Love Is Not Proud

This Week's Story

A month after flash floods buried parts of Venezuela under ten feet of mud and took as many as thirty thousand lives, I flew into Caracas with my youngest son, Noah, and a mission: figure out what the refugee centers needed and how to get it to them without it disappearing at the docks.

Back at the hotel one night, we bumped into two men from a much larger relief organization. I started sharing everything we'd learned — which centers needed what, which officials said "of course, of course" and meant nothing by it. Their eyes glazed over. They shrugged me off. They already knew everything, or figured a woman from a little nonprofit couldn't possibly tell them anything. Pride. I was not feeling the love.

But God is so cool. A stranger within earshot said, "You have to meet my friend." That friend turned out to be Omar Vizquel, the Major League shortstop, who had called every Latin American big leaguer and asked them to fly home for a charity game for flood victims. Every one said yes but a single player who thought he was too big for it. Omar — famous, wealthy, and with every reason to strut — sat with a stranger for hours, listened, asked questions, and gave me his number so we could keep helping together.

Pride closes ears. Humility opens doors. The men with the big organization missed a day's head start because they couldn't imagine learning something from me. The superstar acted like the servant. I've never forgotten which one felt like love.

This Week, Day by Day

My Prayer This Week