unexpected places

Much has happened in the last few months.

So many stories have become endangered of falling away, if not captured soon. Last night, after the show, I was thinking about my lack of focused prayer, but this morning, I’ve realized there have been so many answers.

My car beloved Jetta broke down. My sister gave me her car for Christmas. My friend Bobby Cheeks had given us an extra Mac that we couldn’t use at the office, so I wrapped it in a box and gave it to Ali for Christmas.

She had been praying for a Mac that week.

Another time, as I was leaving work, Doug, a neighbor from upstairs asked me where I was playing that night. We talked music for awhile (I was carrying my guitar; he’s a drummer), then he got up real close and stared into my eyes, slurring his speech, "You must have the Spirit of Christ."

"That's right," I said. He does too. He shared a bit of his testimony about his struggle with alcoholism and the hope he’s found in Christ. Then he gave me his white teddy bear, saying, "I don't know what to do, man. We need to hang out or something. That's all I have."

He asked me what I was doing that night, and I told him I was meeting up with my girlfriend. “Oh, you lucky dog,” Doug says, smirking.

“I know it,” I reply.

Later the next week I stopped to talk to him on the sidewalk outside the ministry. He introduced himself again. "Hi, I’m Doug. Have we met?" he said. "Yeah, we talked last weekend," I replied. "Was I hammered?" he asked.

"You had a few drinks in you," I reply.

But yet, the Spirit of Christ rests on him, regardless of the alcohol on his breath.

Another day, a man named Clay came into our office. Big and tall, in his 60’s with a graying beard and dark black skin and piercing eyes, he immediately informs me to not judge him by his appearance.

We talk about what we do, and he starts telling me about his passion.

“I’m a handyman by trade, but I love poetry. Christian poetry.”

I nod my head.

“Mind if I share some?” he asks politely.

I comply, and he looks directly in my eyes, explaining the piece is “taken from the book of Genesis.” His rich, deep voice speaks poetry for seven minutes with little pauses or mistakes. He rhymes clearly and simply about the Garden state, the fall, Eve taken from Adam’s ribs, obeying God’s commands and reconciliation through Christ.

After it’s over, I give him my card. He calls back the next day and we schedule a meeting.

On Monday he came in and he met the guys, calling them by name, “Nice to meet you, Mr. Matt and Mr. Derek,” and again, shares the seven minute poem with the guys. Then he starts telling his testimony of his adolescence somewhere in or near Chicago.

“When I was sixteen, five boys were selected go away who could read and write, but I couldn’t. You know, I cried about that. But then I was in my room, someone came in, and said there was a terrible car accident. Those five boys were killed just after they left, and I would’ve been the sixth if I could read and write,” he says.

“God saved my life. He’s just given me this poetry,” he says. “I know it’s from God.”

We record Clay’s poem in our studio on-camera, telling him we just need a record of it. “I know you aren’t trying to take advantage of me,” he says. “I can see it in your eyes.”

And perhaps, despite my lack of perseverance in prayer, I am privileged that Christ meets us in different places.