A couple of weeks ago, I was leaving my apartment complex parking lot. Right before I pulled out onto the street, I noticed a girl pushing a couch down the sidewalk. An eclectically dressed college-aged girl was pushing a huge, unpleasant looking couch… all by herself.

Of course, I immediately roll my eyes because I know I'm going to get out of my car and offer to help her. And I'm unenthusiastic about the very tiny bit of Christ in me that compels me to serve others. It’s rather inconvenient and uncomfortable. But I respond to the stirring in my heart…

I park my car. I get out, approach the young woman and ask if I can be of any assistance.

She's ecstatic. Finally, someone paused long enough to help her. She assures me that her apartment is just a few blocks away. I am unconvinced but committed to helping. So, together we shove a hideous couch along the sidewalk.

I saturate the silence with questions. She begins with an account of how she became the girl pushing a couch. (She found the couch— saw it on the side of the road, awaiting trash collection— and decided to claim it so that her boyfriend wouldn’t attempt to build them a seating nook in their new apartment). As she explains her circumstance, my mind calculates the probability of a dormant syringe lying beneath the couch cushion walls. I conclude it's unlikely. (I also determine that I listen to a bit too much Dave Matthews— maybe it's not such a “typical situation, in a typical time, too many choices.”

A couple of blocks into our adventure, my moving buddy is breathing rather heavily and I suggest we pause to catch our breath. During our little rest, she asks me if I'm a smoker. Again, she was breathing hard and having a difficult time with the couch migration endeavor. So, intially, I thought she was inquiring about my smoking habits as a way of accounting for her own short-of-breath-ness.

I smile and admit that, "No, I'm not much of a smoker." She smiles back. Turns her head a little on its side, in a thinking manner, and expounds: "oh. ummmm [long pause, verging on awkward moment] What I meant was: do you ever smoke? [a second graceless pause] Because we could smoke a bowl or something when we get back to my apartment. [she begins speaking faster] Because I am just sooooo thankful that you've stopped to help me. It's really so kind of you. Thanks....."

What can I do but smile?
I identify her generosity. I recognize that she is offering me what she has; she is extending to me a gift from the valuable cannabis-currency she possessed. I assure her that I'm glad to help her (which makes me realize that I am glad… God had changed my heart over the past few blocks) and that her gesture was considerate, but that I'm just not a smoker.

We complete the couch move. She thanks me again and yells out: "karma's gonna work out for you!!" I laugh, unsure of a smooth way to handle the comment. In the end, I smile genuinely, reassure that I was glad to lend a hand, and wave goodbye.

As I walked back to my car, I couldn’t help but wonder if my beloved Jesus would have accepted her bighearted pot offer. It's possible. Certainly possible.