I love my purple gloves. I picked them out myself as a Christmas gift to me in 2013.
They’re mittens and gloves at the same time, keeping me warm yet freeing my fingers for use.
That’s why what Andrew did Wednesday night made me feel good.
And made me squirm uncomfortably.
One of the men coming through Manna House looking for food and clothes on Wednesday night needed gloves. A lot of people needed gloves. And blankets. And heavy coats. It was going to be an unusually low 8 degrees that night, bitterly cold for Alabama, and especially if your only mode of transportation (and maybe your living quarters, too) was outside.
After telling this man that we had no more gloves to give away, the man joked with Andrew, my fellow volunteer (he and I both gloved; it’s cold even inside Manna House), saying, “Yes, you have gloves. You’re wearing mine right now.”
I looked at Andrew. He was wearing nice black leather gloves. We all laughed about it. “Sure,” Andrew said, “I’m wearing your gloves and I’ll be driving home later in your car.”
We laughed again, although a tad awkwardly now, because the man had already mentioned he walks to work each day and needs gloves to keep his hands warm.
The strangest thing happened next.
I turned my back for a moment on the conversation to attend to something else. When I returned, I saw the man walking away with nice gloves on. Nice black leather gloves.
I looked at Andrew. I saw his hands. His bare white hands.
He had given away his own gloves.
Andrew blew it off as no big deal.
But it was a big deal.
I’d just seen Jesus.
I drove away with purple gloves on my hands and with a question inside my heart.
Thankfully few women asked for gloves that night. . . .
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