Please do not feed the ducks.”
The gentleman at the front desk places a small plastic bag in front of me, but does not look up from his typing. “If you want to visit the lake area, please use only this feed.”
I glance at my watch: 11:16 p.m. I will remember this as the exact time I became disheartened. I’m 2,500 miles away from home, presenting at a national conference in an unfamiliar city. The flight was delayed, my luggage was lost, I waited more than an hour for the shuttle, and now I can’t feed the ducks. Where are these ducks?
He hands me a conference schedule, badge, and map for the various lecture halls I need to navigate in the next two days. Stepping into the elevator, I expect a quick arrival at floor 24. Not the case. The elevator is moving extremely slowly. Bored, I glance at the “feed bag,” noting the list of ingredients: cracked corn, barley, and birdseed. I glance at my conference badge and look at the list of “ingredients”: my name, title of presentation, and my church denomination.
The early morning finds me in prayer, asking for guidance, aware of the great necessity of God’s presence evident in these meetings. I head out to begin the day and wait for the slow elevator. Joining me on the wait is a young boy, about 5 years old, holding the hand of a gentleman wearing a conference badge. As we enter the elevator I hear the boy ask: “Dad, did you bring the food for the ducks?”
I smile. He’s holding his father’s hand. Doors close, a screeching noise ensues, and the elevator comes to a stop. Silence. Then I hear it: the young boy is whimpering; it sounds as though he’s about to cry. The glances exchanged among everyone in the elevator seem to express a mutual concern: if we are truly stuck here, will this child cry for the duration of our wait?
In one swift move the father picks up the child and tenderly holds him in his arms. “Nothing to be scared about, buddy. It’s just a little extra time to make friends.”
I watch. The father has not offered a simple hug to appease the child. What is given is a genuine embrace that draws the child close to the father, who softly talks to his son, calming all fears. We are all watching this happen and have forgotten that we are stuck somewhere between floors.
“What did you memorize this week?” Still in an embrace, the father engages the young boy in conversation. The young boy begins to talk about sheep, green grass, water, and walking on a nice path. Psalm 23? He says the parts that “stick” are that they won’t need anything because the Shepherd has taken care of everything, everything!
For the next few minutes I listen to the best sermon of the day: a child’s simple rendition of God’s grace, guidance, and mercy toward us; the gifts of nourishment and green pastures; an honest observation of the parts in the psalm that just “stick.” I look around and notice that everyone is engaged in the conversation between the father and the son. Eighteen floors above the lobby my prayer for God’s guidance through these meetings is answered. I feel the swift movements of my Father’s arm as it picks me up, restoring my soul.
A half hour later we arrive at the lobby. Nobody complains. In the first lecture hall I sit next to one of my nameless new friends from the elevator. I see her looking through the schedule for the day.
“That was some worship service today in midair, wasn’t it?” she says. “All of us are about to speak on religious topics, and the best speaker isn’t listed in the program, but he filled the house.
It was standing room only. Praise God!”
We decide that after the last meeting of the day we will find the lake, feed the ducks, and celebrate the goodness and mercy that are certain to follow us today. I look at my watch: 8:01 a.m. I will remember this as the exact time “my cup runneth over.”
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Dixil Rodríguez, a college professor and volunteer hospital chaplain, lives in Texas. This article was published April 12, 2012.
