Aren’t Dandelions Weeds?

I sometimes get a bit nervous whenever someone says, “The Lord told me…”

I can’t resist thinking, “What does He sound like?”   

I, personally, have never heard God’s voice—not audibly anyway. And we humans make mistakes. I know better than anyone how fallible human beings are. A pastor told me once, “When the Divine occurs there is always a little dirt mixed in because we have feet of clay.”

So, if the Lord doesn’t speak directly to me in an audible voice, then how do I know what His will is? How do I know the direction He wants me to take? Not just for the Big Picture stuff of my life, but for daily operations?

“Lord, what do you want me to do today? What’s my assignment?” These are good questions for every believer to ask. But how do we know when He answers?

How do we know God’s will?

The Bible tells us that God desires to communicate to His people, “My sheep hear My voice.” And believe me I am not from the dispensation that thinks God DOESN’T speak today. I believe. I do. I really believe God communicates to us today through the Bible, yes, but also through other means as well. Sadly though, age, experience, and life have taught me that communication breakdowns do occur and the breakdown is always on my end.

Learning to follow Jesus is hard—it’s called a spiritual discipline for a reason. And sometimes the most sincere, dedicated Christian can miss Him or misinterpret His leading. But I really believe that in God’s grace and generous love toward His children, He blesses our best efforts to obey Him, even if what we are doing wasn’t exactly what He had in mind. I think that when we yearn to obey Christ and to bring Him glory, well, He takes notice. When we do our best, I think it counts. Our hearts, desiring to do the right thing, are an important part of the equation.

Years ago, I taught at a technical university in Moscow, Russia. It was still the USSR then. One day I showed up for class and my department chair met me at the door to tell me ALL of my classes had been cancelled. She explained that the first-year students went to the countryside to pick potatoes.

“Why do they have to pick potatoes?” I asked.

She looked at me as if I was a silly child, “Because it’s their turn!”

Apparently, under the Soviet system, university first-year students were required by the government to work on a cooperative farm to learn socialist ways and egalitarianism.

Honestly? I was ticked off because no one had let me know. They could have called me. I had classes that evening across town but now it was too early to show up for those classes and too late to go home for a meal. Because no one told me, I was left trying to figure out what to do with the time on my hands.

I remember it vividly. I was standing on the steps of the university’s administration building. It was a freezing October day and it was starting to sleet. What should I do? “Lord, do you have any suggestions?” I was being a little sarcastic and I was more than a little frustrated. I wanted to complain to somebody. I wanted somebody to know that I was suffering because the inefficient, Soviet-thinking university didn’t let me know ahead of time about freshman potato picking. I’m not a socialist. I didn’t know that event existed.

Still bent out of shape, I headed to the Metro to take the loop train around the enormous city. Yes, it goes in circles. But it is warm, fairly clean and it would give me a place to eat my lunch and catch up on some grading. In that very grumpy, hateful, angry state, standing on the steps in the freezing cold, I heard something. Not a huge booming something. But something. It felt more like a nudge. I heard, “Take the bus.”

In Moscow, in 1991, I never took the bus. Buses took twice as long as the Metro and they usually required transfers—it seemed no bus went directly to anywhere. Buses were dirty, cold, crowded and they broke down constantly. No. I was not taking the bus. I headed once again toward the Metro and I stopped. There it was. I heard it again, “Take the bus.” 

In my heart I was arguing, “OH MY WORD! I hate the bus!”

My thought process went a little like this: if I am wrong and this is not God’s voice, who cares? If this is not God’s voice, what would it hurt to take the bus? If I was wrong, no big deal.

BUT, if I was right, then it should count—count toward my bonus points in heaven. Yes, God keeps track of these things. So, as I walked toward the bus, I asked God to let this count toward my obedience bonus points even if I was wrong.

So, I headed across the street and caught the slow, crowded, dirty, unheated, unreliable bus.

For forty-five minutes I rode that stinking bus without any incidents; no one to witness to, no crisis, no signs from the Lord. When it came time to get off the No. 4, to catch my transfer, I stepped off the bus and waited for the traffic light to change so I could cross the crazy busy street for my next bus stop. Only two of us got off there—me and a thickly bundled, headscarf-wearing babushka with two giant sacks of groceries.

Traffic in Moscow was terrible. In fact, pedestrians were open game for drivers. People were killed just crossing the street because aggressive drivers simply didn’t care. My friends and I used to say that crossing the street in Moscow was a faith walk and we always recommitted our lives to the Lord before attempting it. Once I saw a woman hit by a car in Moscow while crossing the street. I will never forget her body flying through the air like a weightless rag doll. That image was always in my mind when crossing the street in Moscow. When the light turned green, I started running across the crosswalk.

Halfway through the crossing the light turned yellow, which for many Muscovite drivers was the same as green. I saw the lanes filled with oncoming traffic and I began to pick up the pace to get to the other curb. Then I heard it. A strange sort of thud followed by a groan. I turned around and it was that old babushka. She had fallen in the middle of the street; her sacks of groceries spilled out and oranges were rolling everywhere.

I looked up and three lanes of vehicles were racing toward us. If I left the old woman on the street, she would without a doubt be killed. If I stayed with her, we were both likely to sustain some type of injury. My first instincts were to survive. But I knew that wasn’t right. I cried out, “Jesus help me! Lord Jesus help us!” I ran to the old woman and helped her to her feet. Her coat was covered with black grime from the road. Her support stockings were torn and her knees were bleeding. Oranges were everywhere. I grabbed her by the arm. I screamed, “Hurry! Hurry!” She started to move and then paused, “My oranges. My oranges.” The cars were coming and we had only seconds before we were hit. Like an idiot I grabbed as many of the oranges as I could while crying, “Lord Jesus! Lord Jesus!” The babushka and I stepped up onto the curb and the moment our feet landed we felt the gush of air from passing vehicles. Too close for comfort. Thankfully, there was a bench nearby and we both plunked down shaking, a little bit dazed, and out of breath.

I began to clean up her cuts and scrapes with wet wipes from my purse. I never leave home without them. I managed to save several oranges, but those that were left behind were now simply pulp. We comforted each other and let out a collective sigh of relief. Then something really unexpected happened. With tears in her eyes, the old babushka took my face in her worn, calloused hands and said, “You saved me.” She went on, “If you had not been here today, I would have been killed by those crazy drivers.”

Had the Spirit indeed prompted me to take the bus? Did I really hear from God?

We were waiting for the same transfer bus. When it arrived, we got on and sat down. My babushka held my hand the entire final leg of our trip. She talked, she cried, she thanked me. Finally, in my most broken and terrible Russian I said to her, “God sent me to you today. He knows you and He knows where you are. He sent me to tell you that He loves you.” She wept and began whispering, “Slavaboga. Slavaboga.” Praise God. Praise God.

My babushka got off the bus one stop before mine. She kissed me, gave me a couple of oranges. I looked out the dirty window of the bus and saw her waving until we were out of sight.

I don’t know. I like to think all these years later that God was directing my steps that day. I’d like to think He wanted to touch an old woman’s life; to let her know He knows her name. Simple acts of obedience form us and shape us. They allow us to view God through a dark glass and see His hand in our everyday lives. And if we attempt something, just because we think He is leading us that way, does it really hurt anyone? I think of it like this: Have you ever been given a bouquet of dandelions by a little child? Those little yellow flowers are known to all of us as weeds? Yet children see those flowers and pick them for important people like teachers, and mommies, and aunties, and grandparents. When a child gives you that bouquet of dandelions you take them and praise the child for her thoughtfulness. You put those nasty weeds in a small vase and set them on the kitchen table because you know what they represent. They represent something more important than what they actually are. We don’t smack kids on the head and yell at them, “Those are weeds, stupid!” No, we take the dandelions graciously, caringly, and see them as an expression of that child’s love. I think it is that way with God. When we step out in obedience, even in our own frail human way, we might get it wrong; we might be giving God dandelions. But His Father’s heart is kind and compassionate and He receives our acts of obedience as a beautiful bouquet offered to Him out of love.

Knowing God’s will is sometimes difficult, but fear of making a mistake or missing His will should not paralyze us into inactivity. We should be free to try and realize that dandelions are a good gift when our hearts are in the right place. These small acts of obedience probably won’t save the world, but they might just impact a single individual who needed to know that day that she was loved and cared for by God. Peace.

— Teri