Co-leading
this trip, I wasn’t looking for Jesus. I was hopeful, but a little burned out.
Much like the men on the road to Emmaus, I was felt a little run down. Life in
the office, while wonderful, can really get you expecting to be in a rut. You
can imagine my surprise when I found Him moving piles of used clothes in a
thrift shop for the homeless. He was taller, had once lived on the streets,
laughed with a booming voice, and encouraged me that my calling was being
fulfilled.
I
saw Him the next day watching me through the eyes of a child, wearing really
worn clothing and a huge smile, playing with us in yards of run down
apartments. He told us that He loved us, and that He couldn’t wait for me to
return the next day. While I understand what they meant, I still can’t quite
comprehend the weight of those words.
I
enjoyed listening to him speak through the mouths of youth telling about their
day. As I watched their eyes light up with excitement, old truths that “blessed
are the poor in spirit” reignited in my soul. I sad, in the flesh, childlike
wonder. I imagine the vigor in the eyes of a youth is much like the excitement
God feels when we see a new thing about Him we had not seen before.
And
as I saw Him, I found myself identifying with the brokenness of this world.
This culminated when I worked with “Our Calling”, a counseling center to bring
the homeless from the streets, to the healing love of Jesus, and back again. We
were allowed to ride in the city and go to well known hotspots where homeless
have reported to be camping out. After running into many abandon sleeping bags
and run down trash bag tents, I met a man by the name of Cowboy.
Cowboy
was a lanky man, dressed in dirty Levis and a shirt bigger than his already
muscular body. His voice was strong, but seem to quaver with a hint of
loneliness. I handed him a bag of food and shook his hand cordially. But, as he
held my hand, his gaze didn’t leave my eyes. I couldn’t stop looking at the
pain leaving his eyes as we talked about his family, my family, his past, my
past, and the overlap that connects us all. He talked very measured, as if he
were trying to keep his composure. However, before I left, I asked to pray with
him. He took his greasy forehead and placed it on my chest, took my hand in
his, and began to weep, “Dear JesusJesusJesus…”
To
be honest, I didn’t know what to pray for. He seemed to pour all of his pain
from life into my chest and onto Jesus’ hands. So I prayed for peace. I prayed
for healing that only God could give. I prayed for love to God’s love to flood
the broken places of our hearts. When we said “Amen”, it seemed as if a weight
had been lifted off and the smile of a Savior beamed back at me.
Jesus
is alive in Dallas.
