Do you ever remember a small, meaningful encounter you haven’t thought about in years? A fleeting moment that’s simply too good to forget, but almost too simple to remember? Memories that may not be worth the headlines but are definitely worth putting into words? 

This story is one of those. 

One year when I was in high school, my parents threw a Christmas party. This might seem like an ordinary statement to some people, but this was a cause for celebration for me. What’s more festive and magical than a house full of jolly people you know and love, plus an amazing spread of holiday desserts? We had never hosted a Christmas party, and certainly not a move-all-the-furniture-from-the-center-of-the-room-to-create-more-space-for-people kind of party. It’s safe to say I was excited. 

When the morning of the party finally arrived, one of the worst-case scenarios became my reality: I didn’t feel good. And this wasn’t a casual “I don’t feel good,” but more of a full-on chills, body aches, hot/cold flashes, wild throat hurting kind of “I don’t feel good.” You know when you were little and you wanted to miss school, so you hoped your throat wouldn’t de-scratch as you talked, moved, or just breathed more upon waking? This wasn’t that. I gave my high school schedule my best college try, but I had to venture back to bed halfway through the day. I very quickly went from “I think I can get it together and force a smile on my face tonight” to “I can’t fake my wellbeing on a physical or emotional level” real fast. Cue the tears. I was, as my parents said, out for the count. 

So I sat in my twin bed with a box of tissues and my sniffles as guests arrived. The house filled up, and the party roared on. Laughter and Michael Buble sound bites echoed up to my room, and I sat near the action, but very much separate. Very much alone.  

I had felt isolated before in different capacities, primarily as I navigated physical symptoms and health issues that never seemed to have an answer—or a solution. But on this holiday evening, this festive soiree of decking the halls and fa-la-la-ing, I felt especially isolated, especially left out, especially… forgotten. 

Until my door cracked open. 

Until the glow of the Christmas lights flooded my room, and standing before me with a smattering of the Christmas cookie selection was one of my favorite people. One of my best friend’s moms. 

She held the plate of goodies next to her fabulous outfit that I can’t quite remember the specifics of, I just know it was fabulous because that’s just how she rolls. 

After the initial excitement of seeing her smiling face, I was a bit shocked. She had left the party to come see me. To come check-in. To bring a bit of the wonder upstairs to my bed, the sick (and probably very contagious) Rapunzel. Minus the 12 feet of hair. 

Like her fabulous outfit, I don’t remember exactly what we talked about or what story had us belly laughing. I just know her simple act of coming to see me left a lasting impression. One of the things that stuck with me from that Christmas season is not how sad I was that I had to miss out, or how lonely it felt to be isolated from countless voices and laughs downstairs. Rather, I remember how warm and loved I felt as this woman whom I loved very much came upstairs to visit me. I’ll never forget how known, seen, and chosen I felt. 

And years later, I can’t help but think this is how God sees us, too, and how He always, always knows where we are. How He always, always leaves the masses to come find us when we need it most. How He always, always chooses us—no matter how fabulous, frivolous, or fantastic the party is downstairs. He’ll leave the roar of the party to come sit with us at any moment. We may not remember every detail of our time with Him, and we may not be able to see His fabulous outfit, but He’ll be there with the sweetest gift we could ever ask for—His presence. Because that’s just how God rolls.