Melanie

When I went to see Dad in the hospital, I was blessed with empty seats and quiet airplanes—until the flight from Cincinnati to Dallas. I probably sighed out loud as a puffy-coated, spiked hair gal from Wisconsin looked at the row number and plopped down beside me. She had the aisle seat and her over-large winter coat smelled of smoke and crowded the armrest. She buried herself in her book and I settled back into my melancholy thoughts.

It probably took an hour before we began to talk. And then we talked a lot. And then she found out I was a pastor. And then I made sure she drank her vodka anyway. And then we got to talk about God.

She used to like God, but there were so many rules. Her Mennonite family followed them all and she learned to comply. That worked right up until the day she was raped, and then things got cloudy. She’s lived as the black sheep of her family ever since, but she’s thrilled by a recent marriage to a man who truly loves her. And she’s been thinking about God again.

For a moment she looked into my eyes—her own eyes confident at first, then quickly darting aside. “Do you think I need to stop smoking before I go back to church?” Her head fell as the words left her mouth, like she was bracing for what I might say.

It was a beautiful chance to reshare the gospel. We had already looked at John 5:24. I opened it again and said, “Tell me again what it says you have to do?” She laughed—this was the third time I had asked the same question. I don’t think she’ll forget it, but you can pray for her. Her name is Melanie. We were glad we had sat together, and I thanked God for a noisy seat.

I wonder how many Melanies come to our churches or how many almost come but stop because they are still smoking…. I told Melanie I thought churches should have ash trays outside—just so she could know it was okay for her to be there.

What do you think?