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Sue Left Hand

 

 They’re like missing people. Sometimes I’ll meet them on the street and wonder if someone is looking for them, because no matter how lost we may become, everyone leaves a trail. Whether it’s friends, family, enemies, lovers, ex-lovers, husbands, wives, children, pets, or maybe just the residue of the things we leave behind. Sometimes, however, people simply disappear. The trail vanishes, and they are gone, swallowed up by the outer dark, only to resurface as one of the nameless rabble, haunting street corners and underpasses, searching for warmth.

Maybe they vanish because of poor decisions they’ve made, or bad circumstances, or to escape abuse, or perhaps they have no money, no job, and believe that they have no future. We pass them on street corner after street corner, in towns and cities of all sizes. We wonder who they are.

Or maybe we don’t. Most of us simply don’t have the time to talk to them. We have our own lives, our own problems. We have families that need us. Why should we care? We are not lost. Surely, their fate is in their own hands. They’re just looking for a handout, right? We work for a living, why should we give out our hard earned money to a bunch of lazy bums?

We don’t always feel this way, of course. Sometimes we take pity. Sometimes we feel really badly for them. And then other times we just think of them as the nameless rabble. But, they have lives. They have stories. They have a place in this world. The nameless rabble is never name-less.

So if you need a name to put with the faces that you see on the street corners, here’s one: Sue Left Hand. She’s another in the small list of people that I’ve walked up to, talked with and prayed for.

On February 18, 2011, I met Sue Left Hand in the Sam’s parking lot. I know the date because I wrote it down in a document entitled ‘People I’ve Met On the Street’ which is filed away in my computer collecting digital dust. It’s been a while since I’ve posted anything on this blog although there are other people that I’ve prayed for, I just haven’t written about them yet. As I was running through the subpar writing of my notes, many of the names and circumstances had slipped my mind. Several times, I’ve uttered, “Oh yeah, I remember that guy (or girl).” Up until now, I’ve tried to write about everyone in order, but I think that I’m going to jettison that because whenever I think about writing another post on this blog, I always think of a name that is further down the list. I always think of Sue Left Hand.

She’s about five foot two, a good foot shorter than me. As I was getting gas at Sam’s, I saw her standing by the exit. Dark skinned and diminutive, I got the feeling that Sue was not as old as her appearance would have me believe. Deep crevasses lined her face. I parked the car and walked up to her, handed her five bucks and introduced myself. She shook my hand and told me her name. I had to ask her twice to repeat it. ‘Sue Lefland’, I thought she was saying. Then she annunciated a little more clearly, and at the same time the cobwebs were brushed out of my head and it clicked. Two names: Left, Hand. She’s Native American. I knew that when I saw her, but my brain had to catch up.

After that we began to talk. She was slightly hunched over as she spoke and I had a feeling that she might have been drinking earlier that day. Dirty, thinning, jet-black hair framed her face and came down to her shoulders.

Sue told me that her son had committed suicide in 2000. She didn’t say how old he was, but judging by the fact that Sue was probably in her late 40’s or early 50’s, he couldn’t have been that old. She told me about sleeping at the shelter and being kicked out at six in the morning. It was difficult to follow her at times since she was slurring somewhat.

After listening to her for a bit, I asked Sue if I could pray for her. She said that I could. I asked her if there was anything specific that she wanted me to pray for. Sue told me that her granddaughter had just died within the past few months. She had been eleven years old. I didn’t ask what had happened and Sue didn’t say. The lines around her face seemed to deepen as she told me again that her granddaughter had only been eleven. After that there was an awkward silence.

“Pray for my daughter,” Sue finally said then looked at the ground.

“What’s her name?” I asked.

“Antoinette.”

I reached out and touched Sue’s shoulder and began to pray. I bowed my head and so did she. We stood there as the wind gusted around us on a chilly February day in Santa Fe, New Mexico: a tall white guy, still in his work clothes and a short, dark Native American woman enigmatically named Sue Left Hand who had arroyos of age and pain etched into her face. I fumbled through my prayer, but I knew that God heard this one. I felt it.

When I was finished, Sue said, “I believe in Him, too.”

“Really? That’s good,” I replied, uncomfortably, because even though we had just shared this moment with God, I still feel strange when people profess things to me. Especially when it has to do with God.

“I can hear Him talking to me now,” she said.

I froze.

“You can hear Him now?” I managed to sputter.

Sue was silent. She was no longer looking at me. Her eyes weren’t focused on anything in particular, at least not on anything in the material world where we stood. Suddenly, all the sounds that had been surrounding us, the horns honking, the clicking of the gas pumps, the revving of engines, the cars driving by and the incidental voices, went silent. We could have been anywhere. My heart was beating fast as I waited for Sue to respond.

“Yes, I can hear him now,” she said.

I wasn’t sure what to say. Then Sue filled in the gap. “He’s telling me to turn to Him.” Then she looked at me and seemed to snap back into the world. The sounds returned all at once and we were next to the gas pumps in front of Sam’s.

“He’s telling me to turn to Him,” she repeated.

I don’t remember much of what Sue said after that. It’s a bit of a blur. I know that I ached for Sue. That much was certain. I also felt like God breathed on us as we stood there. Maybe breathed isn’t the right word. Perhaps it’s more like God brushed us as He walked by. But I knew He was there, if only for a moment. That floored me. I realize that God is with us always, but we don’t always perceive it. Well, this was one of those times that the doors of perception were opened, and it was almost overwhelming.

Before I turned to go, Sue gave me a hug, her frail body tight against mine. Walking back to my car, Sue called out to me.

“It will come back to you double,” she cried.

I smiled, waved and got back into my car.

Trust me, Sue, it already has.

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Posted by on October 12, 2011 in Sue Left Hand

 
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Painting of the Day

Painting of the Day.

 
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Posted by on April 20, 2011 in Travis

 
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You Forgot Something…(Hey Joe)

I was leaving the bank in front of Pier One when I saw Joe. He caught me by surprise, so I didn’t have time to pull over, park the car and get out. It was sometime in the afternoon. Still cold. This was in late January of this year. I eased the car over, rolled down the window and held out a five. He put his left hand on the car door and leaned into the car slightly.

“Here ya go, man,” I said.

“Hey, thanks,” he said and his hand lingered on the door and he kept looking at me.

Do I know this guy? I thought. What is he waiting for?

I couldn’t park and pray for this man. Cars were behind me and there was no way to pull off to the side.

“God bless you,” I said in weak consolation.

“You too,” he said and removed his hand from the window.

He was young. Maybe early thirties, maybe close to forty. It was a little hard to tell. He didn’t look to be as road weary as some of the other people I’ve met. I pressed the gas and threaded the Explorer into traffic.

Stopping at the traffic light at Zafarano, I kept trying to figure out if I knew this guy or not. He didn’t look familiar, but maybe his face just wasn’t clicking. His expectant look was gnawing at me though. Did he know something? Did he have some kind of intuition about me? That seems crazy, but so does praying for strangers on the side of the street.

Should I go back?

I already knew the answer to that.

I looked over my shoulder and eased into the lane to my right. Then I did it again. I knew I could make my way back if I turned at the Giant store. Traffic was getting to be heavy and it took me a few minutes, but I pulled into the lot by the Blue Corn Café and parked the car in front of Pier One.

I got out, walking towards this guy, feeling strange about coming back. At first he didn’t see me. Then a car honked and the man seated on the concrete in front of me returned the wave of the person in the car, who, I think honked because of the sign the seated man was holding; enigmatically, it said, You Dropped Your Smile. I hadn’t noticed it the first time I drove past.

When the man finally noticed me, a thin smile crossed his face. He didn’t appear to be confused by my reappearance. I think he knew I might return.

“So, I was told to come back here and pray for you,” I said with both hands stuffed into my pockets. Looking at his eyes, I was searching for a sign, or something, to tell me that I was supposed to turn around and come back here.

“Cool,” his watery blue eyes offering nothing but a greeting.

“I’m Chuck,” I said, trying to remain in the moment.

“My name’s Joe.”

“Nice to meet you, Joe.”

Joe was recently clean-shaven. He had dirty blond hair and dark, formerly black, jeans. He wore a black and yellow plaid shirt and a black jacket. I can’t remember what material the jacket was made of. Denim, maybe.

“Where you headed, Joe?”

“Not sure, I’ve been up in Cuba. You know, for the Rainbow Gathering?”

“Yeah…yeah, of course.”

Not Castro’s Cuba, New Mexico’s. It always throws me.

“I was there for a while, but I’ve been in New Mexico for about three years, I guess…”

Then Joe launched into a convoluted story about why he’d been in New Mexico for so long. His tale suggested that it wasn’t by choice and I recall it having a vague conspiratorial air to it. I don’t remember any of the details.

Joe had never gotten up during our exchange. He sat on the ground leaning against the stop sign, looking up at me. His short, dirty-blond hair gusting in the winter wind.

“Joe, do you mind if I pray for you?”

“Sure, that’d be cool.”

“Is there anything that you want me to pray for?”

“I guess…just in general. You know…everything.”

“Okay.”

I stood over Joe and prayed for him, my hand resting on his shoulder. Joe had bowed his head and placed his elbows on his knees. He looked to be staring at the concrete between his legs. Joe still held the sign; it rested on his bent legs while I prayed.

God help Joe. Let him know You love him. Help him find his way.

I patted Joe on the shoulder as I left, and once more told him that it was nice to meet him. Lingering a little, I suppose, thinking that I was going to receive some secret message. A word from God. Why else did I have to make such an effort to get back here?

Walking away, it struck me.

I had to come back for Joe. God wanted me to stand in the gap for him, even though I didn’t pray for anything in particular. It was for Joe. Not for me.

That’s easy to lose sight of. I’m constantly questioning God. Asking Him why I need to do something. What am I going to get out of this? Is this good for me? How am I going to be blessed? That day, I didn’t have choirs of angels of singing, simply because I obeyed. That never happens, anyway. What I got was a guy named Joe, a man sitting on the side of the road holding a sign.

I got the opportunity to pray for that man.

I got the opportunity to pray for another human being. Another soul.

There is no greater honor.

As I was still walking towards the car, Joe called out, “Hey!”

I turned around, and Joe held up his sign and pointed at it, grinning.

You Dropped Your Smile, the sign told me.

Joe lifted his hand and waved.

I waved back, and got in my car, smiling.

 

Thinking back on it, maybe I got my message after all.

 

 

 

 

 

 
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Posted by on March 23, 2011 in Joe

 

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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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Hey…I know that dude (Keith-part 3)

Out of all the people that I’ve met on the street, Keith is the only one that I have talked to more than once. In an earlier post about him, I said that I had prayed for him twice. Really, I’ve prayed for Keith three times. Strange, but it’s almost become a relationship. I have a feeling I’ll see him again.

Anyway, this post is about the second time that I stopped to pray for Keith. Actually, I wasn’t looking for him at all; I was chasing down some other guy so I could pray for him.

That day, as I pulled into the Sunflower Market on Zafarano, I noticed a young man sitting beside the entrance. He was playing a guitar and wearing a black fedora, a gray and white flannel shirt, black slacks and a black leather jacket. I think he may have been Native American. I passed him by and parked.

I’ll get him when I leave, I thought, I’m hungry.

My stomach was rumbling. I was there at the hippie-mart to get some lunch. Hunger won out over compassion. After I bought my Clif bar, banana and some trail mix, I sat in the car and ate. I had a good view of the guy from across the parking lot. While I listened to sports talk radio, I periodically glanced up at him through the dirty windshield making sure he didn’t leave.

To be honest, I felt awkward about this guy and this location. Sometimes it’s hard to know how receptive someone is going to be to a stranger’s prayer. The young ones give me the most anxiety. No one has ever refused prayer, mind you. This is in my head. But, on that day I was in the enemy’s camp. That’s probably not fair to say, but I was in the parking lot of the Sunflower Market and if you mention God or prayer to some of those people, you may as well be handling snakes, foaming at the mouth and speaking in tongues. Quite a few of the so-called “open-minded” liberals I’ve met are violently unreceptive to Christianity in any form and they are not shy about voicing their opinion. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not trying to bash the libs, but it’s true that many of them think that nuts like Pat Robertson are the norm for Christianity. The truth is, I think Pat Robertson is a nut, too.

A lot of other Christians feel the same way.

The flip side of is that “liberals” are often labeled as godless fools and that’s not fair. I’ve said the same thing, myself, on occasion. The truth is, while I lean to the right, my politics often trend back to the left. Many times I am embarrassed by what the Evangelical Right says. Sometimes it feels like someone has hijacked my faith and is speaking for me. I hate that. Back in southeast Texas, my wife and I were considered liberal/hippie Christians. In Santa Fe, when we happen to mention that we vote mostly Republican people think we’re hard-liners. It’s all perspective, I guess.

Sorry, I got slightly off track, but the point is that this irrational fear of liberal/hippie retaliation was in my head. So, truthfully, as I sat watching this young man from the safety of my car, I think I unconsciously ate a little slower.

I was stalling.

Then the guy began to pack up his things.

Before I could even put the car in gear, he was halfway to Cerrillos Road. The dude was fast.

The chase was on.

Guitar bouncing on his back he strode toward the intersection. There was a large median separating us, so I had to go through the light, hoping that I would be able to pull into the parking lot and cut him off.

No such luck.

He crossed the street and continued up Zafarano. The easiest thing for me to do was to make the block and come back up behind him.

Maybe he’ll set up shop at the next intersection, I thought, possibly at the four way stop, not at the traffic light. Okay, I’ll roll through and give him a chance to catch up.

By this time, I had lost visual contact, but I was confident that I would run across him again on my next trip up Zafarano. I turned right onto Rodeo, right onto Cerrillos and picked up where I had left off, at Zafarano and Cerrillos. This whole escapade was beginning to feel a little like Cops or Dog: The Bounty Hunter. Only, I wasn’t trying to arrest this guy, I trying to pray for him.

It was funny, but I didn’t see him again.

What the hell? I wondered, wasn’t this the guy I was supposed to talk to?

Was I a jerk for sitting in my car and eating and not praying for him first? I just assumed that I would catch up to him, so I wasn’t in a big hurry. Now, my day was beginning to go downhill. Like when you don’t exercise, and you’ve convinced yourself that you’ll do it later. The hours pass by and the sun sets, and, suddenly, it’s too late to run and the downward spiral begins.

When I realized that I wasn’t going to catch up to this guy, I began to feel that initial twinge of remorse. Now, I was on a mission. Something felt unfinished. Don’t get me wrong; talking to people on the street is not a daily occurrence. I don’t have any kind of weird quota system. Something just felt off. Incomplete. So I needed to keep looking. Not necessarily for this guy, who seemed to have disappeared, but for someone. Anyone.

So, much like at Christmas, when I had all those cookies to give out and no one to give them to, I went trolling. I was looking for someone to pray for.

Of course, I didn’t see anyone. I drove up and down Cerrillos road, and through intersections where I’ve talked to people before. Nothing. Passing through the traffic light in front of Wal-Mart, I finally saw a guy with a sign. This time I knew him, but I couldn’t remember his name. I had prayed for him before, right near my studio. As I was making tracks back to Wal-Mart, I was rapidly thumbing through my internal Rolodex, trying to figure out this man’s name. The only thing that I came up with was K. His name starts with a K.

Red and blue jacket, a hat, red hair, pale skin, a scraggly beard, and large white teeth, tall: he could have passed for a Viking. That’s him. When I crossed the parking lot and was within earshot, I asked, “Do you remember me?”

“Yeah, I’m bad with names, though.”

“I’m Chuck.”

“Keith.”

“Right, right…I knew your name started with a K. How are things coming with the surgery?” Keith has a slipped disc in his back, causing his gait to be painfully exaggerated. The long sweeping arcs of his legs make his hips look to be knocked out of joint every time he takes a step.

“Still trying to make enough money to have it done,” he said.

Keith had told me in our last conversation that it would cost $50,000 dollars to have the procedure.

That’ll never happen, I thought. It was the first thing that popped into my head. Why is doubt my initial response to most things? To quote Darth Vader: I find your lack of faith…disturbing.

“Where are you originally from, Keith?” I asked, trying to find out a little more about him.

“Hawaii. I lived there for a long time. I even had a pretty successful stone business…masonry. I built all kinds of stuff. Really technical things, like fountains, and water features. I’m really into detail, I mean, I could build you the best fountain, and it would be incredible,” he said.

“That’s cool, I do construction work, myself…handyman work, I used to work for a custom home builder, but I do my own thing, now.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yep, it’s not too bad…so what happened to the business?” I asked. Normally, I try to let people talk and not ask questions, I don’t want to be intrusive. But, I felt like I needed to probe a little with Keith.

He looked over at the traffic slowly pulling out of the parking lot and said, “Well, I got hurt, you know…my back. Then I couldn’t work anymore and the business tanked. It was just me, anyway. There weren’t any other employees. Then my wife left. I couldn’t do anything,” he said, still looking at the cars pulling out.

“Man…” I uttered quietly. What can you say?

“So I left Hawaii, it’s expensive there, and I got to the West and…” Then he trailed off and shrugged.

Keith had relayed all this to me with very little emotion. These are the facts, he seemed to be saying; now, you can decide what you want to do with them.

Keith didn’t say a whole lot after that, so I prayed for him. One thing was different this time, though. I asked him if there was anything that he wanted me to pray for. I was taking prayer requests. That was new. Normally, I pray my standard prayer, shake hands and get going. When I asked him, he said that he wanted me to pray for his surgery: that somehow God could make it a reality.

Okay…I didn’t even believe that this was going to happen. How could I pray for it? I did, but I don’t know how effective the prayer is of a man who only believes a little of what he’s saying. I always think of the passage in Mark about the man who begs Christ to help his son. The boy was possessed by a demon, the father told the Jesus, he’s been like this since childhood; if you can do anything for him…

“If?” Jesus asked the father. Then he added, “All things are possible to him that believes.”

Poignantly, the man replied, “Lord, I believe…help my unbelief.”

Help my unbelief.

I feel like that on a daily basis. My faith is so full of holes and flaccid sometimes. On occasion even nonexistent. God knows this about me. The amazing thing is that He’s willing to help me with something as fundamental as belief. Not even that has to be perfect.

Christ healed the young man that day. Not because his father’s faith was complete, but because that man had the guts to be real with God. Faith isn’t about perfection. We are human beings, after all. When we can’t stand and wholeheartedly give in to belief, then sometimes we need to trust God to fill in that gap. I’ve said it before, and I’ll keep saying it: sometimes you just need to show up. God will take care of the rest.

So I left Keith that day. Weeks later I would meet him again. He would still be walking with the same limp and wearing the same red and blue striped jacket.

Still on the street.

Pray for Keith.

He needs surgery.

He’s out there trying to be somewhere else.

Aren’t we all?

 
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Posted by on March 15, 2011 in Keith

 

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The Roadside Prophet (Cash-part 3)

We talked more that day under the darkening sky. Thankfully, we moved on to another topic besides the End. Cash was a very insightful man and he made me feel like I was on the right path. When he asked me how long I had been witnessing to people on the street, it surprised me, but I was grateful, too. It made me consider what I was doing. In a good way. It was difficult to stand in front of this man and listen to all the theories about the end of the world and not argue, but I did. That was humbling.

Before I left, he asked me what church I belonged to.

“Well, I sometimes go down the road here, but not very consistently. I have to be honest; I have a real problem with church, in general. Not that church, necessarily, it’s a good church. There’s more to it, I guess, for years it’s been this way… I’ve been burned before,” I felt like I needed to explain why I didn’t go to church consistently. I wanted to say more, but I had to stop. I don’t even completely understand it, so how could I explain in a few words why I stopped going completely for so many years. A lot of people would say that it was simply because I was running from God.

Of course that’s true, but I was also running from His people. So much of what goes on in church is un-relatable to me. There’s a glossy, pretty haze to it that’s far removed from most people’s day-to-day reality. I get the impression that the church is more concerned with how people act than about their souls. Christ is not the president of some exclusive country club where everyone needs to mind their P’s and Q’s. He did not come to heal those who are well. He came to heal the sick. Who is the church trying to protect anyway? God? Are we trying to convince Him that we don’t have any real problems? Are we trying to protect His sensitive ears?

No.

The church is protecting itself. God has heard it already. He knows us. He’s God, remember? We don’t need to pretend that everything is just okay. Why should we?

Anyway, that’s the tip of the iceberg, and again I got sidetracked. Cash stirred up a lot of stuff and I know I’ve talked more about my deep-seated issues than about Cash. Well, so be it.

Let’s move on.

I know Cash is a good man. I should have let him pray for me. That’s the one regret that I have from our time together. I think that may have really been what God wanted from that encounter, but it didn’t happen. Which doesn’t mean I came away empty-handed. It just means that there could have been more. Like I said in the first post about Cash, we have to be ready for anything.

It was getting cold. I had to be somewhere, and I needed to make my exit. I shook Cash’s hand and told him good luck. Not sure why I said it, because I don’t think there is such a thing as luck. Then I think I covered it and quickly added a God Bless You.

As I was driving back out to Rodeo Road, I had to pass Cash again. A few cars were between us. It was Christmas time at the mall, so I had to wait for a few minutes to pull out. From my car, I watched him reach into his jacket and raise one of those chocolate chip cookies to his mouth. He took a bite and slowly slipped it back into his pocket. The line began to move and I waved as I passed. He watched me go by, and his lips were moving as his head followed me. Cash didn’t return the wave.

He was concentrating, and I believe he might have been praying.

Praying for me.

……

So pray for this roadside prophet. He’s out there somewhere challenging someone else, I’m sure, getting them to think differently about their lives. That’s noble work, and if it doesn’t deserve prayer of support, I don’t know what does.

So pray for this modern day Jeremiah.

His name is Cash.

 
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Posted by on March 8, 2011 in Cash

 

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Gallery

America Goes Down the Drain (Cash-part 2)

“We’re living in the last days,” Cash said.

Uh-oh.

“America is the Whore of Babylon and she’s headed for destruction. This great nation is in the toilet, and has been for a long time,” he continued. “The only way that America can save herself is to repent of her evil ways and get on her knees before God! This was once a great country, blessed by God, Ordained by God! But it has fallen away,” Cash looked like Jeremiah out there on Rodeo road: a prophet of Doom calling the people to repentance.

The clouds began to darken as he declared the coming Day of Destruction.

“I try to share the Gospel with as many people as I can,” he said. Cars passed by, I wondered if anyone heard him talking. Part of me was a little embarrassed. I know that’s kind of a jerky thing to say, but it’s true. I’ve heard this kind of stuff for a long time. Everyone has. Whether it’s someone on the far Left or the far Right, both sides have their end of the world scenarios. The end is ushered in through the carelessness of the other. The Left blames the Right’s greed and rampant pollution, and the Right blames the Left’s moral bankruptcy. What Cash was talking about was biblical prophecy, though, and that’s a whole other matter.

Growing up in church (mostly Baptist, but also Non-denominational, Methodist and a smattering of Assembly of God with a dash of Nazarene) I heard a good deal about the End Times. It always came in waves, and would be a hot topic for a while and then most people would just forget about it.

Of course, every church has someone who reads extensively about the Last Days. Book after book outlining the rapture, the identity of the Whore of Babylon, the final battle of Armageddon, and Christ’s triumphant return as the conquering king. After college, I worked in a refinery in southeast Texas. For several months, I worked with a guy who was at least fifteen years older than me. We were part of a small paint crew. At one point there were five of us in total, and our job was to paint the pipes and valves that were above and below the spheres. If you’ve driven past enough refineries, you’ll recognize these tanks. They sit on large concrete spheres and hover above the ground. As the paint crew, we fanaticized about one day painting the spheres like pool balls. Stripes and solids. But, what we did was strictly utilitarian. Our job had nothing to do with cosmetics. We were trying to prevent rust. It was a never-ending battle, but necessary. You certainly didn’t want any of those pipes to rust through, and the more layers of protection, the better.

Anyway, I worked with this guy, Ernie. Half the time, we were at each other’s throats. The smallest thing that the other did was usually the beginning of an argument. We worked together, just me and him, while the other guys would tackle different projects. It was like a bad relationship that neither party could get out of. One of the main things we argued about was religion. Not just religion, or God, though. Prophecy. We fought bitterly about prophecy.

It seemed like every other day Ernie would come in and present some new piece of evidence to me, proving that the world would end in the next few years. I’m sure he had just read somewhere and he could see the pattern that only a privileged few could see. One of the most consistent topics was Ernie’s paranoid vision of a corrupt police state. He was always talking about the Government and the surveillance of its citizens.

“They’re watching you. They know what your doing every minute of the day. They know what everyone’s doing. You can’t hide,” Ernie would say as he leaned over to me confidentially as we ate lunch in the shack.

“Seriously? Are there that many people working for the government?” I replied.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that it would take as many employees as there are citizens to watch you. Who’s gonna process all that information?” My voice rose a little.

“They can do it, Chuck, I’m telling you. You better be careful. They can track your movements. Just like they do with your credit card. My wife and I use cash as much as possible,” he said. Ernie was now talking to me like I was a petulant child who refused to believe that the sky was blue.

“My point is, who cares? Why would they bug you, why assign someone to watch you. Or anyone?! I mean, most people have boring lives! They go to their jobs and do whatever, and nobody cares! Why would the government spend all that time and money following regular people? The government is just a big, unwieldy bureaucracy. I know they watch people, but they watch people whose lives matter or are some kind of perceived threat. Most of our lives don’t matter, so why bother watching us?!” Now I was pissed off.

“He who doesn’t stand for anything, will fall for everything,” he responded. This little chestnut was his big closer. It’s not biblical; it’s the title of a country song. By this point, Ernie was talking at me and not to me anymore. I was a petulant, unbelieving child who needed discipline, and he was the disappointed parent. Years later in Santa Fe, I would have the same type of conversations with my friends on the far left. The Government was a police state. America was watching you, and recorded your every move, Bush is the Anti-Christ, etc., etc., etc.

You just refuse to see, man. You refuse to see the truth, they would tell me.

Now, I was having another conversation like this on Rodeo road with a guy I just met, and it was bothering me. Every generation has thought this, by the way, and none of them have been right. I just finished reading a book about Martin Luther, and he was convinced that he was living in the last days, absolutely certain. No one is immune I suppose. Not even Cash.

Cash seemed sincere. I mean, he spoke like he had actually considered these things and wasn’t merely echoing someone else’s thoughts. I don’t know, hearing this stuff still made me uncomfortable and I wished we could move on to another topic, but I needed to listen. I couldn’t judge this man. That was a tough one, especially since what he was saying annoyed the hell out of me.

But, I was supposed to be there listening to Cash and all of his crazy talk about the coming Apocalypse. I know that. I was supposed to have my boundaries tested. It wasn’t the first time, and it won’t be the last.

The people I meet are flesh and blood. They have stories to tell. No one said I had to like, or even sympathize, with what they’re saying.

I just have to listen.

 
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Posted by on March 5, 2011 in Cash

 

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