I’m a huge fan of preparedness.
Not sure when it started. Probably when I became a mom and had to embrace the season of the diaper bag. There were so many possibilities to prepare for. Diapers, a change of clothes, burp cloths, extra bottle and/or baby snacks. There was a wonderful illusion of control that came with feeling fully prepared.
There are few worse feelings to me than being caught off guard. Unlike a lot of people, I don’t think quickly on my feet. And some of the worst decisions I’ve made have been in situations I wasn’t prepared for.
I firmly believe in preparing my kids for any and every possible scenario they may find themselves in. We regularly talk through various situations and how to make good decisions in the heat of the moment.
I was in the middle of one of many such lectures in the car with Sydney when she was probably eight or nine. I was talking through what she should do if anyone ever tried to kidnap her. She listened politely for a few minutes and then finally interrupted. “Lindsey? Did something … happen to you?”
I laughed. Poor kid. I assured her that no, this wasn’t some side effect of PTSD from some traumatic experience. I was just trying to prepare her for … just anything, really.
But a few weeks ago, I was not prepared.
At the beginning of the summer I got “Love wins” tattooed on the inside of my right wrist. It was about Jesus and how He calls us to treat each other. The most excellent way. The greatest of these is love. Perfect love drives out fear. Love never fails. We love because He first loved us. Like that.
I had considered it for a while, even prayed about it. I got the green light from God and went for it.
Then a week to the day after this lifelong commitment, the Supreme Court announced its decision on gay marriage and my reminder to demonstrate God’s unconditional love became a hashtag for something altogether different.
I couldn’t get over the unbelievable timing. I knew God was intending to use the tattoo as a conversation starter, but this was a whole different level. Brad told me to start practicing my elevator speech. And I should have.
I got very few questions about it for a couple of months and began to enjoy it again for what it meant to me.
And then somebody asked me about it.
I was in the checkout line at Publix, reached up to slide my card through the little machine and the cashier did a double take.
“Oh! Cool tattoo!” she exclaimed. She was young, probably in high school. The bag boy, also very young looking, leaned in to get a look. “Did you get that recently?”
I squirmed, but forced a smile. “Yeah, I did. A couple of months ago. I actually got it before … everything happened.”
“Oh,” she nodded, obviously impressed. “You must have seen it coming.”
I chuckled nervously. “Yeah. Yeah, I guess did.” (Which is not untrue. I DID see it coming, but that’s not why I got the tattoo.)
I walked out to the car, my heart heavy with shame. I actually said out loud, “Lord, I blew it.”
By the time I got home, I had my speech ready. So NOW I’m prepared. But man, I sure missed a great opportunity that afternoon.
It reminded me of another time I was unprepared.
I had a childhood friend die of cancer when I was in college. I saw him shortly before he passed away. Our moms talked in the kitchen. He and I sat in the living room and watched TV. He was too sick to speak. If I wanted the floor, I had it.
The Holy Spirit leaned hard on my heart. Did he know Jesus? I didn’t know. But if he didn’t, he needed to. Immediately.
I couldn’t do it. He had always been one of the cool kids and I, well, I wasn’t. With salvation and eternity on the line, what did that matter? But for some reason I still couldn’t get the words out.
Before I could work up the courage, it was time to go. I squeezed his shoulder as I walked by and said, “Take care.” He looked up at me, reached up and took my hand and squeezed it back. We exchanged weak smiles and I walked away. He died a couple weeks later.
There were several excruciating days when I didn’t know where he was. Maybe he already knew Jesus. But in moments like that, “maybe” isn’t good enough. You can imagine the terror and unspeakable guilt I felt for not speaking the words of truth when I had the chance.
I found out later that his football coach and FCA sponsor shared the gospel with him just days before he died. I have full confidence that he is in heaven with Jesus. But no thanks to me.
In 1 Peter it says to “Always be prepared to give an answer to everyone who asks you to give the reason for the hope that you have.”
I keep snacks in my purse. Extra batteries and trash bags in the car. I travel with every over-the-counter medicine ever created in case anyone starts to feel anything but perfect. I have extras and backups for everything. Just in case.
But am I prepared to give an answer for the hope that I have? Do I have my elevator speech ready for THAT? And even more importantly, am I giving anyone a reason to ask?
I was on a girls weekend several years ago with some friends and acquaintances. Some were Christians and some weren’t. One of the activities we were going to engage in was questionable. I was trying to figure out how to opt out without looking judgmental, or opt in without selling my soul.
I was saved by the most unlikely person. A decidedly non-Christian friend spoke up, “You guys, I don’t want to do THAT.” The plan thankfully crumbled, and I kicked myself for not being able to say anything.
Later that same weekend over drinks another friend who is not a Christian said, “Lindsey, I really like being around you. I can’t figure out what it is. There’s just something about you.”
Another gift-wrapped opportunity. Somebody finally ASKED. I smiled and shrugged nonchalantly. “I don’t know,” I lied. I did know. Jesus. Jesus was the something about me that she couldn’t put her finger on.
Here’s what I’ve come up with. The reason for the hope that I have. The world’s shortest elevator speech: Jesus.
To the girl at Publix: Jesus. It’s about Jesus. He taught us to love one another. It just reminds me how I’m supposed to treat everyone, even if they’re different from me, unkind to me, whatever.
To my dying friend: Jesus. Do you know Jesus? He died on the cross for our sins. Yours too. He did it because He loves us and wants us to be with Him forever. If you believe that and accept it, you’ll be with Him in heaven soon. You’ve got to know it and believe it NOW. Can I pray for you?
To the girl on our trip: Jesus. It’s Jesus. That thing you like about me? It’s not me. I’m a mess. It’s Jesus.
So now I’m prepared. When God brings me another opportunity (please keep bringing them, Lord), I’ve got a one-word answer: Jesus.
I won’t leave it at that, of course. But before panic and insecurity creep in, I’m just going blurt out “Jesus.” Then I can go from there.
Once you say that name, you’re committed. You’re in. Lots of people believe in some version of a god. “God” is not necessarily a controversial or risky thing to talk about. But the name of Jesus leaves very little wiggle room. There is only one faith that claims that name as salvation.
I know some people who think faith shouldn’t really be talked about. They’d rather just show what they believe through their actions. To be sure, faith without works is dead. And doing good may get people to ask. But then you’ve got to have your answer ready. At some point, you have to say the words.
So let’s be prepared. Let’s have our elevator speech ready when people ask us the reason for the hope we have.
More importantly, let’s give them a reason to ask.
