Even for One

This Halloween, my husband and I did something different. With our move to a new area two years ago, we went from a neighborhood overflowing with Trick or Treaters (we ran out of goodies almost every year!) to one in which we had a single car stop by last year. Our little farm sits in a stretch without a lot of homes and across from several businesses, but all around us are neighborhoods and apartment complexes. As we sat out on our front porch last year, we fleshed out an idea we’d had since we moved in: to open up our barn to host neighbors on Halloween in future years.

Over the summer, we set up a “Little Free Farmstand” down by the road, a farm-ish food pantry where we could share produce from our gardens and other items for people in need in the community. We loved getting to chat with neighbors as they stopped by, and it was fun to see others contribute here and there to what we had to offer. We started our Halloween plan early, setting up a vinyl banner close to the stand more than a month before Halloween, hoping it would give as many people as possible the chance to learn about it.

Our hope was nothing more than to be present in our neighborhood, to meet people and be a friendly face. A family that shows up tangibly, whether it’s with the help of a few food items out by the road, or a cup of hot chocolate on a cold night. We joked that we could have anywhere from zero to a hundred people, and we’d be thrilled with any number in between.

We worked hard to get ready for the event: cleaning the barn, setting up tables and chairs, troubleshooting a stubborn projector, and setting out hot water, hot chocolate, and cider drink packets. We turned on the string lights in the barn, set out corn hole and ladder ball, and made sure everything was ready to go. My parents came over to spend time with us and to visit with any guests who might come. And then we waited.

And waited.

Dozens of cars drove by over the two hours of our event, and each time someone slowed, we got our hopes up. A few people walked by here and there, but none seemed interested in stopping. And then a father and son paused at the end of the driveway. We asked if they wanted a warm drink. They hesitated, then nodded. While I helped the eight-year-old prepare his hot chocolate and got him settled in a chair to watch It’s the Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown, my husband chatted with the father. They had a great conversation about music lessons, raising kids, and living in the area (we learned they lived in one of the apartment complexes down from us). They hung out for a little while, and then they were on their way.

They were our only visitors.

The next day, my mom texted to check in and see if I was doing all right. She worried I’d be disappointed that we only had two people come, especially after all the work we’d put into hosting. But I’d been sitting with that question all evening and all morning, and I kept coming back to one thing: what if that father knew he and his son were our only visitors? That we’d done all of this just for them? How would that make them feel?

Because the truth was, I would have done it all over again even if I’d known it would only be the two of them. They were exactly the neighbors we’d hoped to meet, and they had come! We’d said we would do all of it for one person, and we’d been taken at our word–except that we’d gotten two people. I figured double our lowest-possible-number was a great place to start!

Of course I would have loved a barn full of people, and I hope when we host this event again next year that more can join us. But the question of whether the result was disappointing touched on a larger thought I’ve been sitting with in my time with God recently. For years, I’ve said that I would write my stories “even if only one person ever reads them.” I’ve felt strongly that someone needed these words that God has placed on my heart, and I truly mean it when I say I would do all of this–spend all these years writing, learning, striving–for the sake of that one person who needs them.

But when the posts go out and fail to resonate with people, I question that assertion. When I pitch to agents and editors with a long line of rejections in response, I second-guess myself. When my newsletter and social media numbers remain stagnant and I worry they’ll never grow enough to get the attention of a publisher (let alone a wide reading audience), I forget that I started by saying one would be enough.

The reality is that we live in a numbers-driven world, and all the more as social media and analytics crowd our daily lives. Big numbers are impressive. They get attention, and in many ways they validate the work we’re doing or the message we’re sharing. And it’s true that God has done some incredible things with big numbers: feeding the five thousand, healing the masses, defeating entire armies.

But He’s also done incredible things with small numbers. Arguably, far more impactful, personal, powerful things. Raising a little girl from the dead. Changing the life of a woman at a Samaritan well. Defeating an entire army with Gideon and his three hundred men. God doesn’t need big numbers to do great things.

Since our event, I keep coming back to that question I posed to my mom. What if that father knew they were our only guests–and what if he knew we’d do it all anyway? Just for him?

That’s the story of the lost sheep. The one the shepherd pursues, leaving the other ninety-nine behind. That’s the lost coin, whose owner turns the whole house upside down in search of it, unable to rest until it’s found. That’s the story of the God who went to unfathomable lengths to ransom each of us–and He would have done it even if there had only been one of us.

That kind of love–the kind that would go to any length just to show one person they matter–there’s power in that kind of love. There’s greatness that will never be found in numbers. There’s the very presence of God.

This Halloween event was timely in many ways. As usual, what I thought would be mostly about other people was something I also needed–a heart check that was necessary in this season of my writing.

Am I all right if the numbers never grow? If my writing never attracts the attention of big publishers and book reviewers? Will I still consider it worthwhile if my words only reach one person? Or will I only feel successful if the numbers are big and impressive?

I’m afraid to admit my honest answers to some of those questions. But I suspect I wouldn’t be alone. So often we feel unseen in the work we’re doing. Maybe we serve behind the scenes, away from the spotlight. Maybe our ministry is pouring into one person, caring for a loved one or walking alongside a friend. Maybe the work we’re doing is monotonous, unglamorous, seemingly unimportant.

But what if the person we were serving knew we were doing it all for them? That we would do it all over again, even knowing it would only benefit them? What if they had the opportunity to feel like that lost coin, that stray sheep–so valuable, so worth pursuing that we would go to great lengths just for them?

I don’t know, but I have to believe in God’s often-upside-down Kingdom that kind of impact is greater than any that garners headlines.

And to the one person–the one visitor, the one reader, the one recipient of our efforts–to them it might just be the thing that shows them what real Love looks like.

Keep going, friend. Even in the small ways.

Especially in the small ways.

Image credit: Alexandr Popadin, Unsplash