes on anything she can get her hands on. She is a particular fan of these yellow leaflets entitled, "I Wish". They are meant to be used to request certain things, like a visit from the pastor, more information about becoming a church member, or to offer an idea for a sermon.
On a certain Sunday, Amelia hands my husband an "I Wish" leaflet. To her, it is as special as a fancy, embossed Hallmark card. Chris looks it over, and then elbows me gently. He points to a line in the leaflet, where Amelia has made a special request.
The line in question states, "I would like to hear a sermon on ______________".
In the blank, Amelia has written in her faint script, her sister's name. Emma.
Amelia puts in our mind, although she is unaware of it, the idea of a sermon on Emma.
I need you to know my Emma is like me, and then she is not like me. She is not like me in ways that make me impatient. She does not get in a rush for anything. She brushes her teeth (after at least 15 minutes of prodding) as if it is the ultimate leisure activity. It takes her even longer to choose appropriate socks. Emma does not consider her appearance much. She only wants to wear clothing that touches her minimally, which reduces her wardrobe choices to a pair of jeans a size too big for her and an over sized pair of pink soccer shorts (which, I may add, are made out of thin material perfect for allowing her patterned undies to be viewed by all). Emma is not bookish, much to my dismay. She is lackadaisical in completing homework, or reading. She peppers her math papers with doodles of peace signs and stick figures sporting smiley faces.
I find myself more often than not shutting my eyes and counting to ten when Emma is involved. I say her name too loudly and too accusingly too often. I want her to conform to my image of a well behaved child.
So how would a sermon on Emma work? How could her actions be used to inspire others into a Christ like life after walking out the church doors?
Let me tell you something else about Emma. She is selfless. She spent all of the money she had saved in her piggy bank on buying the neighborhood kids ice cream from the ice cream truck over the summer. She leaves me notes on my night stand that tell me how much she loves me. She sometimes gestures to me, beckoning me with her hands, so that she can kiss my cheek.
Once, when we were driving in the car, and I saw that she was deep in thought, I asked her what was on her mind. Emma answered, still staring out the window, "I am thinking of my family.....or maybe dolphins."
The sermon on Emma would probably go something like this. God has dreamed of each of us. He has fashioned us from His design. He knew how we would be, at what we would excel, and at what we would fail. And the beauty of it is, He wants it this way. We are each a priceless portrait crafted by the powerful, unchanging hand of God.
My Emma is a masterpiece. She exemplifies perfection clad in transparent pink soccer shorts, despite the aspects about her that sometimes drive me absolutely nuts. But she is not wrong. She is unique in her Godly design, and she is packaged just the way she needs to be, to follow the path already cobbled by God.
I am so flawed. I know this. I know this every time I whisper between clenched teeth, "Emma Caroline, you will be the death of me." Emma, in her pure view of everyone surrounding her, loves. She loves despite the differences in people.
So, if I were to hear the sermon on Emma, I believe the crux of the message would be this: allow people to be who they need to be, and love them anyway. God has blessed each of us with idiosyncrasies. And they exist for a reason.
Now, I wonder what the Gospel according to Emma would sound like. Jesus perhaps would forgo walking on water and swim with the dolphins.
