Sunday school. Today’s lesson: The Good Samaritan.
Guy gets beaten up, robbed and left for dead. Two “religious guys” pass him and the guy that should have wanted nothing to do with him gives him help, hope and a chance at really living. Be a good Samaritan. Pray. Go home.

That’s how I’ve heard that story my whole life.

This week at church, we looked at Luke 10.30. The first verse. Just a single verse out of this parable that I can practically quote:

A man was going down from Jerusalem to Jericho, and he fell among robbers, who stripped him and beat him and departed, leaving him half dead.

He was stripped - his stuff, his dignity, all taken away.
He was beaten - he was hurt, in a way he might have never been hurt before.
He was abandoned.

And that’s when I realized the person in the story that I was most like is the guy - hurt, confused, and alone - in a ditch. That would have died unless someone - or Someone - came to help change his situation.

The challenge went out to hold on, just a little longer, no matter what you’re doing through. And to try to be that person for someone else. Because I’m prideful, I’d like to think I’ve been that person, but in reality, I looked at the people that were sitting with me at church and thought, I am much more the person in need than I’ve ever been the hero.

It made me grateful for the people who walked with me through The Dark Years (yes, I have divided my life into eras).
Thankful for the people who have celebrated everything from ice skating competition victories (yes, I have, in fact, heard every Michelle Kwan joke there is to make) to graduating from college.

And feel incredibly humbled that there is anyone willing to walk through the normal, every day life stuff that is mundane and sometimes downright boring.

I’m thankful for those who have been Good Samaritans in my world when I’ve had absolutely nothing to give.

Guess that parable wasn’t so simple after all.