Who is My Olivia?

Recently I read this blog post.

I love Flower Patch Farmgirl. She's hip, knows how to dress, writes beautifully, doesn't take herself too seriously. And every now and again she is so poignant, so painfully honest, so dead-on, that I find myself holding up a mirror to my own heart and cringing at what I see.

I really hope you read her story because it's just so, uh, well, so real. She and her family and friends are on a picnic at a park. A little girl she's named Olivia - her dirty t-shirt was stretched down over her tummy, though it didn't quite cover it. She had a far-away look in her eyes - lingered nearby, really near. Even sitting down at their table at one point. That near.

She looked like a girl that I didn't want around. I wanted other kinds of kids. Happier ones. Normaler ones. It would be alright if their pants didn't fit or their faces were filthy, but this one screamed needy. Different. Annoying. Broken.

She writes about her brutally honest thoughts, and then says, I hated myself for wondering and thanked the heavens above for the millionth time my thoughts are mine alone. No one had to know.

How many times do I wonder something that I would never utter aloud? How many times have I been the one who acted busy to avoid eye contact with an Olivia? How many Olivias have I met? How many Olivias do I know?

I am so far from where Jesus wants me to be. Sure, I can talk the talk. I can teach Bible to 7- and 8-year-olds and lead an occasional devotion at staff meetings. I can even pray out loud on command. But truth be told, my thoughts are not mine alone. My thoughts belong to God, and they are a reflection of my very own ugly heart.

If I am completely honest with myself, I can see that I have been acting and fooling nobody that matters. For I know that when I see an Olivia, I may not laugh out loud or whisper behind my hand. But I do wonder - She is so annoying; why won't she just be quiet? He doesn't have to hold a sign; he could get a job if he tried. A tube top? Really? I'd never wear that in public. I taught a girl once whose mom was an exotic dancer; and, yes, I told that story more than once.

My thoughts are not mine alone. God knows I sit in judgment of his children. He knows I have more work to do. He knows I'll not arrive till I get there.

Meanwhile, God was working on Flower Patch Farmgirl, too.

God and the sound of happy people lured her out from the house with the torn, dingy curtains. She wanted some of us and I needed all of her. I needed her in order to confront the ugliness of my heart that wants to pick and choose the marginalized that I love.   

And she has wrecked my thoughts for the past 48 hours. 

My own Olivias have crashed into my thoughts since I read this post many days ago. Only I'm just now pulling them out of my trunk and wrestling with them. I am left with new things to wonder about: What if I quit looking at tube tops and focused on hearts? What if I prayed for the man with the sign who would work for food - every single day? What if I really listened to the annoying people? What if God is using them to speak to me?