”Why is it so difficult for me to get the thread through the eye of this needle?” She steadies my hands and directs me to hold my breath and exhale as I direct the thread through the tiny hole.
“Sometimes you just have to breathe.”
Her lessons always started with something simple but underneath you knew it was deep. Today I would learn to hem. Tomorrow, she would teach me to recycle fabric from other sources to make robes or blankets.
She has bins, boxes and baskets of materials organized throughout her home. Neatly washed and hung robes and clothing would be distributed soon to the widows in the community. Sashes, belts, head pieces and blankets folded and stacked if they were not already paired with a robe or piece of clothing. I love coming here.
She hums as she moves from one project to the next, and visitors come and go without appointment and are greeted with grace and warmth. They do not leave empty handed.
I box the baked goods from this morning, grab the towels we mended and repaired clothes, and I follow her as she totes robes and belts. She hums all the time. I can barely keep up, but I know where we are going. We go here every week on Thursdays.
We enter the community hall. I place her baked goods on the table which are quickly scarfed up by hungry children and continue to follow her as she makes her way to the room where women are waiting. There’s a buzz, an energy when these women are together. You look at them, and most see the outcast, the downtrodden, the unwanted, the unloved, but she sees beautifully and fearfully made sisters in Christ. She places her things on the table and greets each one personally calling them by name and hugging them. For some, it will be the only respectable human contact they receive all day, all week.
When she sits down, they sit down, and she prays. She begins instructing them on what it means to be a disciple of Christ. She tells them what she knows about her Lord and Savior and encourages them to live like He lived. When the meeting is over, those who are in need meander to the table taking only what they need. If they have something they don’t use even if it needs repair, they leave knowing she will be able to use it. She’s just crafty that way.
This is Tabitha’s normal week. Of course, there are times when she goes and sits with the sick or takes a meal to someone who is hungry. She sees a need, and somehow she is given the provision to meet it. She is so resourceful and creative.
But this week when I entered Tabitha’s house, she wasn’t up humming and moving. As a matter of fact, I found her in her bed very ill. I ran for help, but there wasn’t anything that could be done. She died. She just died.
Word spreads quickly. Women start showing up, and the house is full. There are people outside her home and filling the street. These are people who had been the recipient of her generosity, of her servant heart and willing hands. Between the sobs and weeping, people are showing each other the work Tabitha did.
A few of the women wash Tabitha and place her in a room upstairs as is the custom when someone dies, and that’s when some of the disciples heard that Peter is in a nearby town. Men are sent to fetch Peter without delay.
When Peter and the men arrive at Tabitha’s home, the crowd clears a path for them, but the women want to show Peter everything Tabitha had done for them. The grieving widows are Tabitha’s testimony, her legacy.
We lead Peter upstairs to Tabitha, but he won’t let us in. I don’t leave that door one minute. I have no idea what is going on inside that room, but I hear Peter command, “Tabitha, get up!”
I catch my breath. I think I hear something, but I’m not sure. The other women who are listening with me are looking at me wondering and thinking the same things I am.
The door swings open, and to our surprise, there’s Peter holding Tabitha’s hand presenting her alive.
I cannot begin to tell you the excitement that spread through that house. It pours out into the street. It bleeds into the community, and word is carried throughout the city of what has happened.
You know what was amazing? People heard the story about Tabitha. Some know her as Dorcas. They found out she uses all kind of materials, scraps and things to help the poor and widows. Within a few days, donations started pouring in. New fabric, not tired, worn-out, old fabric, but new fabric. Thread and thimbles. Flour, oil, and containers. God was gloried in her death and return to life, and now He will be gloried all the more with the number of widows and poor she can serve, minister to, encourage and teach.
Not once did Dorcas/Tabitha ever tell people about her ministry.
Not once did Dorcas/Tabitha tell people how God is using her to help others.
Notice, she didn’t draw attention to herself when she served. She just did it. If you have to make a big deal or boast when you serve, then your heart is not where it should be, and you need to get that straight because that is not of God. That’s pride.
Next, are you are doer? Or do you “delegate?” Scripture clearly tells us we are to be doers of the word. We are to be about our Father’s business.
If there was a Bible verse that best exemplified Dorcas/Tabitha it would be James 1:22, “But be doers of the word, and not hearers only, deceiving yourselves.” As a matter of fact, in Acts 10:36 it says of Dorcas, “She was always doing good works and acts of charity.”
Do you know a Tabitha/Dorcas? If you do, why don’t you share this blog with them, and let them know, you thought of them. It will encourage them.
Let’s go serve.
Dorcas/Tabitha’s story can be found in Acts 9:36-43. In Her Sandals is my meager attempt of putting myself into the sandals of women in the Bible, studying the customs and traditions, wondering what they might have heard, smelled, felt, touched, thought and putting all of it in story form. In no way am I attempting to add to Scripture.