Tuan's Story Of Crumbs

                He had been attending for a few weeks when I caught his arm as he was heading out the  
           front door, following the conclusion of our Sunday morning service and introduced myself.
           Later, we made an appointment to get together and get to know each other better.  It was
           during that meeting that I asked him what drew him to our church.  There were several ideas
           that he shared with me as to why he stayed at our church once he arrived, but the story of
           why he came that very first time was rather unique, and he has given me permission to
           share it.  So, this is Tuan's "story of crumbs"... :)

      The most difficult decisions you will ever make are the ones God has already made for you... 

     But how do we know that we are on the right path? For me, that means "following crumbs". God leaves all of us many crumbs so that we can stay the course.  But unlike the story of Hansel and Gretel, these crumbs do not get eaten by birds; they do come and go but it takes recognition, discernment and obedience to lead us back home, to Him.

     Several years back while “strolling” through life, I found myself lost. I had a good paying job, the bills were always paid on time, I took vacations often, and had strong relationships with a small group of friends that I could always count on. But I was empty inside.  I couldn’t really explain why I felt that way, but the void grew and quickly overwhelmed my life. I was falling apart. As it is when you lose control of something valuable, anxiety sets in.  I became desperate as the downward spiral dictated my emotions and also hindered me physically. 

     It finally dawned on me that while I spent a lot of time praying to God to help me get through what I could see was an impending onslaught of depression, I failed to listen or see. Simply put, I did not do my part.  That’s when I started to pick up the crumbs. 

     I was living in Seattle at the time and my commute to work was by way of bike on the Burke Gilman Trail.  On a commute home one day there was an older man riding in front me.  I don’t know what the circumstances were, but it appeared something he ran over had caused him to crash on the pavement.  A few of us stopped alongside him and quickly realized that 911 was in order as he was not responsive.  After that incident, whenever I saw debris on the trail that I felt was a potential hazard, I would stop and remove it. A simple crumb at the time.  I once found a wallet on the trail. I got to work, Googled the person using his driver’s license, and wallet and owner were quickly reunited, just another crumb that I had picked up.  I started to befriend a homeless man on the trail. I would see Duane regularly on my way to and from work pushing his shopping cart full of his belongings. And over time I finally decided to stop and say “hi”. I would offer him what I had in my backpack as far as food but soon offered more.  Shoes and clothing would eventually follow. Yet more crumbs on the trail.  My best friend was going through a bitter divorce.  I did my best to help by being there as a friend but it was obvious that he needed more.  I saw that as a crumb and followed it, and told him my story about crumbs.  He’s now a Christian and finding his own crumbs.   

     I even found crumbs at work.  Superficial conversations with my coworkers were mundane, but upon closer inspection, were really crumbs. The crumbs were telling me that stronger relationships could be built through what once was only water cooler jibber-jabber. So as the crumbs emerged, I availed of what was given and threw in a few crumbs of my own and the conversations soon took on new life, with greater meaning; allowing me to even talk about God, at work of all places!     

     Following the crumbs even led me to Budapest, Hungary.  This past summer while traveling through Europe, the crumbs gave me the opportunity to feed the onslaught of refugees fleeing from Syria and overwhelming the Hungarian city. 

     And most recently, a golden crumb as I like to call it.  After 3 years of looking for a church (yes, it was that hard for me to find one), the crumbs led me to Hillside!

     Now it seems I have an imaginary basket full of crumbs, and no matter where I look I will not be steered wrong as long as I follow the crumbs. It has become clear to me that the more crumbs I pick up, the better I feel about myself and the more hope I have each day.  More importantly by seeing and recognizing these crumbs I started to hear more and more from God.  What He told me was threefold:

      1)    Pick up the crumbs; stay on the path.

      2)    The crumbs will make you feel better, you in turn will talk about crumbs, making others feel better. They will look for their own crumbs.

      3)    The crumbs are from me and they are all around you, always.  We now have a relationship, consume at will and you will never be lost, hungry or full, but you will be satisfied.

     To sum this up, I believe that God provides the means and the opportunities to help us from veering astray, but we still have to help ourselves to completely stay on course.  We must take action to fully be receptive to what has been given in order to grow and have an unbreakable bond with God.

           

       
         

The Frightened Church

     A few weeks ago I told a story that was part of my life-education while living in Chicago in the mid-80's.  I used it as an introduction to the message I shared about what happens to the church when we look at our world through fear-tinted glasses. The story goes like this...

     I was a tad behind schedule that morning, riding the bicycle I had borrowed from the pastor’s daughter (a girl's bike, complete with a white-woven basket in front, ornamented with flowers around the upper rim) down Damen Avenue on my way to work at the Boy’s club. Switching over to a side street to avoid traffic I was finally making some good time, but after hopping the bike over a curb, I felt the back end hit the pavement with a thud, braked the bike and looked down at the hind wheel. The tire was quickly going flat. I bent down and got a closer look. There was a roofing tack stuck in the tire.

     I pushed the bike over to the curb and began looking for a pay phone. I couldn’t see one anywhere. Then, kitty-corner from where I was, my eyes were drawn upward to a beautiful cross that was attached to the top of an ornately decorated church facility surrounded by a black, wrought-iron fence. A beautiful cross, shining in the morning light, above stained glass and spired window settings. I rolled the bicycle toward the front steps and set the kickstand.

    Walking around the bike, I reached to open the front door, but both sides of the double-entry were locked. I rapped my knuckle against the hand-carved wood, backed away a step and waited. Nothing. I tried again. Same result. I peered through the small inset window in the upper half of the door. I couldn’t see any activity in the hallway that stretched out several yards behind the door. Yet there was a light on in the corridor that intersected the entryway hall. I backed up again and noticed an intercom box to the right of the door and stepped over to it. I pushed the button marked “talk” and said,

“Hello!?” then released the button.

A voice crackled over the speaker, “May I help you?”

A sense of relief swept over me.

“You sure can help me,” I said.

“You see, my bike tire went flat just around the corner, if you can come and open the door, I’ll just make a quick phone call...let the Boy’s Club know that I will be a little late and get a friend of mine to come pick up the bike on his way to work...”

There was no response.

“Hello...Is there anyone there!?”

“I’m sorry sir, I’ll have to check and see if it’s O.K. to open the door.”

“What?”

“I have to check with one of the sisters to find out if I can open the door.”

“You’re kidding...right!?”

“I’ll be right back.”

“Wait a minute. I just want to use the phone. You can call the church where I live, they’ll vouch for me. It will only take a minute.”

“I’ll be right back sir.”

    I stepped away from the speaker, shaking my head in disbelief. I waited. I waited some more. I watched the traffic run past the well- manicured front lawn of the church. I squinted a look into that little window one more time. Nothing. I felt like I was waiting on the wizard of OZ to give me some gift from behind the curtain. Finally the voice came back to the speaker.

“Sir...Are you still there?”

“Yes.”

“I talked with a sister.”

“Yes.”

“She said that we couldn’t really help you.”

“You can’t help me?”

“I’m sorry sir.”

I wanted to tell her just how “sorry” she was. 

My throat was suddenly dry, but I still tried to speak, “There’s nothing...I mean...can I leave the bike here and walk to the club?...pick it up later? I’ll back away from the door and leave it on the stoop.”

“I’ll have to check with the sister. Just a moment.”

“No wait...just forget it. I can’t believe this...I just need to use the phone.”

“I’m sorry sir.”

“Yeah.”

“Sister said that there is probably a pay phone in the tavern across the street.”

“Thanks...I’m sure there is.” I turned away from the doors and started down the steps, then stopped and walked back to the speaker and pushed the talk button one more time.

“Are you still there.”

“Yes,” she said.

“Do me a favor please. Tell your sister to take down the cross from the top of the building, it’s false advertising.”

    When I re-live this story in my mind, it's hard for me to believe I delivered the last line.  It doesn't really sound like me; at least the 54-year-old me.  Maybe it was more like the 21 year-old me than I recall. 
    Thirty-plus years later...
    The church we worship in is located in a very diverse area.  
    We have regular challenges with theft and vandalism on and around our property.  
   Part of our parking area is away from view of the church; hidden by a hillside.  We are aware of fairly continual drug sales and other activities that take place there.  
   The police have used our kid's playground as a stake-out location in attempt to catch some of the local suppliers.  
   Transients often sleep in our entryways.  Occasionally, they will find an unlocked door in one of our vehicles and fend off the cold there.  
    There is a weariness that creeps in when trying to be compassionate in this kind of environment.  That's just the truth.  
     That being said, I can understand some of the sheltered-ness that key characters in the story above were creating for "the sisters".  To me, this is not a story about a denominational stance.  It's easy to point at another faith group and expose their shortcomings. What's harder is to take the opportunity for me to address my own fear-based responses to what's happening in the world around me.  
    My worries.  My stereotypes.  My fears.  My church.  Where am I in all of this?  
    Faith only breathes in the realm of risk. 
  I can't retreat from view of what's outside my door; only address the completely comfortable situations that come my way and truly stay in step with Jesus.  That's a place too safe for faith to grow.  
    So, what is the line between faith and recklessness?  I don't always know.  I'm not sure that the line is so certain that policy statements can always define it.  Though I am generally in favor of policy statements, God seems to operate outside church policies with great effectiveness.
    I guess that in the immediate sense, the only thing I know for sure is that pointing across the street to the bar when someone with a need appears before me, is not the response of faith.



      
  

Joy To The World

I don't know if I am good at simplifying things because I am....well, a rather simple person, or if it is some kind of gift from Christ.

Either way, it doesn't matter to me.  I like it a lot when something becomes less complicated.  It's easier for me to share that way.

When I think of the Christmases that have meant the most to me; the ones which store the most memory-driven smiles, they were de-cluttered Christmases.  They can be summarized in one sentence and my family will know exactly what year I am speaking of.  For instance:

The year there were four-foot snow drifts and the power went out for a week.
The year we drove to and from Phoenix in the LeBaron.
Just my wife and I, (plus a kitten) in frozen, snowy Chicago.
All the presents stolen from the back of a VW squareback, after a foggy drive to Medford.
Two cats for Christmas, (That was nuts!) in a parsonage in Idaho.
Nairobi...our youngest asked for pencils for Christmas...our oldest directed the children's program.
The year of the Charlie Brown tree in Varna.
Three months of snow in Poznan; and the perfect view of fireworks above the city on New Year's Eve.
Completely lost; driving through 6 inches of snow in the little Opel Astra somewhere between Wroclaw and Krakow...

The list above is not complete.  In fact, the more I think about it, pretty much each year has been special, but the best part of each holiday was not the emphasis on the bigger, brighter, louder things, but rather the point where everything slowed down a bit and got smaller; quieter.  We enjoyed the presence of God, (whether we knew that was what was happening at the time or not) and consequently our family also enjoyed each other, in a better, simpler kind of way.

The link below is a testimonial to this thought.  My daughter and son-in-law created the video several years ago.  It was their first Christmas as a family.

A click on the link should get you to the site.  Enjoy.  :)

(This was the brief summary that leads into the video)

The first year we celebrated Christmas as a family was the close to a rough year.  We had $30 to our name.  In spite of what could have been, It remains one of my fondest memories.  We made a home video that year that I re-watch every Christmas.  It helps me to refocus on the things in this world that mean the absolute most.  Take a deep breath in.  Love each other.  Hold each other.  Repeat.

http://www.whiskeyandhoney.us/journal/2013/12/22/the-thirty-dollar-christmas

Walking in Dad's Shoes

     He's been gone for five years now.
Feels so odd to write that.
One day, I will say, "Dad passed away 20 years ago."
I will be nearly 70 then.

     This past Sunday morning I laced on a pair of his shoes that a few months back came into my possession.
    We wear the same size shoe.  I don't think I really knew that.  Ten and a half.
    I have two pair of his shoes.  Wingtips; a brown pair and a black pair.
    Not sure if that is one or two words; wingtips.  I have never owned a pair before.  They were expensive shoes.
   That's how Dad did things.  He saved until he could get something well-made; something solid, something that would last.  Then he wore it, or drove it, or used it until it was done; completely.

   Both pairs of shoes have these little "risers" tacked to the heel where it had been wore down.  Cobblers did that.  I have never taken a pair of shoes to a cobbler.
     I have some other things that were Dad's.
A few ties.
         A shirt.
              His wallet.
   But for some reason, it is when I put on his shoes, internally,  a "pause" button is pushed, and I will sit on the edge of the bed, chair, or stool...and remember.
     And I remember odd things...
    The way he shifted gears while driving the pickup.
    The songs he used to like to sing.
    The stiff way he shot a basketball or swung a baseball bat.
    The precision of his technical drawings.
    The look in his eyes and the way his mouth curled when he smiled.
    But what I remember most is not an image; it is a feeling.  It is the feeling that mostly, Dad always seemed prepared for what was coming next.
    There was a plan in place.
    He was working the plan that he designed;
                that he had thought out to its logical end in advance.
So, in the current moment, he was just following through with his plan.
     I would look at him, and say,
    "How did you know that would happen?" or
    "How did you learn how to do that?" 
     and he would return that smile and tussle my hair and say,                                  
                                                  "Your Grampa taught me."
    I wish that I had paid more attention to the things Dad tried to teach me, 
    but there were times when I thought he didn't know anything about anything that really mattered.
I don't like thinking about that now, but it's true.
 
   We were fortunate enough to enjoy an incredible friendship for the last 25 years or so of his life.  It was a gift from God.  We both found a place in our lives where Christ's Spirit wrangled away our differences and left us with less edginess toward each other.
     In the past decade, as I have aged, people have said more and more that I remind them of him.  I used think how terrible that would be.  Now, it is a comfort.
     As I walk in these old wingtips, I feel a squeeze in the arch.  The form of them is not contoured to my foot yet, but the size is a fit.
    These shoes,
                they speak to me of he and I, and our journey together
                                                                                 and separately now.
    They are a reminder to me that we have been very different men.  That at times those differences seemed so pronounced that there was little to find in common.
   Yet now, I believe we are more the same than I ever conceived we would be,
                                                                                         and I am contented with that thought.
 

Flower Girl vs. Spider Man

    There was a joy in the air.   Our youngest daughter had just received and accepted a marriage proposal.  My wife and her spent the next several days trying to put together the myriad of plans that were necessary to pull off a ceremony.
    We were excited to share the news with all of our friends and family.  Our grand-daughters were over to our house one evening soon after the announcement, and we asked the youngest one,
   "Do you want to be the Flower Girl for your Auntie's wedding?"

   The four-year-old furrowed her brow, looked annoyed, and emphatically said, "No."
    "What?" I said, thinking that I had just offered the opportunity that all young girls ache for,
    "You don't want to be Flower Girl?"
    She shook her head again and said with staunch determination, "No, I want to be Spider Man!"

     We all laughed...except for a certain four-year-old who failed to understand the humor in the moment.  She was serious as a thunder storm.  She knew who she wanted to be and our pre-conceived notions were not going to dissuade her.  You could see it all over her.
    Flower Girl? (insert image of wrinkled nose and sour expression here) What kind of special powers does Flower Girl have?  Certainly she could not compete with Spider Man.  Spider Man crushes Flower Girl - case closed.  

     There was a certainty.  There was a commitment to reject the mundane.  There was adventure ahead and it all lay before a three-foot tall, female version of Spider Man.

    While living in Nairobi, Kenya about a decade and a half ago, I read a beautifully written book entitled, West With the Night, by Beryl Markham.  It's an incredible autobiography about the first woman to fly solo across the Atlantic.  She was a hunter of lions.  She was a racehorse trainer.  She wrenched all the life she could from East Africa in the 30's and 40's like she was wringing water out of a damp wash rag.  But I noticed something else in her writing.  It seemed that there were people who came along at just the right time to spill light across her path in such a way as to inspire and encourage "next steps" that otherwise may not have been taken.  She describes such a moment in time, just before she determined to learn to fly airplanes.  Her trail was intersected one day by a young man who was attempting to nurse life back into a broken-down automobile.  The two were discussing progress.  Remember, this was a time when horses were the main form of transportation in East Africa.  There were few motorcars and fewer planes.  At one point in their dialogue the young man described for Beryl his growing affinity for flying,
     "When you fly, you get a feeling of possession that you couldn't have if you owned all of Africa.  You feel that everything you see belongs to you-all the pieces are put together, the whole is yours not that you want it, but because when you're alone in a plane, there's no one to share it.  It's there and it's yours.  It makes you feel bigger than you are -closer to being something you've sensed you might be capable of, but never had the courage to seriously imagine."
      This is an invitation.  It speaks to my heart about something I have never done, but am suddenly wishing I had.  It is amazing.  It makes me want to fly.  The descriptive phrases draw us out of our easy chair.  The author, Ms. Markham was equally touched.  Here was her response:
     "He had been lavish with a stranger.  He had left me a word, tossed me a key to a door I never knew was there, and had still to find.  'All the pieces are put together, and the whole is yours...'  A word  grows to a thought - a thought to an idea - an idea to an act.  The change is slow, and the Present is a sluggish traveller loafing in the path Tomorrow wants to take."
      As is often said, "The rest is history."
     In Matthew, chapter 4, we read this: "Walking along the beach of Lake Galilee, Jesus saw two brothers: Simon (later called Peter) and Andrew. They were fishing, throwing their nets into the lake. It was their regular work. Jesus said to them, “Come with me. I’ll make a new kind of fisherman out of you. I’ll show you how to catch men and women instead of perch and bass.” They didn’t ask questions, but simply dropped their nets and followed." (Message)  
     All three of the story lines shared above speak to moments in time where folks turn their focus toward something larger than themselves.  I am going to be Spider Man!   I am going to become a pilot!  I am going to become a fisher of men!  

     Granted, the second and third seem more realistic; more possible, but they all involve risk, determination and commitment.  I guess that what I am realizing today is that the adventure in life truly begins when we are willing to step into a place of uncertainty.  Our Christian experience is so like that.  The conversations of our lives take on fresh and dramatic plot twists when we are willing to lay down our nets and follow Him.   The invitation stands waiting.  There is more to each of us than we right now can imagine.  We must be willing to wonder, willing to move, even willing to fly whether we own a cape or not.  He said....Come... and I will make...!  Only the first step is up to us, it is letting go the familiar for the sake of the unknown....the "making" part is up to Him.  :)
    




     
     

Adam's Tree-fort

   The phone rang at 2:38am. 

   I can remember the precise moment. I sat straight up in bed and looked over to the digital clock on the bookshelf. The numbers that announced the time lit up like they were neon. I fumbled around for a second and then found the phone and held it to my ear.

   “Hello?”

   “Is this Pastor Ev?”

   “Yes, who is this?”

   “This is Paul...you know...from the Wildwood Apartments?”

   “Sure Paul, what’s going on?...It’s kinda late you know.”

   “Yeah, I know...but I got a problem...a big problem, and I didn’t really know who else to call.”

   “What’s going on?”

   “Well Pastor Ev, I’m calling from the police station...”

   “The police station!?”

   “Yeah. Terry and I, we sorta had a bad argument...and well, she pulled a knife and was really gettin’ crazy, so I called the police and they took her away and now I’m down here tryin’ to work things out.”

   I rubbed my eyes with the heel of my palm and groaned into the phone. Paul was the manager of the apartment complex that we had previously stayed in. It had just been a few weeks earlier that we had moved out of the apartment and into the home we were now renting. He was a recovering alcoholic. The way he spoke of the time that he drank, you could tell that they were dark times, and that the balance walk he stepped these days was built on sheer determination to survive. His position as manager at The Wildwood was his last chance, a bone thrown him by a friend who didn’t want to see Paul’s life disappear down the neck of a bottle.

   Terry showed up at the swimming pool in the center of the apartment complex one summer afternoon about six months earlier. Her 13-year old son Adam was swimming as my wife and I were relaxing in the pool chairs reading. Terry spent most of the time building on her tan and working her way through a pack of cigarettes and three or four beers. She asked Rhonda about borrowing one of the magazines she was reading and they began to talk. I have always appreciated that my wife is able to carry on a legitimate conversation with just about anyone. From a superficial perspective, there could not have been much the two women had in common, but Rhonda always takes that as a challenge to see if she can develop some type of foundation from which she will eventually try to share Christ. This time was no exception, and soon, despite their many differences Rhonda had won Terry’s friendship. As Rhonda learned bits and pieces of Terry’s history, we discovered that her journey was one of short-term relationships, broken hearts, bad choices and scarred emotions.

   Inside of a week from their arrival pool-side at the Wildwood, Terry and Adam moved into Paul’s apartment. It’s hard to understand the logic used by people we care about sometimes. From the outside looking in, seeing Paul and Terry together was like standing on the side of a road watching two cars bound for a head on collision come at each other from a mile away. We liked both of them, and it was hard to know what to do to stop what appeared inevitable.

   We had several guys in the youth group about Adam’s age and soon he was a regular part of the church program. He never talked much about his past; his feelings hid deep inside the false bravado that lots of 13-year-old boys wear like a suit four sizes too big. Eventually though, some of that wore off in the security of the church youth group, and at a summer camp cabin with support from four or five other guys praying with him, he gave his life to Jesus.

 
   That moment was far removed from this one. Paul’s voice echoed in my ear,

   “So, can you help me out with something Pastor Ev?”

   “Well, I’m not sure what I can do to help you out in this case Paul. Maybe it’s time for you and Terry to come in for some counseling...”

   “I’m not worried about us right now. I was thinking about Adam. It sounds like they won’t let Terry out of jail until tomorrow and so he’ll wake up without his Mom around. I wish you could meet him in the morning and explain to him what happened...I don’t think that I would know what to say.”

   “I’ll meet him there at the apartment in the morning. What time does he usually leave for school?”

He gave me the particulars and I hung up the phone, explained the conversation to my wife, set my alarm, and lay my head back on the pillow trying to get a few hours of sleep.

When I got to his house the next morning, Adam had already gone. I didn’t catch up to him until after school that day. I watched the road leading into the apartment complex, and when I saw him walking toward me I pulled the car up beside him and motioned him to get in. We drove over to the apartment.

   “What’s going on Ev? Why did you pick me up?”

   “Well... did you miss seeing your Mom this morning?”

   “Not really, ...her and Paul stay out late sometimes. They go out drinking or dancing and they don’t get home until real late. She’s hungover so she doesn’t get up until later.”

   “I see, ...well, she didn’t get up this morning because she wasn’t there.”

He dropped his head, but the expression on his face remained stoic.

   “Where is she?”

   “She’s in jail.”

   I explained the circumstances of the evening prior. His face never changed expression.

   “Are you okay?”

  “Me? Are you kidding. I knew it was just a matter of time. We don’t stay anywhere too long. She always says she’s not going to drink anymore, and that this boyfriend is different, but everything always turns out the same. I think the longest I’ve ever lived anywhere is two years. We’ll probably be moving from here soon.”

   He looked straight ahead out of the car window as he spoke. His words were hard and cold. They fell out of his mouth like ice-cubes.

   He shook the blonde hair out of his face and looked up at me.

   “I’ll be fine....” he said.

   Everything about him looked calm, but when he reached down to grab his backpack from the seat between us, I could see that his hands were shaking. He turned to open the door.

   “Adam, wait a second. Where are you going? What are you gonna do?”

He thought for a second and then shrugged his shoulders.

   “I don’t know. Go watch some TV maybe. Do my homework. Hey, wait a minute. You wanna see something?”

   “What?”

   “It’s really cool.”

   “What is?”

   “I built this tree fort. You want to see it?”

   “Sure.”

   He carried his books to the apartment and threw them on the bed in his bedroom. I locked up the car and he led me out of the apartment complex, across the street. We hopped a ditch and in seconds were walking through a heavily forested area that could have been the middle of a wilderness jungle deep in South America if not for the far-off noise of cars rumbling down the road we had left behind us. Several varieties of fir trees reached high into the green canopy above us. Sunlight squirted past the higher branches, and blue sky peeked between those branches and fluffy, gray clouds that rolled above us. The further we walked, the less the cars could be heard, and the calls of birds, and soft sound of water gurgling down the Issaquah Creek finally replaced that noise all together.

   Suddenly, he stopped walking and lifted his arm pointing, “There it is.”

   I looked in the direction that he was pointing, but couldn’t really see anything except a fallen tree leaning against another tree. I looked quizically back at him. He smiled, then led me to the opposite side of the fallen tree. He pushed his way through some underbrush, I bent over and followed him and in a moment we were standing in kind of a dark green cave, just a bit of light entering from a place where a tree branch had been chopped off. There was a small wooden stool against an ancient log that formed the back side of the cave. There were posters tacked against the log. A picture of him and his mother was sitting atop the stump of another tree that had been taken some time ago. He reached behind a rock and pulled out a walkman and a flashlight. Then from underneath a covering of tree-branches that he had sawed off the fallen tree, he took a sleeping bag and a pillow.

   “See,” he announced, “I have everything here that I need.”

   I smiled and nodded my head. His eyes moved around the tree-fort with pride.

   “I come here whenever I just need to think. When I need to get away.”

   “Today is a pretty good day to get away I guess. What are you thinking right now?” I asked.

   There was a long period of quiet. Then he picked up the picture of him and his mom and sat down on the stump with me across from him sitting on the wooden stool.

   “You know, sometimes, I hate her,” his chin began to quiver and tears came to his eyes.
   He reached up and brushed them away immediately.
   “I really like it here. I don’t want to move again. I’m tired of moving all the time. I have friends...but I guess that doesn’t matter does it.”

   He looked up to me with eyes that begged for an answer, and I knew that I just didn’t have any to give. I put a hand on each shoulder and pulled him to my chest. For a moment he forgot about being tough and he just sobbed, his whole body shaking, tears all over the sweatshirt that I was wearing. I wished I could have been Adam’s Dad, and tell him everything would be okay. Yet, I knew that everything probably wouldn’t be okay. The future would play out much as he feared.

   “How about if we pray for her and Paul and for you too," I said. He nodded.

So we bowed our heads and I began to ask for Jesus to give reason and wisdom to the mind of a Mom that really needed it right then. I prayed for the hurts that she must have in her heart to be healed so that she might stay longer in one place. I prayed that she would see in her son the unique gifts and graces that the Lord had given. Then I said, “Amen.”

   Adam nodded again. He pushed away from me, wiped his face with his shirtsleeve, picked up the framed picture and stared at it again.

   “I don’t really hate her you know,” he said, still staring at the photo, and you could see the years of frustration begin to fade, as if some sort of new understanding about those years had come to his young mind. Slowly a smile spread across his face. He set the picture down, gently on the stump, then reached back to where the sleeping bag had been hidden and pulled out an unopened bag of Doritos. Until the sun set, we talked, laughed and reveled in the peace, quiet and understanding that enveloped that place. I often wonder about Paul, and Terry and Adam...especially Adam. It has been several years since we saw any of them. They moved on a few months later, all three of them. I can’t remember where, I just hope there was a spot for Adam to build a tree-fort nearby.

“There is a place of quiet rest, near to the heart of God; A place where sin cannot molest, near to the heart of God... There is a place of full release, near to the heart of God; A place where all is joy and peace, near to the heart of God.” - Cleland B. McAfee

A Prodigal Perspective

Sometimes, I feel as though Christ speaks to me in disjointed sentences.  In other words the whole text of what He is saying doesn't come in one setting.  For instance, recently the lesson began this way...

Nicholas entered the foyer of our church building, thirsty and tired.  He carried with him a sign, like so many we meet at the intersections of our community.  He was looking for people to donate to his cause, and so printed on the front of his cardboard sign were these words, 

"Found the right girl.

Need to put a ring on her finger.  

Please help!"

I could remember feeling that same sentiment over 30 years ago, but didn't think to market my need in such a fashion.  Nicholas deserved points for creativity I thought.  My wife met the young man in the foyer and sat him down to sort through his situation with him.  He had a story to tell.  (Don't we all?)  Honestly, a lot of what he was currently dealing with in life seemed more pressing than what was printed on the front of his sign, but then again, I am not walking in his shoes.  

To the point....The whole story had many edges to it, but for my purposes here, the most interesting part of it was this:  Although it had been some time ago, maybe 20 years or so, Nicholas had been a child in the classroom of a church school that once met in our facility.  That school had long ago moved off our campus to another location, but he had come through those front doors with a burden and believed that this could be a safe place for him to share it, based on past experiences that were surrounded with warm memory.

The second half of my learning came from a radio piece I listened to in the car a week or so earlier...

A man from the UK was diagnosed with a disease that would eventually take his sight.  It was a process that would move from seeing images that began to blur, to only seeing shapes, to just distinguishing light from dark and finally, to total darkness.  The main story line was about his journey.  However, there was a side story about a conversation that his wife had with some of her friends.  Another lady had commented to her, "One of the possible good things about this my dear, is that your husband will never see you grow older.  His image of you will forever be framed in the present. In his mind, you will always be his young bride."

These two ideas were brought together for me a week later like separate cars on a train being backed into each other; linked from this point forward for the next stage of the journey.  

I have no idea what Nicholas was like as little boy coming to school at the location where our church now meets.  The young man in his late twenties that wandered into the foyer, was a bit rough, both in appearance and language.  Emotionally, and spiritually he had been worn down.  Still, a voice inside of him, one that he recognized, was calling him back to a place that he knew.  So, cardboard sign in hand, he rushed through the front doors.  

Doesn't The Father do that with all of us?  No matter if it has been years or only days, His Spirit is faithful to call us home.  And the kicker is this...When He calls us to come home, the thought that we need to couple with our decision on whether or not to return is:  In his eyes we are that young boy with a bright and shining future.  Or, we are the young bride without blemish or wrinkle.  Because of the work of Christ on the cross, we are not seen as the one layered with the pitiful garments of bad choices or age.  He sees us through the forever hopeful eyes of a creator.  For him, we will always be shining potential, dressed in all the attributes He imagined when we were first conceived.

Grace and peace,

Ev