There are always students connected to a campus ministry that are connected to the ministry in a marginal way. Some students come only to free lunch. Some come to free lunch and Thursday worship. Some come to both and are involved in small groups. Some do all of these things and also serve and reach out to their friends.
Some come to lunch once every now and then-and that is their level of connectivity to BSM. They have reasons: Some really do have very hectic schedules, taking a full load and holding down a job to make it through school. Some really are serious students who are spinning a lot of plates trying to stay in school. Some are spiritually curious, but not ready to commit to anything. Some intend to, but get distracted...others are torn between two worlds. If you are in ministry-you know what I mean. Everyone's story is unique. Every person is important.
How we respond to the "fringe" people (I hate that term-it devalues the individua...but for lack of a better term...) is so important. Sometimes we send a message (in our best Leonidas, Spartan King Voice): "Commit or go home! Invest! Buck Up! Be Strong! Youre either In or Out! This...is...BSM!" (or fill in the blank of your ministry). Or, we play the passive aggressive game-withholding love and concern until the person "puts us...errr, "God," first. We give the cold shoulder. Or, we take the cavalier approach: We're growing, out of sight, out of mind.
But with each of these people, there are hurts and pains and real issues. These lives matter.
One of the more interesting things God has done in my life the past year and a half has been to reshape my thoughts on ministry. Twenty two years as a youth minister, church planter and pastor-I had twenty two years worth of perspective from one side of the pulpit. Now that I am on the other side, I've learned there are things I would do differently, things I am doing differently now when it comes to ministry.
One thing: Never give up. Reach out. Continue to reach out. Pursue. God is the One who pursues, who loves. We should be the same. One thing I've tried to do (and still have a way to go), is to send emails make phone calls to kids I don't see often. Just reminders that I am aware of them and that they matter. Some kids-well, there may be twenty or so that I've been dropping lines to for over a year. Every now and then I am surprised by a "thank you," or a call, or an email asking a question. I'm glad God doesn't give up on us. I don't think we should be giving up on others. We must pursue in love.
Sometimes we do a bad job of that. We talk a lot about grace, but we who have received so much of it are often, tragically, the ones least likely to show it. We have our reasons: Accountability, commitment, and many other terms-but a lot of times it's a failure to love that allows people to slip through cracks. We don't pursue-we don't try to meet people at their point of need. We're pretty good at "Peace, be well," and then going about our business while others struggle.
What does this have to do with BSM? With a young man named Tap? A lot.
Tap is one of those sporadic lunch attendees. He's a great kid. Sometimes he seems as if his soul is heavy or old. Tender hearted kid. He's lost two friends in the past year. One, a friend in Washington D.C., walking home at the wrong time. Drive by shooting intended to take out a rival gang member...his friend was just walking home. This year, another friend, hit by a drunk driver. Dead.
Tap carries these things around with him. He's also torn between two worlds. He knows Christ, just struggling right now. He gets my "how are you doing, missed you today" emails. He replies sometimes. When he sees me on campus, he gives me a hug. Good kid. But there's always the sense that while he might want to connect with God and with BSM on a deeper and more meaningful level, something is holding him back. He has told me before, "I feel guilty when I miss lunch...hard to come back the next week...feel like I let you down..." For Tap, I think this mindset is a part of the problem. Somewhere along the way in life, he must have been told by someone that Christians love on some kind of conditional basis or something. I have to reaffirm to him that he's always loved. Anything I can do for him-I will do. I think he wants to believe it. Maybe he's been burned before. I don't know.
I do know he called today. He has things going on in life and wants to talk. It would be easy to say, "Tap...My vacation time starts Monday. It's Saturday. Tomorrow is Sunday-family time...let's do this Jan 12 or so when school resumes." But I can't do that. God doesn't operate off my calendar.
Pray for Tap. Pray for me, please. We are supposed to meet either Sunday afternoon or Monday afternoon. The tone in his voice tells me it's serious and important to him-and thankfully, he's going to be O.K. between now and then-whatever he's dealing with.
The point? Love. Love fiercely. Pursue. Don't give up. When your "Tap" knocks on your door-be there. These are the moments we look back on as a "God Thing." Don't miss the blessing.
Saturday, December 20, 2008
Great Semester Ends
We had a fantastic first semester at UTSA. God blessed BSM in so many ways: He brought many new students into our lives. We saw tremendous spiritual and numeric growth. We saw a great change in culture. We see our students being very intentional in terms of being a missional people, and the reason for that, we saw a great growth in their love for God and their neighbor.
We are blessed. Please pray for us as we prepare for a new semester. God has given us a foundation to truly make a significant impact on that campus, that mission field of 29,000 students. Pray that we will continue to grow in the grace and knowledge of our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ and follow Him wherever He leads.
We are eager for the new semester, eager to serve and minister to the campus, to share Christ, to minister in the city, to our churches and to our world.
God has opened many doors-doors to minister to internationals, doors to reach more students than I could have ever imagined last year. Our students are ready.
We anticipate at least 10 small discipleship groups next semester-lead by our student leaders.
We anticipate impacting the campus and being available to assist local churches in any way we can.
We are excited!
Thank you for your prayers. We need them and appreciate them!
We are blessed. Please pray for us as we prepare for a new semester. God has given us a foundation to truly make a significant impact on that campus, that mission field of 29,000 students. Pray that we will continue to grow in the grace and knowledge of our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ and follow Him wherever He leads.
We are eager for the new semester, eager to serve and minister to the campus, to share Christ, to minister in the city, to our churches and to our world.
God has opened many doors-doors to minister to internationals, doors to reach more students than I could have ever imagined last year. Our students are ready.
We anticipate at least 10 small discipleship groups next semester-lead by our student leaders.
We anticipate impacting the campus and being available to assist local churches in any way we can.
We are excited!
Thank you for your prayers. We need them and appreciate them!
Christmas Disconnect: Alcohol Gospel Prophet
If this reads like it’s disjointed-that is intentional. I am trying to capture a disjointed experience with words and images and thoughts.
Foggy, misty night when everything feels like it’s coated with sadness. We’re laughing though because in this moment in time all is good. The company is enjoyable. There are families and the illusion of security. These are the times we disappear into and the world around us melts away. There is only the present and it is filled with laughter.
Twenty foot tall Christmas tree, filled with lights and ornaments trying to shine brightly in the murky, soupy darkness, but it’s just a dim beacon offering false hope to the hopeless that wander the streets. The night is filled with so many shadows. Christmas trees don’t save.They give a lot of people warm feelings, and taunt the rest. Consumer god. Idol to materialism. Promising instant, temporary happiness. Forgotten within two weeks, resurrected from storage in ten months to once again call us to worship.
Christmas tree worship is broken by the appearance of broken man.
Desperate homeless man on his knees telling us he’s going to die. Cancer covering his brain, exhaling whiskey as he tells us God is Real, that he is sent to tell us...God…Is…Real. Tears flow down his cheeks. On his feet then back on his knees, head bowed down like a peasant before kings… Speaking Alcohol Gospel.
Prophetic figure or con man? I see his condition and know that even if he’s not telling the absolute truth his interruption of our insulated Christmas gathering reminds us of both our excess and finiteness. He says we’re all going to die. He says we need to KNOW that God is real. We Need to know…Need to know that God is the Judge. Disconnected thoughts and words flow in between crystallized statements of truth. And this inconvenient reminder stops the laughter and for a moment…the young face the old, the healthy the broken. The comfortable and satisfied collide with the desperate and resigned.
The cross and empty grave. Hard to get in any words. He’s out of his mind. Repeating the same things over and over. Talking but not listening. Silent group, the fog and mist chew up almost every word spoken but his. Ours dissipate into the night. He’s not listening. Quietly prayers are offered up for him, for us in the shadows.
“Papa, don’t say a word, I’ve done what I’m supposed to do” he says over and over. He asks us to pray for him. His mind moving so fast he jumps from one topic to another like a small spider flicking about. Tides of longing crash over him, years of bad choices and disappointment, of being forgotten, of living on the margins…he’s had enough. Back on his knees again, crying ‘God is Real.’ This is his arsenal. His armor. We pray for him and he stands up again to tell us his message.
“Papa, all I need is money for my family.” We ask where his family is. He has no family. Ten minutes later he has family. They’re ‘over there.’ No one is over there.
He needs to go to Austin. Needs bus money. We only have a fraction of what he asks. “Don’t give me nothing Papa…no…not that way. I don’t need nothing. I’m going to die. I know that. “
A catalogue of unrelated images and words. Trying to understand it all. Racing thoughts, racing thoughts, he’s moving so fast I can’t hold his image. “I’m going to the Santa Christa Hospital for surgery soon. I won’t live for long. Maybe 6 months. Need money for my family.” The family only he can see.
Ghosts of family perhaps long gone? Of family he wishes he had? We don't know. He needs money though. Money for more whiskey? No one knows. He doesn’t know. Questions are asked. Cross and Hope offered, but he’s not listening. Discomfort level rising.
He continues: God is Real. That’s why he came-because God told him to tell this young group He is Real. That’s what he said.
Inhibition is distant. "I’m black. 56 years old. I don’t come to white people to ask for help..I come with a message. Did what I was supposed to do.” But he asks for help and I know that there is no way outside a miracle that we can truly connect and find out what is going on with him, truly know. His world is in his head and we don’t know the terrain. We can't find the door. Only One does. Only One can. We ask Him for help.
Something is given. “Don’t spend it on alcohol, please. Let’s get some food instead. “Papa, no…not like that…I’ve done what I’m supposed to do, said what I’m supposed to say. Just let me go now. Just let me go now." Disconnect. Like a snake eating its own tail. Help but don’t. Yes but no. He disappears into the fog and mist and God knows where he is now.
Gated communities. The satisfied ones. The world belongs to them. The rich, the happy, safely insulated from this man on the street. Perfect hairstyles, new clothes, new phones….loaded cars and shiny silver from mom and dad. Good kids. Very Good Kids. But something inside some screams: “Hurry back to that fun place. Let's run away from this...into the streets where the businesses are still open and let's just get lost in it all, away from these petty concerns that don't belong to us."
I realize I’m no different. I can be all of those hateful little things and I’m mad at myself for realizing that. I can want that safety and security-that escapism. I can embrace it because it's so easy to do. Feels so safe. But there is no safe approach to living. We each know we have that appointment with God. We just don’t want to think about it at Christmas. Ironic.
He came to die. Baby Jesus is loved. He makes us feel good. Bloodied, beaten, crucified Christ makes us squirm. False distinctions, as if there were two Jesus’. The shadow of the cross hangs over the manger but no one’s looking. The Christmas tree blocks the view. People shouting "Don't move the tree!"
This man makes us squirm because we hear and see some measure of Truth this night. Beginnings and endings. Life and death. God is Real. The clock is ticking. You were invincible but now you are more aware of your frailty. Now you are the old one. You’re going to get older. There’s no preventative directive or safe approach to living. He never promised us safety and calls us away from self-preservation. We each know we have a fate, an end. Don’t remind us now. Not with our full bellies and our Christmas wish lists. Don’t talk about these things.
But these things, these realities don’t change. You can change your hairstyle, your friends, change your clothes, change your cities your continents but sooner or later your own self and Ultimate Reality will always catch up. Sooner or later you have to face endings, if not yours, someone you love. Always present. Always waits in the wings. We just choose to ignore it until it’s thrust upon us.
And maybe sooner or later you meet the Alcohol Gospel Prophet, and he somehow forces you to remember The True Prophet, Priest and King who has absolute rights over every one of us. Sooner or later we face our Maker. Sooner or later we hear “Take up your cross and follow Me.” He doesn’t tell us where. He promises much—both life and meaning as well as trials and suffering. He just says follow, which is an invitation to come and die.
But it’s Christmas. Don’t talk about that. Tough economy—that’s the issue. Stuff We Have to Have—that’s the thing that haunts us, not the Mad Man sleeping on the street, his dignity long gone, giving up on life—no, not him. Give us Christmas ornaments, Bing Crosby, Chocolate and Gift Cards.
You see, there’s not much in the bank account. Lean Christmas. Tree with two boxes under it. Oh how we suffer under our roofs, with our full cupboards and central air and heat, with our clothes from Last Year. We’d like to tell the Whiskey Prophet about our ‘suffering''-he's not the only one suffering...but we’re not leaving this nice, safe place to track him down, to tell him about our “Lean Christmas.” Maybe we could put on our coats and get in our car and turn on the radio and heater and look for him downtown, find him, so we could say, “you are in my prayers, peace, be filled.” Yeah, let’s do that.
Times are changing. New realities. Economic Uncertainties. Shifting Focus. Coming to terms with Unknowable Tomorrow. “ Open up all the boxes, hurry kids, open ALL the boxes!” No….that’s not Christmas. We know this. Don't surpress it. Don't drown it out with Stuff.
Can’t get Alcohol Gospel Prophet out of my head and I’m glad he drifted into my life in that exact moment.
Christmas. Worship. God’s Gift to us. Don’t let Him get lost in all the anxieties and concerns, buried under all the wish lists and Christmas wrappings. And remember The Least of These. Including the Alcohol Gospel Prophet. He came to set him free as well.
Foggy, misty night when everything feels like it’s coated with sadness. We’re laughing though because in this moment in time all is good. The company is enjoyable. There are families and the illusion of security. These are the times we disappear into and the world around us melts away. There is only the present and it is filled with laughter.
Twenty foot tall Christmas tree, filled with lights and ornaments trying to shine brightly in the murky, soupy darkness, but it’s just a dim beacon offering false hope to the hopeless that wander the streets. The night is filled with so many shadows. Christmas trees don’t save.They give a lot of people warm feelings, and taunt the rest. Consumer god. Idol to materialism. Promising instant, temporary happiness. Forgotten within two weeks, resurrected from storage in ten months to once again call us to worship.
Christmas tree worship is broken by the appearance of broken man.
Desperate homeless man on his knees telling us he’s going to die. Cancer covering his brain, exhaling whiskey as he tells us God is Real, that he is sent to tell us...God…Is…Real. Tears flow down his cheeks. On his feet then back on his knees, head bowed down like a peasant before kings… Speaking Alcohol Gospel.
Prophetic figure or con man? I see his condition and know that even if he’s not telling the absolute truth his interruption of our insulated Christmas gathering reminds us of both our excess and finiteness. He says we’re all going to die. He says we need to KNOW that God is real. We Need to know…Need to know that God is the Judge. Disconnected thoughts and words flow in between crystallized statements of truth. And this inconvenient reminder stops the laughter and for a moment…the young face the old, the healthy the broken. The comfortable and satisfied collide with the desperate and resigned.
The cross and empty grave. Hard to get in any words. He’s out of his mind. Repeating the same things over and over. Talking but not listening. Silent group, the fog and mist chew up almost every word spoken but his. Ours dissipate into the night. He’s not listening. Quietly prayers are offered up for him, for us in the shadows.
“Papa, don’t say a word, I’ve done what I’m supposed to do” he says over and over. He asks us to pray for him. His mind moving so fast he jumps from one topic to another like a small spider flicking about. Tides of longing crash over him, years of bad choices and disappointment, of being forgotten, of living on the margins…he’s had enough. Back on his knees again, crying ‘God is Real.’ This is his arsenal. His armor. We pray for him and he stands up again to tell us his message.
“Papa, all I need is money for my family.” We ask where his family is. He has no family. Ten minutes later he has family. They’re ‘over there.’ No one is over there.
He needs to go to Austin. Needs bus money. We only have a fraction of what he asks. “Don’t give me nothing Papa…no…not that way. I don’t need nothing. I’m going to die. I know that. “
A catalogue of unrelated images and words. Trying to understand it all. Racing thoughts, racing thoughts, he’s moving so fast I can’t hold his image. “I’m going to the Santa Christa Hospital for surgery soon. I won’t live for long. Maybe 6 months. Need money for my family.” The family only he can see.
Ghosts of family perhaps long gone? Of family he wishes he had? We don't know. He needs money though. Money for more whiskey? No one knows. He doesn’t know. Questions are asked. Cross and Hope offered, but he’s not listening. Discomfort level rising.
He continues: God is Real. That’s why he came-because God told him to tell this young group He is Real. That’s what he said.
Inhibition is distant. "I’m black. 56 years old. I don’t come to white people to ask for help..I come with a message. Did what I was supposed to do.” But he asks for help and I know that there is no way outside a miracle that we can truly connect and find out what is going on with him, truly know. His world is in his head and we don’t know the terrain. We can't find the door. Only One does. Only One can. We ask Him for help.
Something is given. “Don’t spend it on alcohol, please. Let’s get some food instead. “Papa, no…not like that…I’ve done what I’m supposed to do, said what I’m supposed to say. Just let me go now. Just let me go now." Disconnect. Like a snake eating its own tail. Help but don’t. Yes but no. He disappears into the fog and mist and God knows where he is now.
Gated communities. The satisfied ones. The world belongs to them. The rich, the happy, safely insulated from this man on the street. Perfect hairstyles, new clothes, new phones….loaded cars and shiny silver from mom and dad. Good kids. Very Good Kids. But something inside some screams: “Hurry back to that fun place. Let's run away from this...into the streets where the businesses are still open and let's just get lost in it all, away from these petty concerns that don't belong to us."
I realize I’m no different. I can be all of those hateful little things and I’m mad at myself for realizing that. I can want that safety and security-that escapism. I can embrace it because it's so easy to do. Feels so safe. But there is no safe approach to living. We each know we have that appointment with God. We just don’t want to think about it at Christmas. Ironic.
He came to die. Baby Jesus is loved. He makes us feel good. Bloodied, beaten, crucified Christ makes us squirm. False distinctions, as if there were two Jesus’. The shadow of the cross hangs over the manger but no one’s looking. The Christmas tree blocks the view. People shouting "Don't move the tree!"
This man makes us squirm because we hear and see some measure of Truth this night. Beginnings and endings. Life and death. God is Real. The clock is ticking. You were invincible but now you are more aware of your frailty. Now you are the old one. You’re going to get older. There’s no preventative directive or safe approach to living. He never promised us safety and calls us away from self-preservation. We each know we have a fate, an end. Don’t remind us now. Not with our full bellies and our Christmas wish lists. Don’t talk about these things.
But these things, these realities don’t change. You can change your hairstyle, your friends, change your clothes, change your cities your continents but sooner or later your own self and Ultimate Reality will always catch up. Sooner or later you have to face endings, if not yours, someone you love. Always present. Always waits in the wings. We just choose to ignore it until it’s thrust upon us.
And maybe sooner or later you meet the Alcohol Gospel Prophet, and he somehow forces you to remember The True Prophet, Priest and King who has absolute rights over every one of us. Sooner or later we face our Maker. Sooner or later we hear “Take up your cross and follow Me.” He doesn’t tell us where. He promises much—both life and meaning as well as trials and suffering. He just says follow, which is an invitation to come and die.
But it’s Christmas. Don’t talk about that. Tough economy—that’s the issue. Stuff We Have to Have—that’s the thing that haunts us, not the Mad Man sleeping on the street, his dignity long gone, giving up on life—no, not him. Give us Christmas ornaments, Bing Crosby, Chocolate and Gift Cards.
You see, there’s not much in the bank account. Lean Christmas. Tree with two boxes under it. Oh how we suffer under our roofs, with our full cupboards and central air and heat, with our clothes from Last Year. We’d like to tell the Whiskey Prophet about our ‘suffering''-he's not the only one suffering...but we’re not leaving this nice, safe place to track him down, to tell him about our “Lean Christmas.” Maybe we could put on our coats and get in our car and turn on the radio and heater and look for him downtown, find him, so we could say, “you are in my prayers, peace, be filled.” Yeah, let’s do that.
Times are changing. New realities. Economic Uncertainties. Shifting Focus. Coming to terms with Unknowable Tomorrow. “ Open up all the boxes, hurry kids, open ALL the boxes!” No….that’s not Christmas. We know this. Don't surpress it. Don't drown it out with Stuff.
Can’t get Alcohol Gospel Prophet out of my head and I’m glad he drifted into my life in that exact moment.
Christmas. Worship. God’s Gift to us. Don’t let Him get lost in all the anxieties and concerns, buried under all the wish lists and Christmas wrappings. And remember The Least of These. Including the Alcohol Gospel Prophet. He came to set him free as well.
Something About Me and Service Stations
There is nothing more enjoyable for me than making a late grocery run to WalMart on a Saturday night. I am of course being sarcastic. One night after hanging out with "Sweet Lou" at the Shell Station, I had to run to WalMart at 10:00 for yogurt, cereal, spaghettie, sauce, hamburger meat...(no, this is not for some strange casserole)-you know, the" Things We Need and Ran Out of" run.
And, since WalMart (or Murphy USA) was selling gas at $1.53 a gallon, in my incredible wisdom I thought I should take advantage of that offer, especially since the needle was pushing "E." So, one more stop.
There was no line of Very Important People. I went right up to the woman in the glass booth, told her how much gas I wanted, and started writing my check when I hear this voice behind me talking.
"How's it going?"
I don't know this voice.
"Cold, just want to fill it up and get home."
I'm thinking it's blue tooth guy. I can see a tall person behind me, talking I think to himself.
The Lady in the Glass Box is asking me for I.D. Wants to know what pump I'm on. I'm asking her for a pen. I'm writing out my check.
"Man, I thought this was America..." the voice said. Blue Tooth Guy continues.
"I thought the 1960's was over..." he says. He's not angry. He has a rather mellow voice.
I turn around because I'm starting to have this weird feeling that maybe it's not Blue Tooth Guy-maybe it's just Talk to People You Don't Know Guy.
I smiled. Tall guy. Around my age. Dreads and a pony tail. No Blue Tooth.
Awkward. I feel Awkward.
"I'm sorry," I smiled, 'Were you talking to me?"
"Yeah," he smiled. "I'm talking to you, and I'm thinking,'man, the 60's are over. I thought Americans got along now..."
I'm feeling really awkward now. The Lady in the Box wants me to give her back her pen and of course the check that is still in my checkbook.
"I apologize, my man," I said. "I could only hear you and assumed you had a Blue Tooth on and were talking to someone on the phone..."
"No, I was talking to you," he said. He smiled. "Just being friendly. I say be friendly to folks. "
I turned and shook his hand. Part of me is wondering (if you see previous note) what it is about me and gas stations and People I Don't Know. Part of me is also wondering what God is trying to teach me. It's been two nights in a row now.
I give the Lady in the Box my check, she is writing down my D.L.. # on the check.
"Yeah," he said, "I'm thinking it's 1960's all over again. Two people can't talk because of the color of my skin...that's what I thought. And I thought, man...that's a shame...I guess I should have said 'scuze me man, or introduced myself or something....but ain't nobody here but you and me so I figured you were just ignoring me..."
Awkward again.
I remind him of the whole Blue Tooth thing. He said, "Oh, yeah, people walking around looking like they are talking to themselves...that phone thing...you thought I had one of those things?"
"Yes," I assured him.
"Naw, man...don't need to always be on the phone. Why do people always have to be on the phone? Everybody always talking to someone and never talking to people around them. Don't get that."
I could appreciate his philosophy.
"People talk, but they don't talk. I'm just talkin to you. Nice to meet you."
We never exchanged names. Just shook hands. He smiled. I smiled.
I admit, some part of me thought, "O.K., there is a 'catch' here. Maybe he's going to ask me for some money or maybe he needs a ride somewhere..."
No. Nothing like that. Just a "Nice to meet you, man" and him walking three lanes over to fill up his old SUV while I filled up my car.
He finished first. Started his car, began to drive off, slowed down and waved goodbye.
I waved back.
Nothing monumental about the story. Maybe that's the significance of the story. Be friendly.
Novel idea.
I'm learning a lot about life from my trips to stores at night. In the middle of all the busyness there are a million stories out there, and a lot of people just looking for an affirmation of their humanity and that they matter. That we matter.
And, since WalMart (or Murphy USA) was selling gas at $1.53 a gallon, in my incredible wisdom I thought I should take advantage of that offer, especially since the needle was pushing "E." So, one more stop.
There was no line of Very Important People. I went right up to the woman in the glass booth, told her how much gas I wanted, and started writing my check when I hear this voice behind me talking.
"How's it going?"
I don't know this voice.
"Cold, just want to fill it up and get home."
I'm thinking it's blue tooth guy. I can see a tall person behind me, talking I think to himself.
The Lady in the Glass Box is asking me for I.D. Wants to know what pump I'm on. I'm asking her for a pen. I'm writing out my check.
"Man, I thought this was America..." the voice said. Blue Tooth Guy continues.
"I thought the 1960's was over..." he says. He's not angry. He has a rather mellow voice.
I turn around because I'm starting to have this weird feeling that maybe it's not Blue Tooth Guy-maybe it's just Talk to People You Don't Know Guy.
I smiled. Tall guy. Around my age. Dreads and a pony tail. No Blue Tooth.
Awkward. I feel Awkward.
"I'm sorry," I smiled, 'Were you talking to me?"
"Yeah," he smiled. "I'm talking to you, and I'm thinking,'man, the 60's are over. I thought Americans got along now..."
I'm feeling really awkward now. The Lady in the Box wants me to give her back her pen and of course the check that is still in my checkbook.
"I apologize, my man," I said. "I could only hear you and assumed you had a Blue Tooth on and were talking to someone on the phone..."
"No, I was talking to you," he said. He smiled. "Just being friendly. I say be friendly to folks. "
I turned and shook his hand. Part of me is wondering (if you see previous note) what it is about me and gas stations and People I Don't Know. Part of me is also wondering what God is trying to teach me. It's been two nights in a row now.
I give the Lady in the Box my check, she is writing down my D.L.. # on the check.
"Yeah," he said, "I'm thinking it's 1960's all over again. Two people can't talk because of the color of my skin...that's what I thought. And I thought, man...that's a shame...I guess I should have said 'scuze me man, or introduced myself or something....but ain't nobody here but you and me so I figured you were just ignoring me..."
Awkward again.
I remind him of the whole Blue Tooth thing. He said, "Oh, yeah, people walking around looking like they are talking to themselves...that phone thing...you thought I had one of those things?"
"Yes," I assured him.
"Naw, man...don't need to always be on the phone. Why do people always have to be on the phone? Everybody always talking to someone and never talking to people around them. Don't get that."
I could appreciate his philosophy.
"People talk, but they don't talk. I'm just talkin to you. Nice to meet you."
We never exchanged names. Just shook hands. He smiled. I smiled.
I admit, some part of me thought, "O.K., there is a 'catch' here. Maybe he's going to ask me for some money or maybe he needs a ride somewhere..."
No. Nothing like that. Just a "Nice to meet you, man" and him walking three lanes over to fill up his old SUV while I filled up my car.
He finished first. Started his car, began to drive off, slowed down and waved goodbye.
I waved back.
Nothing monumental about the story. Maybe that's the significance of the story. Be friendly.
Novel idea.
I'm learning a lot about life from my trips to stores at night. In the middle of all the busyness there are a million stories out there, and a lot of people just looking for an affirmation of their humanity and that they matter. That we matter.
Sweet Lou and Me
He's about 6'3" and walks with a limp. Fifty five years old. He was ahead of me in line at the Shell station near my house around 11:50 p.m. on Friday night. He wore a Dallas Mavericks sweatshirt (it was 45 degrees outside) and smelled like a BBQ Pit. He was enjoying his conversation with "Ish," the young man behind the counter, oblivious to the line behind him, the line of Very Important People With Things To Do Who Wanted To Hurry Up and Buy Their Items And Go Home-you know, that line. I was a part of that line.
A kid behind me was wearing a Dallas Mavericks hat. The kid was probably 20. He speaks loudly to the older man: "Yo man...you a Mavs fan too?" The Line of Important People did not like this development, because we had Very Important Things to do and besides, it was late and cold outside. We wanted "Ish" to hurry up. The line was growing. Last minute beer runners were looking at their watches. One man said, "Come on man, Ish only got 10 minutes." He was referring to time running out to buy the twelve pack he had. "Yeah, I'm a Mavs fan. Not a lot of us around here," the gentle giant in front of me said to the kid.
Then Ish blew his cover. Ish said, "Don't know why you wear their stuff when you played for Phoenix." Suddenly I left the line of Very Important People (well, figuratively) because I was intrigued. Now I joined the conversation, asking him The All Too Important Question: "You played in the NBA?" I must admit, my interest in him prior to this possibility was shamefully low.
He stepped aside and Ish scanned my gatorades and peanut M&M's (the gatorade was necessary for the kids competitions the next day-the M&M's just a guilty treat) while the man started telling his story. The Line of Very Important People grew restless. I'm pretty sure most were looking at the clock or their watches. Midnight approacheth.
The man and I walked outside and he was eager to tell me his story. He explained he had been cooking out on the pit all day and would be until around 3:00 a.m. for an event he was catering the next day. Ribs, Brisket, Chicken, Pork...I suddenly had a desire for BBQ as he described it all. I wanted to get back to his story. Granted, there was a part of me that was skeptical-how many former NBA players do you bump in to in the middle of the night? I knew my B-ball history, so I asked a few questions and all my questions faded away as he talked about Mr. Colangelo (still the owner), and Coach McCloud (whom I remember as a kid), and playing with guys whose names I remembered from my younger days.
I asked if Connie Hawkins was playing with him at the time, and he said, "Naw, the Hawk was gone a few years before I got there." We stood outside for 45 minutes. I was not dressed for the cold, but my fascination with his story was greater than my desire to get into my heated car.
He told me about his brother, an older brother who was in Viet Nam with him. "Man, he was better than me in everything. He could do this thing...we'd take the net off the rim...and he'd jump up and with two hands lightly dunk the ball, catch it and then throw it down hard again...serious hang time....man he was something. Got shot up bad in Nam. Army let me out to take care of him. He could have been something..." his voice faded. I learned about his biological father-another incredible athlete, but also a violent man who left the family when he was a young boy. He told me about growing up with nothing but being happy "cuz back in the day, you didn't need all this stuff these kids got to make you happy." He talked about going back to college after the military let him go home, of playing in the Alaska Shootout, a big NCAA tournament to start the season, and averaging 41 points over 5 games. "That rim looked ten feet wide that tournament" he said.
He told me about his first game in the NBA-coming off the bench as a shooting guard against the Boston Celtics, "It was the year before Bird and Magic came into the league, but Boston had Dave Cowens and Jo Jo White...and I dropped 22 points in 18 minutes on them. I got this video tape at home...Brent Musberger saying, "Sweet Lou Hightower...remember this young man. He could be something special. Brent Musberger man!" He laughed...That's how I learned his name. "Sweet Lou."
Back in the day, everyone had their nicknames: "Downtown Freddy Brown," "Dr. J," "Chocolate Thunder," "Special K," "Black Jesus," and so on. He told me about the knee injury towards the end of his first season, an injury today (because of medical advancements) that might put him out of commission for maybe half a season and after rehab, he'd be as good as new. But then, well, the technology wasn't there. He had the surgery, but lost a step. Came back and played a half a season and was soon waived.
"Mr. Colangelo was a good man. He wanted to keep me. Coach McCloud said, "but he can't cover anyone any more. Mr. Colangelo said, 'but he can still shoot!' he laughed. "That was it for me. Ended up playing in Italy for four years. That's all they wanted me to do. Just shoot. Didn't play defense. But that was a tough time. Got some bad habits over there-all that money, so far from family. Lost my way."
He told me about Jesus Christ finding him. About life changing. About having it all and losing it-only to find something, or someone greater, and finding something more significant. We talked a long time, me and "Sweet Lou." Exchanged phone numbers. He said he'd love to meet me and my son at the gym. "It's all form, form and repetition..form and repetition...show him how to hit from anywhere...I can't shoot too far from outside 20 because of this surgery on my back...but I can still hit anything from 20 on in...still got that..."
I told him I enjoyed his story and his time. I said, "And Lou-man, one and a half years in the NBA-no one can take that from you." His response told me I hit a wound," Man...sometimes that still hurts. Just a step. Maybe a half step. But I couldn't get it back...I had a future there," his voice trailed. He gathered himself and said, "But God is good and this old man got more cookin to do."
We shook hands. He gave me a hug. I'm sure that looked odd to anyone watching. I walked back to my car, processing the conversation.Then something hit me: Would I have talked with this man for so long if he hadn't been in the NBA? I'd like to think I would. But honestly, at that time of night, I just wanted my gatorades and peanut M&M's. I was among the Very Important People who were in a rush.
Made me think. Sweet Lou just needed someone to talk to. I'm guessing there are a lot of Sweet Lou's out there. And as for me, maybe I don't need to always be in that line of Very Important People. Everything is too fast, and in the "fastness" of life-we miss out on a lot of potentially wonderful moments, and people, and opportunities...and handshakes and bear hugs and stories like Sweet Lou's.
A kid behind me was wearing a Dallas Mavericks hat. The kid was probably 20. He speaks loudly to the older man: "Yo man...you a Mavs fan too?" The Line of Important People did not like this development, because we had Very Important Things to do and besides, it was late and cold outside. We wanted "Ish" to hurry up. The line was growing. Last minute beer runners were looking at their watches. One man said, "Come on man, Ish only got 10 minutes." He was referring to time running out to buy the twelve pack he had. "Yeah, I'm a Mavs fan. Not a lot of us around here," the gentle giant in front of me said to the kid.
Then Ish blew his cover. Ish said, "Don't know why you wear their stuff when you played for Phoenix." Suddenly I left the line of Very Important People (well, figuratively) because I was intrigued. Now I joined the conversation, asking him The All Too Important Question: "You played in the NBA?" I must admit, my interest in him prior to this possibility was shamefully low.
He stepped aside and Ish scanned my gatorades and peanut M&M's (the gatorade was necessary for the kids competitions the next day-the M&M's just a guilty treat) while the man started telling his story. The Line of Very Important People grew restless. I'm pretty sure most were looking at the clock or their watches. Midnight approacheth.
The man and I walked outside and he was eager to tell me his story. He explained he had been cooking out on the pit all day and would be until around 3:00 a.m. for an event he was catering the next day. Ribs, Brisket, Chicken, Pork...I suddenly had a desire for BBQ as he described it all. I wanted to get back to his story. Granted, there was a part of me that was skeptical-how many former NBA players do you bump in to in the middle of the night? I knew my B-ball history, so I asked a few questions and all my questions faded away as he talked about Mr. Colangelo (still the owner), and Coach McCloud (whom I remember as a kid), and playing with guys whose names I remembered from my younger days.
I asked if Connie Hawkins was playing with him at the time, and he said, "Naw, the Hawk was gone a few years before I got there." We stood outside for 45 minutes. I was not dressed for the cold, but my fascination with his story was greater than my desire to get into my heated car.
He told me about his brother, an older brother who was in Viet Nam with him. "Man, he was better than me in everything. He could do this thing...we'd take the net off the rim...and he'd jump up and with two hands lightly dunk the ball, catch it and then throw it down hard again...serious hang time....man he was something. Got shot up bad in Nam. Army let me out to take care of him. He could have been something..." his voice faded. I learned about his biological father-another incredible athlete, but also a violent man who left the family when he was a young boy. He told me about growing up with nothing but being happy "cuz back in the day, you didn't need all this stuff these kids got to make you happy." He talked about going back to college after the military let him go home, of playing in the Alaska Shootout, a big NCAA tournament to start the season, and averaging 41 points over 5 games. "That rim looked ten feet wide that tournament" he said.
He told me about his first game in the NBA-coming off the bench as a shooting guard against the Boston Celtics, "It was the year before Bird and Magic came into the league, but Boston had Dave Cowens and Jo Jo White...and I dropped 22 points in 18 minutes on them. I got this video tape at home...Brent Musberger saying, "Sweet Lou Hightower...remember this young man. He could be something special. Brent Musberger man!" He laughed...That's how I learned his name. "Sweet Lou."
Back in the day, everyone had their nicknames: "Downtown Freddy Brown," "Dr. J," "Chocolate Thunder," "Special K," "Black Jesus," and so on. He told me about the knee injury towards the end of his first season, an injury today (because of medical advancements) that might put him out of commission for maybe half a season and after rehab, he'd be as good as new. But then, well, the technology wasn't there. He had the surgery, but lost a step. Came back and played a half a season and was soon waived.
"Mr. Colangelo was a good man. He wanted to keep me. Coach McCloud said, "but he can't cover anyone any more. Mr. Colangelo said, 'but he can still shoot!' he laughed. "That was it for me. Ended up playing in Italy for four years. That's all they wanted me to do. Just shoot. Didn't play defense. But that was a tough time. Got some bad habits over there-all that money, so far from family. Lost my way."
He told me about Jesus Christ finding him. About life changing. About having it all and losing it-only to find something, or someone greater, and finding something more significant. We talked a long time, me and "Sweet Lou." Exchanged phone numbers. He said he'd love to meet me and my son at the gym. "It's all form, form and repetition..form and repetition...show him how to hit from anywhere...I can't shoot too far from outside 20 because of this surgery on my back...but I can still hit anything from 20 on in...still got that..."
I told him I enjoyed his story and his time. I said, "And Lou-man, one and a half years in the NBA-no one can take that from you." His response told me I hit a wound," Man...sometimes that still hurts. Just a step. Maybe a half step. But I couldn't get it back...I had a future there," his voice trailed. He gathered himself and said, "But God is good and this old man got more cookin to do."
We shook hands. He gave me a hug. I'm sure that looked odd to anyone watching. I walked back to my car, processing the conversation.Then something hit me: Would I have talked with this man for so long if he hadn't been in the NBA? I'd like to think I would. But honestly, at that time of night, I just wanted my gatorades and peanut M&M's. I was among the Very Important People who were in a rush.
Made me think. Sweet Lou just needed someone to talk to. I'm guessing there are a lot of Sweet Lou's out there. And as for me, maybe I don't need to always be in that line of Very Important People. Everything is too fast, and in the "fastness" of life-we miss out on a lot of potentially wonderful moments, and people, and opportunities...and handshakes and bear hugs and stories like Sweet Lou's.
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