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The Sins of the Father

The Sins of the Father

Two weeks ago, I prayed for my father. It was a Thursday. I prayed for him not from a distance, but standing at his side with my hand resting on his upper arm. I’ve prayed for him in private before, but this was the first time that I’ve ever prayed over him. I’m still stunned by the experience. I’ve barely been able to talk about it, much less write it down. I think I’m still in shock about what God can make possible.

We had been talking on his back porch that afternoon. I hadn’t seen him in months, and frankly, I had been agonizing over getting in touch with him. We don’t always see eye to eye and more than once our visits have devolved into petty bickering, or worse. We have little in common and somehow a deep-seated resentment has built up over the years. Him and my mom were divorced when I was five. Mom got custody. I don’t think he’s ever gotten over it. Mainly, I think because he lost. My father is a proud, stubborn man and he needed to win that fight, and he didn’t. Part of me says, Tough shit. Another part of me is more forgiving. I don’t know what’s it’s like to have a son who is being raised by the other parent. I don’t have children. So it must be quite a blow, and I can sympathize.

A little.

In a nutshell, I am angry with my father. I didn’t see a whole lot of him growing up. My mother raised me and I’m grateful for that. I wouldn’t have wanted it any other way. I’ve never really stood up to him, either. When I was younger, he was godlike to me. Untouchable. A mystery. But now, when I’m around him I just kind of check out or we snip back and forth about politics or whatever. Sometimes we get along. He can be a funny man. He’s not a tyrant. He’s just a man who feels like something has been taken from him.

I can’t forget that.

I’m not going to air all our dirty laundry. What’s the point? Most men have complicated relationships with their fathers. It’s nothing new. My father and I don’t communicate well. We never have. How is that different from most other men?

The night before I went to see him, I felt God moving me to pray for him. That word seemed to come out of nowhere. I know it didn’t, but that’s what it felt like. Months ago I started praying for strangers on the street. God was preparing me for this moment.

You want me to pray for him? In the flesh? Really?

I didn’t have to ask. I had my answer. In a flash, I knew God had been laying some groundwork. He was preparing me for something I never thought I would do: lay my hand on father’s shoulder and pray for him.

The thing is, though, I wasn’t scared. I felt at peace. Nervous, but calm. I felt like a prayer that I had been praying for many years was answered. Not just my prayer, many people’s prayers. God’s solution is so simple and so profound. Pray for those who persecute you…

Sitting on the porch with my father, I told him about Five Bucks and a Prayer. I told him that I prayed for people on the streets. Then I hemmed and hawed a bit, told him some more about the blog, talked around what I wanted to say, and finally I took the plunge.

Dad, I’d like to pray for you, if that’s okay.

Last year, my father lost his wife. She battled health problems for years. Finally, it got the best of her. It had taken years for the two of them to get together. They had dated when they were younger, but circumstances broke them apart. Through many years and different lives in different states, they found each other again. They were married in 2000. The same year Ginger and I were married. The same year my mother remarried.

I know my Dad has had a difficult time since she died. Who wouldn’t? My mom lost her husband in 1998. A drunk driver killed him. Nothing can prepare you for that kind of loss. Nothing can make the grief pass any quicker. It takes years to reach some kind of acceptance.

It’s going to be a long journey for him.

I’m not going to write about the prayer that I prayed for my father. Maybe I will someday.

Maybe not.

For now, I think I’m going to keep it to myself. But, if anyone out there has a minute, pray for my father.

His name is Charles Russell, Sr. For the past few years, he has gone by Chuck not Charles.

Last year he lost his wife.

He has a difficult relationship with his son.

He is in need of some intercession.

He is in need of God’s love.

Just like every last one of us.

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Posted by on April 29, 2011 in Dad

 

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Rocky and Bullwinkle

When I met these two, the sun had already gone down. Winter had truly set in and they were standing in front of Wal-Mart holding a sign. They were in their early twenties, at the most. They could have been teenagers. For the life of me, I cannot remember the guy’s name. Let’s call him Bullwinkle, which actually sort of fits.

You’ll see.

Bullwinkle was a thin, white kid with curly, dark brown hair. Think Harry Hamlin in “Clash of the Titans”. He wasn’t quite as strapping as Harry, but he was a good-looking kid. He wore a white shirt with thin blue stripes. In my mind he’s not wearing a jacket, but that can’t be right. It was cold that night. After several months, my memory of him is that of a kid who could be working at the mall. Maybe at a place like Hollister’s. You know one those kids wearing a flannel shirt that has the sleeves already rolled up for you.

 

Bullwinkle had a drum. It was a tom-tom, really. He was slowly beating it as the cars passed him, pulling out of the Wal-Mart parking lot. As I crossed the grass towards them, I began to be a little intimidated. I’m almost forty years and, I’m still spooked by kids who seem cooler than me. Adolescent pain runs deep, apparently.

 

What are these two numbskulls doing out here? I thought. I’ll bet they have a tattered copy of “On the Road” tucked somewhere in their packs. Is this some sort of traveling fantasy? The Great American Quest for the Self? This bitterness blazed through my head, and I felt like a fool. Self-defense had kicked in and within a few seconds, I had written off these two as silly children, in over their heads.

Even so, I held the money in my hand. This time, since there were two people, I pulled out a little more than five dollars. I believe that I had eight bucks. I gave them seven.

“How’s it going?” I asked as I handed the five and two singles over. I was trying hard to act casual.

“Wow, thanks man. We might have enough to get a room tonight,” he said as he looked over at his companion whose face was hidden within a furry gray hood pulled over her head. She was sitting on one of their bags. The sodium lights gave of all of us an orange glow, and the traffic light punctuated the scene with green, red and yellow.

Bullwinkle looked back at me, “Hey, man. How are things with you?” Bullwinkle threw my greeting back at me with a disarming openness. His eyes were unguarded and 100% focused on mine.

“Good…good. Where are you guys from?” I looked away from his gaze. My annoyance was beginning to dissipate.

I can’t remember what Bullwinkle said, but the girl stood up then and said, ”Utah.”

“What are your names?” I asked both of them, but I was looking at her. The girl was beautiful. Dark, olive skin. She could have been Hispanic. What was this girl doing on the streets? What were either of them doing out here? I didn’t think they were on a voyage of self-discovery anymore. These two were running from something. Or someone.

He told me his name, which, of course, I ‘ve forgotten. She said her name was Rocky. They said some vague things about the journey they were on, but I can’t remember a word of it. Then the conversation drifted to the Youth Hostel in Santa Fe. I was the one who mentioned that place. I was becoming more and more concerned with their safety. The idea of them being new inmates struck me. They were not hardened enough for this world, not matter what they thought. They were too fresh faced and, maybe not innocent, but inexperienced to say the least.

“That place is expensive. We tried to stay there last night. The Motel 6 was actually cheaper. It was crazy…” Bullwinkle said. He was becoming more animated and spacey as the conversation wore on.

“Really? That sucks…my wife and I were gonna stay there like ten years ago when we first rolled through town. They wanted us to do chores. I didn’t realize it was so expensive now. I guess that place is like everything else in Santa Fe, it’s not for the people who need it,” I said.

“Yeah…”

“Would it be okay if I prayed for you guys? I mean if that’s okay…” I asked.

“Sure, man, that’s cool. I feel like I’ve been praying for people, too. Every time someone passes by, I beat the drum for them and it’s like a prayer. So, I’m praying, too, ya know?” Bullwinkle said as he looked at all the cars passing us by, a goofy grin across his face.

“That’s cool…” Why not? Why does prayer have to be so rigid? I was smiling, too. The kid was loopy, but endearing. He still had these reserves of hope.

Rocky hadn’t said another word. She stood a few feet off to the side, unsure of me, I think. So, I went to grab their arms to start praying, but I didn’t realize that she was so far away. I retracted my right arm and held it to my side. She didn’t try to close the gap.

So I prayed, holding just Bullwinkle’s arm. I didn’t ask for prayer requests this time. But I made sure to pray for their protection. That, most of all.

As I walked back to my car, I was thinking about my studio. They could spend the night there, I guess. At the time, I still had it and it was close by. Of course, there wasn’t a bed, but they would be out of the weather and it had a heater.

But, I didn’t say anything. I had neighbors, and I just couldn’t drop off strangers to spend the night. Maybe I could have. I don’t know. They would have been in my space, I suppose, but it doesn’t matter, now.

When I got in my car, I looked back at them under the sodium light. Bullwinkle was beating his drum again and Rocky had returned to her seat. I drove past and waved and I think Bullwinkle gave his drum an extra few whacks as I pulled out onto Cerrillos.

 

So pray for these two.

Pray that God will protect them.

Pray that He will keep them out of the jaws of the enemy.

Pray that He will keep a watch over them.

 

Pray that He will show Rocky and Bullwinkle their place in this world.

 

Pray that He will show them the way.

 

 

 

 

 
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Posted by on March 16, 2011 in Rocky and Bullwinkle

 

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Ya Know, Like Johnny Cash…(Cash-part 1)

Not long after I met Keith, I came across a man named Cash at the entrance to the Santa Fe Place Mall off of Rodeo road. It was still Christmas, which meant that I still had plenty of cookies left. My plan had been to wrap them up in small packages and hand them out along with the money. This was the same batch that I had made about a week before I met Keith. I thought they’d be gone by now, but like I said with Keith, things don’t always work out like we plan. That day the temperature had dropped in Santa Fe, the wind had picked up and the sky had clouded over. I remember thinking that it might snow but I don’t think it did. Maybe it did in the mountains, but not in town.

When I saw this man across the street, I was heading in a different direction and I had to double back and pull into the mall parking lot. Unfortunately, there wasn’t anywhere nearby to park, so I pulled into a spot on the side of the Harley dealership at the edge of the parking lot. I grabbed the clear, plastic bag decorated with the flat, green trees and headed up the slight hill back to the intersection. There wasn’t any sidewalk here, so I followed the dirt path cutting through the side of the hill, which meant that I would have to climb a little rock wall once I reached this guy. As I was trying to maintain my footing on the rocks while I climbed, he asked if I was a Harley man.

“What’s that?” I responded, a little confused.

“What kind of bike you got?” He asked as he leaned forward slightly.

“Oh, I don’t have one…I’ve never even ridden one,” I said, as I thought, how could I have never been on a motorcycle?

“Well you came out of the dealership, I just thought maybe you had a bike…” He looked disappointed.

“Oh yeah…no, I just parked down there. I’m here to talk to you,” I said as I stuck out my hand, “I’m Chuck.”

“My name’s Cash.”

“What’s that?” He wasn’t mumbling, but I couldn’t hear him for some reason.

“Cash…ya know, like Johnny Cash,” he said as he grinned slyly.

Cash was as tall as me. Taller, maybe, but memory’s a funny thing; because as I think about it, now, I’m looking at Cash’s chest as we’re talking. His cardboard sign said something about being a vet, and his ragged, olive green flak jacket was dotted with military pins and buttons. He wore a navy blue cap with gold lettering giving the name of some aircraft carrier. His medium length, salt and pepper beard was straggly but not unkempt. The rest of his face was pitted and scarred, but gleaming. Despite the obvious abuses of the road and life, Cash still had a sparkle to him. Something was glittering beneath all that grime.

I had shifted the cookies and the five-dollar bill to my left hand. Handing them over, I said, “Merry Christmas.” Then I pointed at the bag that I had just handed him, “Those are chocolate chip cookies and they’re homemade; they’ve got pecans in ‘em.”

“Thanks,” he said as he slipped the five and the cookies into his jacket pocket.

Cars were creeping by, heading out of the mall and waiting to turn onto Rodeo road. I didn’t turn my head to look, but I knew they were there. I tried to stay focused on the man in front of me.

“Cash, do you mind if I pray for you?” I hadn’t really been nervous until now.

He jerked his head back and smiled, “Can I pray for you, brother? Is there anything that I can pray for…for you?”

What?

I was taken aback, and I fumbled for some way to decline, so I blurted, “No, thanks, I appreciate it. But, I think I’m good…thanks, though.”

Cash seemed a little disappointed.

I’m just here to give you five bucks, a couple of cookies, and pray. That’s all, I thought. I’m supposed to do something for you, man. I’m the one that’s supposed to be giving. Right?

I should have let Cash pray for me. Being prayed for is humbling, and it’s sometimes uncomfortable. It’s easy to get caught up in this act of giving and praying. It’s easy to get single minded and forget that God wants you to experience all of life, not just be obedient. God wants that, but He wants you to keep your eyes open. Be sensitive to the moment. My tendency is to follow a script and that’s exactly when God begins to stretch you. He’s not interested in a merely scripted interchange or a prescribed amount of caring. He wants us to be malleable, adaptable, and ready for the moment.

Ready for anything.

After I prayed for Cash, he asked me how long I had been witnessing to people on the streets.

Witnessing? I thought. I’m not witnessing, I’m just out here praying.

I was completely caught off guard for the second time by this man.

I’ve never thought of what I’m doing as witnessing. Frankly, the idea of someone coming up to me and trying to force something down my throat is offensive. I watch Kirk Cameron and that Australian guy proselytizing and I think, if I wasn’t saved, that would not reach me. Nobody’s gonna reach me like that. It might completely sour me on the whole concept of Christ.

Maybe it wouldn’t, I don’t know. I mean no offense to Kirk Cameron and all the multitudes spreading the Gospel this way. They’re probably called to do that, and I don’t want to get between anyone and God’s call. But, I also know that, sometimes, shoving a person into salvation is the wrong approach. Maybe there’s a better way to show God’s love. By no means do I have all the answers; I’m just saying how I feel about pushiness. That’s all.

Then again, if Cash feels like I’m a witness to him, then that’s very humbling and I am not going to run from it. I have never asked anyone if they are saved or if they have found the Lord. I just pray. For the most part, people have been forthcoming about their faith even though I don’t expect them to be. Maybe they’re just telling me what they think I want to hear.

I hope not.

I stood there on the side of Rodeo road talking to this man for at least twenty minutes. Cash had a lot to say about America, the state of the world, humanity and God’s place in our lives, and it was a surprising, challenging conversation, and, by far, the longest that I’d had to date with anyone that I met on the street.

 
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Posted by on March 2, 2011 in Cash

 

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Running the Race to Win (Even If You Finish Somewhere In the Middle)

I’m going to sidetrack a little from Keith’s story, but I want to share something with everyone.

Today, I ran my first 5K. My time was 27:51. I started at the back of the pack and finished somewhere in the middle.

I have always been overweight, and it had seemed like running would never be a part of my life, not even when I played football in junior high and high school. I was in a little bit better shape then, I mean, I was still obese, but I could move a lot quicker. After high school, I just continued to get bigger and bigger. Then in 1997, I had to go to the doctor for the flu, but I had never been to this doctor before, so they had to weigh me for their records.

I weighed 334 lbs.

Oh my God.

That scared me, so in 1998, I lost over 60 pounds. I didn’t have an exercise regimen, I just changed the way I ate. I kept that off for several years, and then I slowly began to put it back on, about 25 lbs. of it. During those years, I felt horrible and the depression, that I had always struggled with, was defeating me. This wasn’t really about weight, though. Deep down, I knew that, really, I was just running from God, and, in the process, negating my life.

There are always deeper issues with any kind of vice. Everybody knows this. Food is an addiction like any other. The problem with addictions is that they derail you. It’s not just about what you are doing to yourself, it’s about what you’re not doing. It is the life that you are not living that is the tragedy.

I had been trying, in my way, to be closer with God. I started reading the Bible everyday. I read through it twice. This started in 2005. God wanted more for me and from me, though. He kept trying to show me during these years, that I was so wrapped up in self-loathing and self-destruction that I had no time for anything else. The fog had to be lifted. I had to take control of this life that I was flushing down the toilet. Again, this is not about food. This is about the things that we allow to become giants in our lives. Soon enough they are bigger than God, and they will diminish His light much like a mountain in front of the setting sun.

So, in January of 2009, I started eating better. Then, over the next several months, I began walking, playing tennis, going to the gym, etc. Just being more active, in general. In 2010, I quit smoking and began running. I had never run a mile before.

Never.

The first day that I did, I thought my heart would explode, but I felt alive. Later that year, a sciatic nerve in my hip rolled over some muscle tissue, putting me out of commission for about a month and a half. I had been running fairly consistently up until then and I didn’t think that I would recover from the layoff. But, I finally did. Of course, there was a lot of grunting and obscenity involved.

So, after two years of losing weight (85 lbs.), a year of sporadic running and a year of not smoking, I did it.

My first 5K.

The race was in Dallas and was sponsored by an organization that helps the disabled lead normal lives. The event was called Cupid’s Chase, and it took place, simultaneously, in 24 other cities. It was incredible and the weather was perfect. My mom and step dad were there, cheering me on and Ginger was yelling loudly for me from Santa Fe. It was pretty sweet.

Today was the result of a lot of answered prayers. Thanks everybody.

Thank You God for kicking me in the ass when I needed it.

Thank You for whispering you can do this in my ear when I needed that, too.

Thank You for giving me the opportunity to live this life.

Thank You for loving me.

Thank You.

 
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Posted by on February 12, 2011 in Running the Race

 

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Mike

Mike was standing in the median in front of Sam’s Club on Rodeo road. I think it was still November, shortly after I met Kenny. Just to set the record straight, I don’t approach people on the street every day. It’s sporadic. Sometimes I just don’t see anybody. I’ve also passed up quite a few people, thinking things like: I’ll catch you later. I really have to be somewhere. I don’t have any cash on me, anyway. Not to say that I have to stop every time I see a homeless person. On occasion our lives take priority. I don’t want to discount that.

But, I’ve become a little more sensitive to God telling me when I absolutely have to do something. I’m certainly not completely sensitive to God’s call. Quite the contrary. Many times I just ignore His voice and pretend like I didn’t hear Him. What’s that, God? Were You talking? Sorry, but that’s the truth. Listening and obeying God is a complex experience. Just because you obey God in a few small things, it doesn’t mean that you are certain about what He’s telling you to do every day. Not in my experience, anyway. I don’t think I’m alone in that. I will say this though: on occasion you are right in line with what God wants you to do and, people, that’s astonishing.

Anyway, Mike was in front of Sam’s. I saw him a little late, so I had to drive a little further down Rodeo and make a U-turn. I turned at the red light into Sam’s and looked for a place to park that was relatively close. Luckily, there’s a crosswalk here.

I had five bucks prominently displayed, so I jogged across the street.

He had a very prominent limp and as I stepped up onto the median, he had to hobble towards me, swinging his leg out slightly and around in order to move forward. For once, I remember what one of the signs said. The man was a vet, and his sign hung in his left hand as he held out his right and shook my hand. I’m almost positive that it said “Vietnam Vet”. He looked to be about that age. Mid-50’s, probably.

“Hi, I’m Chuck.”

“My name’s Mike.”

Mike had long, shaggy hair, and a scraggly beard. He looked a little like Charles Manson. Not the demonic part, though. Just the man. But, Mike didn’t look threatening. He was small. In my mind, I see Mike as being probably a foot shorter than me. Maybe it’ wasn’t quite that much, but it was significant. Like K (Katherine), Mike wore a leather jacket. Military patches were sown into its worn exterior. Faded reds, yellows and greens cluttered the surface, telling of how and with whom he had served. Gray hairs were beginning to show themselves in his beard and unkempt hair. Mike looked to be Hispanic.

I asked if I could pray for him. Standing in front of Mike, I didn’t feel rushed or distracted like I did with Kenny. I didn’t have the first time jitters like I did with Travis. I didn’t have the fear of approaching a woman like I did with K (Katherine). In fact, as I look back, I didn’t feel much of anything. I have to be honest about that. The encounter with Mike was short and I was back in my car before I realized it, driving away. One thing did stick in my mind, though, more than anything else. When I asked Mike if I could pray for him, he made a point of telling me he was Catholic, then he looked at me a little strangely. As if I was going to try to save him from his Catholicism. That’s the impression I got. Like he had to be up front with me about that, so that I had the option of refusing to pray for him. Maybe Mike had lost touch with the religion that he had grown up with. Maybe he mentioned it to me because he needed to affirm that it was still there somewhere. I don’t know, but it was an odd moment.

“That’s okay, I’m a Christian, too,” I responded.

I prayed for Mike. Like the others that I met before him, I didn’t ask if he had any prayer requests.

Let him know you love him, Lord. Bless him in his life.

I think if someone prayed like this for me, I would feel slighted. I would feel like they weren’t really paying attention. Insert name here___________: now pray. I know I’ve talked about this before, but I need to keep saying it. Some days I feel like God can’t possibly hear these bland prayers, but He does. If I didn’t believe that, I wouldn’t bother. God not only hears them, He honors them. That’s not to say that God doesn’t teach you how to pray for others in a more precise way. He does. But, you have to start somewhere, and maybe sometimes it’s just about being in the right place at the right time and not the words we say.

I don’t know that I can say a lot more about Mike, but I do have a thought about the Catholicism that he made a point of mentioning. Growing up in Protestant churches (primarily Baptist and it’s offshoots), there was a barrage of criticism against the Catholic Church. At the non-denominational church, which I sporadically attend now , I overhead a couple of people talking about leaving the Catholic Church. They were both Hispanic men who had grown up in that faith. When they talked about the Church, now, it sounded like they were talking about a cult. I’ve heard a lot worse said about Catholicism, unfortunately.

I’m not getting into a debate about Catholicism. If you want to think ill of it, then I guess that’s your prerogative. But I’ll tell you this one little story. When I was going through a particularly difficult time, I went to a Catholic church here in Santa Fe. It was early afternoon on a weekday. There were no services, but the doors were open to those who wished to pray. I was the only one sitting in the large sanctuary that day, and I remember looking at the Stations of the Cross and the candles, and listening to the silence and beginning to weep, then moving beyond weeping into streaming tears. At that point, a group of children and their instructor came in through the rear doors. The kids were talking loudly and chattering, but when the teacher spied me across the cathedral, he immediately quieted the children down, telling them to be respectful.

“Someone is praying,” he said.

This moved me. I can tell you that I felt a reverence for the stillness of God in that moment that I have rarely felt elsewhere. My wife had a very similar experience. The church is open, urging the flock to come and pray. That day the Gospel was gently laid out, and it was simple and beautiful. Come…abide with Me, Christ said, and lets be still together.

I have no larger message, here. All I’m saying is that my wife and I have been comforted by a faith that we are not a part of. We are not Catholics. We most probably will never be Catholics. But if we had allowed denominational prejudices to steer us away from that faith, we would not have had the experiences that we did.  That’s it.

Pray for Mike. He’s a vet. He’s a Catholic. He’s on the street.

Pray that he will see the Gospel laid out, simply and beautifully.

Pray that we all will.

 
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Posted by on February 8, 2011 in Mike

 

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K (Katherine)

The people I’ve met over the past three months, or so, have stayed in my memory. This is the first time that I ‘m writing about them, so some details have faded, but many remain. I am trying to write about them in the order that I met them, and I know that’s not really going to be possible, but I think I’ll be pretty close. Some gaps refuse to be filled, however, and that’s the case with K.

I think her name was Katherine.

I’ll stick with the Kafkaesque K, however, simply because I’m not sure about the name and I don’t want to pretend to have a firm grasp on something that I don’t. I’m also not sure about where she is in the order. Second, I think. But, it could have been Kenny (more about him later). Not sure.

K was standing beside the entrance to the Wal-Mart on Cerrillos Road. I saw her from the opposite lane and I pulled into the parking lot and turned off the engine. Meeting Travis  had given me a little confidence, and I didn’t have quite the nerves that I did before. At least that was true as I fumbled through my wallet for a five dollar bill. When I got out of the car, however, there was a moment of real fear. Mostly I was afraid of what this woman was going to think of some random guy crossing the pavement to talk to her. Like with Travis, I displayed the bill prominently and walked toward her.

K looked to be about the same age as Travis. Mid 30’s probably. She wore a leather jacket that still had a little life left in it. There were patches on it. Words were scratched into the surface. Maybe that’s not true. Maybe the words weren’t there, but something tells me that K’s life was written on that jacket. I realize that’s abstract, but that’s what I see.

She had on faded black combat boots, and her hair was a dark, unnatural red. It had been dyed recently. She wore a long, faded red pleated skirt that was embroidered along the bottom. There was a Mexican restaurant, close to where I grew up back in Texas, that made the waitresses wear something similar.

As I approached, she looked at me a little suspiciously, and I awkwardly handed her the money. I stuck out my hand and told her my name. She shook my hand and told me hers, then there was an awkward silence. I plodded on, however, and asked if she minded if I prayed for her.

“Sure,” she responded.

She was hesitant, though, so I quickly added, “If that’s okay, I mean… as long as that’s okay with you.”

“It’s alright…” She reiterated, and so I prayed.

I reached out and touched her right arm. I can still feel the worn leather beneath my palm. I remember stroking her arm, trying to make her feel at ease, but she never did. I think she even bristled slightly when I reached out, but I didn’t remove my hand. Then I prayed my generic prayer, being careful, however,  to include the part about God letting K know she wasn’t alone. God, let K know you love her. Please.

I don’t know what happened to K in her past. I don’t know if she may have been molested or assaulted or abused. I didn’t ask. How could anybody ask that? I don’t want to speak for K, but I get the sense that she believes that God has left her out in the cold. Forgotten her and left her to die a slow death, all alone. A lot of people feel that way. I go in and out of thinking that myself.

There was no emotional catharsis with K, unlike with Travis, who was immediately grateful and made me feel like I had made at least a little difference in his day. It was almost instant gratification and very humbling. The encounter with K was humbling in a completely different way. She didn’t start beaming simply because I had graced her with my presence, an awkward prayer and a measly five bucks. In fact, I feel like she would have preferred it if I had just given her the money through the rolled down window of my car and driven away. But I was supposed to pray for K. I know that. Not everyone wants to be prayed for. Not everyone wants to hear it. I understand that. God knows I’m the same way. I fight him tooth and nail on so many occasions. More than I care to think about.

Pray for K. God only knows what has happened to her. Like Travis, I haven’t seen her since. Pray for this leather jacketed, combat boot wearing, broken-hearted soul that I met in front of Wal-Mart one day.

I think her name was Katherine.

 
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Posted by on February 3, 2011 in K (Katherine)

 

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Travis (part 3)

I haven’t seen Travis since. I don’t know where he ended up, but I hope that he’s out of the cold. To be perfectly honest, I haven’t said too many prayers for Travis since that day, but I’ve often thought  of him. I know that’s not really good enough, and again, like that day, I feel that I’ve let him down somehow. Maybe I’m wrong. I don’t know.

Writing about Travis has made me relive that moment and reminded me of what a gift God gave me. He gave me the opportunity to serve. I realize that five bucks doesn’t go far and a little prayer hardly seems like  a drop in the bucket, but it was something. I too often talk myself out of doing things because they just seem too small and insignificant. Surely this can’t mean anything, it’s not enough, I think. So then I end up offering nothing. And that’s worse.

Do the small things. They add up. We all know this, but we think we need a grand gesture to serve God. Sometimes that happens, but most days, we just have our lives. That alone is an infinite level of complexity. Joel Osteen once said “there are no ordinary days”. He’s right. We’re alive and that’s in no way ordinary. I mean, Moses didn’t part the Red Sea everyday.

So pray for Travis. He has a dog, a goatee, a silver thermos, a camouflage jacket and he might be in his late thirties. I don’t know where he is, but God does. When you pray, He’ll know who you’re talking about.

I’ll pray for him, too.

 
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Posted by on February 2, 2011 in Travis

 

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