Operation Jumpstart

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Ready to go, I turned the car key in the ignition.

Silence.

Then click, click, click.

Frustrated, I stood in my driveway banging on the hood. A teenage Good Samaritan offered to help. Inexperienced, Ryan reversed the jumper cables. The brass clamps bit down hard on the DieHard’s battery terminals.

Zaaap!

Smoke and tiny flames leapt from three electrical wires near the battery.

It could have been worse. Like being stuck at night in the middle of nowhere with the hood up, jumper cables slithering down the front bumper, and me praying, God, please send someone who will stop and help me.

My neighbor Samantha, Ryan's mom, drove me to an auto parts store to buy replacement electrical connectors. She profusely apologized for her son’s mistake, even though helping me out made her late for work. Samantha peppered her conversation with words that could call forth fire from many believers.

I found her openness refreshing. No masks. She held nothing back.

She was a solo parent, like me. However, until now, our relationship hadn't moved past the "Howdy, Neighbor" wave.

As if stomping on the brakes, my neighbor's colorful language halted. "Oh, I shouldn’t talk that way around you."

I assumed she thought, Oh, she's that "Christian" neighbor.

Samantha hit my hot button. She tried to raise a facade between us. Too late. Samantha hid nothing and neither did I.

"You know, my pet peeve is when people aren't who they really are with me," I told her. She relaxed, continued talking — and cussing.

When we arrived at the auto parts store, the manager said, "They don't make those connections for your car anymore. It’s too old." He collected bits and pieces of this and that, providing an explanation of how to solder them together. I was glad my "Handy Ma'am" toolbox contained flux and a soldering iron. Samantha dropped me at home and dashed off to work.

From that point on, whenever I stepped outside my front door, "Hey, Scoti!" replaced nonchalant waves and smiles politely signaling, "Howdy, Neighbor." No more hit and run relationship—or cussing. Samantha's enthusiasm to connect ran me down.

She gave me chives and salvia to plant in my yard. I loaned her a rake. We shared our experiences and stresses as solo parents raising sons. I acknowledged how fast her young daughter was growing into a beauty. Justin, Samantha's live-in boyfriend, helped cut down my large, diseased elm tree.

"Why isn't there a guy in your life?" Samantha asked.

"I don't want my loyalties torn between a husband and my sons. My firstborn might kill any man replacing his alpha male position."

Months later, Samantha crossed the road with pain ingrained on every cell of her face. "Would you pray for Justin? He needs the good Lord. Only the good Lord can help him." Her strong confidant exterior cracked revealing a fragile, devastated woman. She poured out details of their relationship, not to manipulate loyalty or sympathy, but simply from her crushed heart. I hugged Samantha and promised to pray for both of them, thinking, I can't believe I’m praying for a cohabitating relationship to work.

A devotional reading whispered this message to my heart: "Be tender with sinners" (Jude 23). Samantha's desire for the good Lord to change Justin triggered my prayer: Holy Spirit, draw her to Jesus. Please use my words and actions to help Samantha recognize who Jesus is.

Samantha's friends advised, "Dump the jerk." In spite of her litany of his offenses, she still loved him.

"Is he willing to go to counseling?" I asked.

"I've begged him to go to counseling. He won't go."

Every time I walked out my front door, Samantha’s house and family situation loomed before me, triggering me to ask God to work in their lives.

A few days later, I rushed to clean my house for company. As I stashed a garbage bag in the container in my driveway, I noticed Samantha working in her yard. I needed to retreat into my house before she noticed me.

"Hey, Scoti." She waved me over. "Can you come over and talk?"

How will I finish my must-do cleaning list before my company arrives?

"I've been praying for you," I said.

"Thank you. Justin's going to make a counseling appointment for us. I told him I won't book the appointment, but if he did, I'd go. I've also decided to go alone to work on myself."

We sat on her grass and chatted. My tension dissolved, as my mind reprioritized compulsive, but nonessential tasks that I could leave undone.

Samantha expressed how tired she felt making the same old bad decisions over and over. Dumping the jerk wouldn't solve her problems. She'd been the dumpee and dumper far too often and wanted to work out the conflict with Justin.

She shared more details about their family dynamics. Jealousy, guilt, and conflict swirled around children from multiple partners.

"You're experiencing normal blended family struggles," I said, hoping my words offered perspective. "Blended families usually don't past five years, because children break them up."

"We've lasted nine years." Hope flashed across Samantha’s face.

Her story reminded me of the Samaritan woman who met Jesus at Jacob's well (John 4:1–42).

Many husbands.

Unmarried.

Sleeping with a man not her husband.

A hot, thirsty, and tired Jesus treated the village wild woman in a far different manner than the religious leaders of His day. His interest, respect, compassion, and heart-to-heart conversation caught her off guard. In Jesus' day, men held all power to divorce, not women. Five husbands rejected this woman, shattering her heart and reputation. Because the Samaritan failed to measure up to pious norms, I imagined the oh-so-righteous married women of the village ostracizing her, cackling about the juicy tidbits of the tattered remnants of her life.

Would I allow Samantha's past to strain our budding relationship? I could dress myself in a black "I'm-better-than-you" judge's robe and condemn her life choices. Any chance of a genuine, caring friendship — gone. Up in smoke.

I could push Samantha away—or bring her one step closer to understanding who Jesus can be in her life. And that meant risking myself, sharing my story, my hurts, my vulnerabilities, and my feelings of rejection and loneliness. Our hearts suffered many of the same traumatic emotional injuries. I didn't want to extinguish the spark of trust released by her prayer flare lobbed to my side of the street. God challenged me to serve as His human jumper cable to help a fellow traveler stranded along the difficult road of life.

Samantha's pain and relationship struggles cracked open her front door to spiritual matters. Our conversations invited Samantha to bare her hurts to me—her imperfect, but forgiven neighbor. I understood El-Olam, the everlasting God, will never leave me, nor forsake me.

She didn't.

I realized El Roi, the God who sees, noticed when my life was hard or I’m hurting and lonely.

She didn't.

My neighbor needed His love, mercy, grace, and precious gift of salvation. The only healing jolt to jumpstart the dead battery of her drained soul? 

Jesus.

Scoti Springfield Domeij writes a monthly solo-parenting column in Colorado Springs Kids. The Mommy Diaries: Finding Yourself in the Daily Adventures includes her solo-parenting essay "Who Will Protect Us?" She coauthored Wrong Way, Jonah with Kay Arthur and has been published in The New York Times, Contemporary Christian Music, Southwest Art, Single Adult Ministry Journal, Focus on the Family Magazine, and other parenting magazines. Scoti blogs at The Writing Road. She's a confirmed "dark chocolate-thrift shop-web researchaholic."

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About

Scoti Springfield Domeij writes a monthly solo-parenting column in Colorado Springs Kids. The Mommy Diaries: Finding Yourself in the Daily Adventures includes her solo-parenting essay "Who Will Protect Us?" She coauthored Wrong Way, Jonah with Kay Arthur and has been published in The New York Times, Contemporary Christian Music, Southwest Art, Single Adult Ministry Journal, Focus on the Family Magazine, and other parenting magazines. Scoti blogs at The Writing Road. She's a confirmed "dark chocolate-thrift shop-web researchaholic."


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Operation Jumpstart

by Scoti Springfield Domeij time to read: 5 min
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