I was sat on the reception desk last week at Storehouse Home (our Wednesday morning drop in breakfast) when one of our staff starting telling me about someone they had met that week in our provision sessions. He had been having real trouble with his benefits and no one seemed to be able to help and she had recommended he come for breakfast on Wednesday and chat with our amazing advice agent, Lisa. He had been thrilled and promised to come. Home was nearly over and he hadn’t appeared and there was a touch of disappointment in the telling. It’s hard to hope for people and not see those hopes come to pass. We finished our conversation, she headed back into the main room and I returned to the check in computer.

30 seconds later the door opened and a gentleman I hadn’t met before stood in front of me. I welcome him, asked his name and the minute he spoke I knew from his accent exactly who he was. I blurted, in over-excitement, something along the lines of “I’ve just been talking about you”, “we’ve been waiting for you”. He looked astonished. He’d been once and we’d never met but as I calmed and explained he was delighted and visibly touched by the idea that even in absence he was thought of and wanted. It was a powerful moment and strong reminder to me of the significance of holding people in mind.

Years ago I read a story of a young man, I think on probation, returning after a few weeks, for his second appointment with his probation officer or social worker (the setting escapes me and I can’t find the right book) but as they sat down together she produced a packet of biscuits to have with their tea. They were his favourite. He had mentioned them in their first meeting, she had remembered and bought them especially for him. He was undone, not just by the kindness but by the realisation that she thought of him when he wasn’t around. She had held him in mind.

It’s one thing to create programmes marked by compassion and by kindness. To create environments and systems that welcome well and to do all we can to love those sat in front of us. This is all deeply important, I’d argue maybe more important than the physical resources we offer those in need or the advice we are able to provide. This is holy work. But one thing I’ve learned over the years of being shaped by the Storehouse community and by compassion ministry in general is that holding someone in mind, loving them when they are not sat in front of you, is another thing all together.

Everyday our building fills with 40 or 50 households. Some singles, some huge families. Each individual, in each of those households has a story. A story of pain, of hope, of joy and of sorrow. Of longing and frustration and every one of those stories deserves to be heard. Every one of those souls is worthy of the best attention we can offer. We do our best to make sure no one goes unseen. We don’t always succeed. Some will return weekly, some daily. Some will feel like they’ve moved in and taken up residence. Some, as much as we might want to at times, we will never forget and others we’ll struggle to place. Some, on first encounter, will declare their lives transformed, their undying love for this community and swear they will be back every time we open only to disappear without a trace.

All this is exhausting and, if fully entered into, excruciating on the heart. To connect honestly and with mutuality, not knowing when or if, you’ll see that person again is a deep vulnerability yet anything less, feels, at least to me, like a pull towards clinical and transactional. The flip side is, when we are willing to do the hard work or letting someone into our hearts, connecting relationally, sharing something of ourselves, allowing the truth, good and bad, of their story under our skin, we have the opportunity to hold them there. To call them to mind when they aren’t around. To notice their absence – a gift those on the margins often go without. To lift them in prayer and to actively seek a connection (something about Jesus and 99 sheep springs to mind). There are few encounters as powerful as someone returning after months (or years) of absence and being welcomed like they were in yesterday. It is hard to describe until you see it in another’s eyes.

One week later I had someone at Home comment, as they sat drinking coffee in reception, the power of how we greet everyone coming through our doors by name. The impact, from his own mouth, is significant but it’s costly. Names don’t come easily to me. I’ve had to work hard at remembering. I’ve taught myself strategies. I’ve learned to call faces to mind and fight through brain fog and scour through sign in lists to connect a name just in case they return. We’ve learned to tell stories of people we haven’t seen in a while. To ask one another have we heard from so and so, have you seen this person or that. We’ve practiced reaching out with texts and phone calls and messages passed with friends. We’ve learned the little touches of a detail remembered and asked about or a favourite biscuit bought can be the dividing line between unseen and known.

To serve and to give is deeply important. It’s a great place to start. To enter into community with the hurting, the broken and the vulnerable (as if any of us aren’t those things) in such a way that they become part of us, that they take up residence in our hearts is an altogether more costly thing. To hold them there with unwavering hope is the work of mothers and fathers. It is the father ready to embrace the prodigal son on his return because he has stood every day watching, waiting, choosing to feel the pain of loss and the frustration of hope deferred over and over again. Refusing to relinquish the possibility of his sons return. Choosing instead to hold him in mind.

Who will I allow, this week, to find a home in my heart? Which prodigals am I holding out hope for, actively searching the horizon for? Who will I choose to hold in mind?

This is holy work.

Photo by Kiko Camaclang on Unsplash