A Bloody Gift

I was at work when the call came. Her voice sounded young. As she spoke I detected a lot of anxiety. I waited to see what was to come next.

Trying hard to be calm, she said, "Pastor, my father is in the University Hospital. He is 87 years old and he is having emergency surgery tonight. He needs blood donors and my cousin, who has been attending your church, told me to give you a call. She thought you might be able to help."

The woman went on to tell me that she lived out of town and had come home to do some wash and rest a bit, then she was planning to return to the hospital. I promised to try to get blood donors and asked permission to pray with her over the phone. She agreed, so we prayed together.

When we finished she was weeping softly. "Thank you," she said. Then she added, "Pastor, my father is not saved. Can you help? Daddy is a good man, but he is lost. I don't want him to go to hell when he dies. I don't think I could take that . . ."

Tears were now flowing freely and unashamedly. I thought of Jesus weeping over Jerusalem for very similar reasons (Matthew 23:37, 38). I asked my caller if she was a Christian by spiritual birth. She was. We again prayed together for her father, believing God for his salvation and committed him to God's care and keeping.

After we hung up I made a few phone calls and five people told me they would be glad to donate blood. I quickly rearranged my own schedule, locked the office door, and left immediately. In making my usual rounds of the hospitals to visit the sick I would go to Baptist Hospital first, then St. Agnes and Mercy hospitals, and finally end up at University Hospital about 4:30 p.m.

At the University Hospital information desk a cheerful lady in pink directed me to the second floor where the man's room was located. In those days the hospital had its own blood bank and from where I was standing I could see the door to it. I decided to give a pint of blood before going up to see the patient.

It was after 5 p.m. when I stepped off the elevator. I walked to the end of the hallway and into a large room containing several beds that were separated only by thick blue curtains. I asked a nurse about the patient. She pointed toward a blue curtain that was drawn completely around a bed.

"They are preparing him for surgery," she said. "As soon as they are finished you may see him."

I prayed while I waited.

When they finished prepping him, I stepped inside the blue curtain and introduced myself to this total stranger. Other than being human, male, and dearly loved by God, we had nothing else in common.

"Who are you?" he asked.

"I'm a pastor," I replied.

"A what?"

"A pastor⎯you know, a preacher. I pastor a church."

"Oh," he said. "I went to church once when my baby daughter got married . . . ain't been back since."

All at once, his daughter pulled the curtain aside and stepped inside. "Daddy, I'm back!" she said cheerfully. Her father smiled and took her into his arms. After a long embrace, she straightened up, extended her hand toward me and said, "I'm the baby daughter. On my way up I stopped by the blood bank and they told me you gave blood for Daddy. Thank you!"

She turned toward her father. "Daddy, the pastor here gave blood for you a little while ago." The old man looked at me. A quizzical expression came across his face. Then he spoke.

"You gave blood for someone you did know⎯hadn't even met or seen?" he asked.

The daughter spoke up before I could answer, "That's not all, Daddy. He has five friends that are giving blood for you. We have enough for your surgery."

The old man was overwhelmed. We cried together. Through his tears the old man said, "I've never had anyone to give their blood for me before."

Sensing God's timing and the nudge of the Holy Spirit, I nervously replied, "I know of someone else who gave His blood for you."

"Who?" asked the old man.

"His name is Jesus. Would you like to know more about Him and how He gave His blood for you?"

When he answered yes, I began.

"The Bible says, 'the life of the flesh is in the blood.' We all know what that means. We must have blood flowing through our veins to continue living the natural or physical life. That's the reason for blood donors and blood transfusions."

The old man agreed, so I continued: "However, some may not know that the Bible says we also have a spiritual life to live. That is, within our body lives our spirit."

"I've never thought of it that way," he responded, "but I believe what the Bible says about it."

I went on to explain that our spirit is the part of us that continues as a being after our body dies. When our body dies, is buried, and returns to the dust, our spirit will continue to live in one of two places⎯paradise or hell.

"Paradise or heaven," I explained, "is eternal life. It means living forever with Jesus Christ in a place He has prepared⎯a place that abounds with good things! But, hell⎯which is eternal death⎯is a place of torment and unquenchable fire. It means being forever separated from Jesus Christ. The blood that flowed through the veins of Jesus Christ was the life of the incarnate Christ. The blood that He shed was for the salvation of all. People give blood so people may live physically, but that's temporary. Jesus gave His blood that people may live spiritually, and that's eternal."

I stopped to ask my new friend if he understood what I was saying. He said that he did. So I ventured another question:

"Would you like to have eternal life?"

"More than anything else," was his reply.

I shared with him six steps to salvation that I have shared with many others:

•Acknowledge that you are a sinner (Romans 3:23).
•Repent (turn away from) of your sins (Luke 13:3; Acts 3:19).
•Confess your sin and acknowledge Christ as your Lord (1 John 1:9; Romans 10:9).
•Forsake the sins you have confessed and repented of⎯the old lifestyle (Isaiah 55:7).
•Believe in Jesus Christ (John 3:16; Mark 16:16).
•Receive Jesus Christ (John 1:11, 12; Revelation 3:20).

In a matter of moments, He did all of these! But our rejoicing was interrupted as the hospital staff came to take him to surgery.

In a few days, the old man was out of the hospital and his baby daughter took him to her home.

Me? In a few days I moved to California.

Father, thank You is hardly enough to say to One who gave His Son for us. Words are insufficient, Lord Jesus, to express our gratefulness for the gift of Your innocent blood, shed for me. So I say only this: We are yours. Do with us as you will . . .

Will You Be Saved?

It was the early 1960's and I was the pastor of a church in Oklahoma City. I had just finished visiting the last person on my hospital visitation list and was making my way to the elevator for a quick exit for home. The day had been long and I was looking forward to an evening with my family.

As I approached the elevator I noticed a woman standing with her head bowed as though she was praying. She had not pushed either of the buttons for up or down. I pushed the down button and glanced toward her. It was then that I saw she was crying softly. I felt a little awkward as I decided whether or not to invade her world.

Before I could decide, she looked at me and spoke very softly, "I'm sorry." I managed to respond with "That's alright. May I be of help? I am a pastor."

"I don't think so," she replied. "I don't think anyone can help." Then she opened up a bit, "I am so burdened for my father," she said. "He is 85 years old and is seriously ill. The doctor said he only has a few days to live."

I asked if she had a pastor. She did. Then I asked if her father had a pastor. He did not. I offered to go see him, and waited for her response.

"Oh, I just don't know if you should or not," she responded. "Dad has run off my pastor and the hospital chaplain and forbidden them to return." She hesitated briefly, but then spoke with a new resolve, "Pastor, Dad is dying and he will go to hell unless he repents and receives Jesus Christ as Savior. I just can't give up on him. If you will go see him, knowing he has already run two ministers off, I would appreciate it." I assured her I would go.

The relaxing evening I had looked forward to was not so relaxing after all. My mind kept going back to the conversation with a stranger burdened for her father⎯an old man dying lost. Would he be one saved as a firebrand plucked from the eternal fire? (Amos 4:11; Jude 23). I knew I had to join the team of Christians trying to reach the old man for Christ. Tomorrow I would take my turn.

Arriving at University Hospital around 2 p.m., I went immediately to room six where the elderly man lay inching his way toward death and judgment. He was alert and alone in the room. I approached his bedside and greeted him. "Hi, Bill," I said, not giving him my name. (He didn't ask for it, either.)

Bill and I chatted about the weather⎯a pretty, bright day outside. I commented on the brightness of his room and the flowers and cards he had received. Eventually, I ventured beyond the small talk.

"Bill, what brings you to the hospital?"

"I came here to die," he replied. "Just found out about it a little while ago. That's what the doctors say. Yup, came here to die."

Bill drifted off into his own thoughts, but my question brought him back to the moment.

"What then?" I asked.

"Don't know," he said, "I guess somebody will put me in a hole and shovel dirt on me. That's about all there is to it, ain't it?"

"Well, Bill, I wouldn't be too sure of that," I answered. "I've heard others say there was much more to dying than just being buried. I've heard that we have a spirit and a soul that lives on somewhere. I've heard that part of us never dies. Have you ever heard anything like that?"

"Yup. Heard that. Don't believe it. I think when you die, that's it. You're done for. You're through."

"Bill," I continued, "where did you hear about a man having a soul and a spirit that will live on somewhere?"

"At church."

"Tell me about it," I prompted.

"I used to go the church," he began, "even went down to the front to the altar. But it didn't take me long to find out they were all a bunch of hypocrites and crooks. The preacher was the worst one. My wife died believing that junk. She never gave up trying to get me to go back, and she even tried to get me to promise to come to her someday."
"Did you make her a promise?"

"No!" he replied with an expletive.

"Why?"

Bill never answered my question. Instead, he grew quiet, then his whole outward expression changed. His face grew flushed and a wild look came to his eyes. His hands began to shake and suddenly he exploded in an emotional rage.

"You're a damn preacher!" he shouted. "Get out of my room and take your [expletive] God with you!"

I left his room weeping, not for myself, but for him and his family. In a small way I felt the pain his daughter did, knowing he would probably die and go to hell. But, like his daughter, I just couldn't give up on him. I had to try again.

The following day I returned to Bill's room. A notice to visitors hung on the door⎯"Family Members Only". What was I to do? I knocked lightly on the door and one of the daughters opened the door just a crack. She was the same woman I had met at the elevator and she was glad to see me.

Stepping out into the hallway she said, "Dad is weaker and restless. He is not doing well and the doctor says it is only a matter of hours before he goes." She began to cry. "We found your card on the stand. Thank you for coming to see him. He told us he ran you off when he realized you were a preacher. He said you were a nice guy, but sneaky⎯that you never admitted or denied you were a preacher."

We laughed together, seeing a little light of humor in a dark hour.

The other sisters joined us in the hospital hallway. The four of us talked and prayed together. We discussed if I should go in to see him. All agreed that I should, knowing I would probably be rejected. So the four of us went in together.

Bill turned his head to see who came in. He spotted me and said in the coldest way a man could possibly speak, "I told you to get out of my room and to take your [expletive] God with you! Now get out!"

I left as Bill mumbled more curse words with what strength he had left.

Bill's daughters followed me into the hallway where we prayed together. They expressed appreciation for my efforts. We said our goodbyes and I left.

Bill died the next day, without a Savior as far as I know. Still, I'm glad I tried.
I do not know what you think about God, but I do know what God thinks about you. He loves you and gave His only begotten Son to die for your sins so that you may have eternal life instead of perishing in a hell prepared for the devil and his "angels" or demons (John 3:16; Matthew 25:41).

Will you be saved? I sincerely hope so. But the longer you wait the more likely it is that you will not. Consider this: researchers report that 19 out of every 20 people who become Christians do so before they reach age 25. After 25 years of age, only one in 10,000 come to Christ. After 35 years of age, only one in 50,000. After 45, only one in 200,000. After 55, only one in 300,000. After age 65, only one in 500,000. And after 75 years of age, only one in 700,000 ever come to know Christ as Savior.
Will you be saved? Only if you respond to God's love with faith in Jesus Christ. We are saved by grace (God's love) through faith (in Jesus Christ). God will save all who come to Him in this manner regardless of their age. There no better time than the present for you to invite Him into your life.

Jesus, they may someday say, "I wish I had listened," but may our friends never say, "I wish they had told me."

The Severity of God

While preaching through Genesis, I came upon a scene in chapter thirty-eight which reminded me of what I understand to be the severity of God. This is a side of God many know nothing about, and only a few preachers will preach about.

Er and Onan, sons of Judah, grandsons of Jacob, were slain by the Lord. We are not told much about their wickedness, but both did evil in God's sight and He killed them (Genesis 38:6-10). What a shock it must have been to Tamar, Er's wife, and the rest of their family and friends. Here today⎯gone today. No doubt, these survivors wondered who would be next.

I do not think the deaths of Er and Onan were so-called mercy killings. Nor, do I believe God unjustly took their lives. I believe it was life's payday for them. They simply collected their wages for living a sinful life (Romans 6:23a).

I base this opinion on the sovereignty of God and the testimony of Scripture. The Bible speaks of a way that seems right to man, but its end is death (Proverbs 14:12; 16:25). It also speaks of those who are often reproved or admonished but stubbornly refuse to repent and are suddenly destroyed ". . . and that without remedy" (Proverbs 29:1).

Some would say, "But we live in the day of grace!" implying that the severity of God would never be exercised against anyone in this day. But, I would answer, God does not change (Malachi 3:6). And, we also have an incident recorded for us in the New Testament--a scene which I believe can only be an act of divine judgment--in which the severity of God falls upon a man and his wife and they pay for their deceit with their lives (Acts 5:1-11).

My father, Joseph Elza ("Elzie") Yandell, told of an incident that seemed to be a modern-day illustration of the severity of God. Papa had been preaching nightly beneath a brush arbor in eastern Oklahoma. A brush arbor was a crude temporary meeting place that consisted of little more than an awning of wood, tree limbs, and brush. It had no exterior walls, but it did offer a little shelter beneath which were fashioned some crude wooden benches on which the congregation sat.

Each service was preceded by a grove prayer meeting in which the Christian men and women of that community were praying for those who were unsaved. Attendance at the "revival" was growing nightly. Many were receiving Christ as Savior.

On a Thursday night, a family that was not known for attending church came in a wagon pulled by a team of mules. The woman and her children made their way under the arbor to look for a seat. Seats were scarce, so some men stood and offered them a place to sit.

The woman was so caught up in the service that she appeared as though she was in a trance. She sat with rapt attention, seemingly hungry for the words that were being spoken. The family returned the next night, and the next. On the third night of their attendance (Saturday) the woman went forward to the altar to repent of her sins and receive Jesus Christ as her Savior. Her husband had not, on any night, come under the arbor, but witnesses said he had come close enough to see his wife go to the altar.

On Sunday night the family returned again for the fourth time. As always, Papa preached with much fervor. When the invitation was given, the woman again came to the altar. This time she was praying for her husband. He had not received her conversion very well. So she asked Papa and all the Christians there to pray for her husband. They did.

Papa stood to continue to invitation. Sensing the leadership of the Holy Spirit, he went to the woman's husband to give him a personal invitation to come and receive Christ as Savior. Witnesses reported the man was less than kind in his response to Papa's entreaty.

"Preacher, you got my woman up there and made a fool out of her and you are not going to make a fool out of me!"

"My dear sir," Papa replied, "I will be praying for you." Then he returned to the altar to pray for the man.

Soon Papa's prayer was interrupted by a man tapping him on the shoulder. "Brother Yandell," he said, "the man you was talking with has fallen to the ground⎯slain in the spirit!"

Papa rushed to the man. He was dead.

Some said he died of a heart attack. Others said his death was caused by some kind of a chemical upset in his body. Papa believed it was divine judgment⎯the severity of God had fallen upon him (Romans 11:22).

No one knows for sure what happened. But they knew one thing⎯he died without a Savior.

Father, Your power is both a comfort and a terror to us, for our lives⎯both here and in eternity⎯are in Your hands. Give us mercy, Lord, not justice. For we deserve Your wrath, but we rejoice in Your grace, proud to be a fool for you.

The Midnight Witness

While serving as pastor of a church in Oklahoma City, I was contacted by Brother Gilbert, a personal friend and pastor of a church in Duncan, Oklahoma. He invited me to serve as their evangelist for a one-week revival meeting.

I would have no daytime duties other than to pray and study in preparation for the evening services, he said. Gilbert offered to provide accommodations for me at his home, the church, or a local motel. He also said that if I preferred I could commute to the services from my home in Oklahoma City, or, he joked, I could even take all four options. After some prayer, I opted to commute to each service from my home. This would allow me to have more alone time for prayer and study in my own office where I kept my tools (books) within arm's reach.

The revival meeting began on Monday night. I was surprised at the attendance. Over 100 people gathered for that service, expecting God to do a work in their midst. They weren't disappointed. When the invitation to come forward was given, three adults came forward to receive Jesus Christ as Savior. Several more would follow during the week. Christians came, too, in good numbers, to pray for family and friends who didn't know Christ.

By Friday night the pastor and people were talking about continuing the meeting into the next week or as long as interest prevailed. Papa, a highly effective evangelist in his day, used to call that kind of meeting an "open end" revival, meaning it would go on as long as God continued to pour out His blessings upon it.

By week's end, the church had requested that I stay over and preach the following week. I agreed to return on Sunday night, explaining my desire to preach at my home church on Sunday morning. They agreed.

The next week, revival fires continued to burn brightly. We closed the meeting on Saturday night of the second week and enjoyed a social hour following the service. It was a celebration time with the new Christians who had received Christ during the fourteen nights of the meeting.

Finally, I headed for home. Sunday was coming. I looked at my watch. It was a little past 11:00 p.m. I decided to use the drive time to pray and seek God's leading for the Sunday message at my own church. My body was tired, more so than I realized. It had been a blessed week, but a very hard week on me physically and emotionally. My commute was over 100 miles per night. During the day I had prayed and studied for the night service and extended pastoral care to my own flock. I was drained, but I refused to complain. Instead, I gave thanks to God for the opportunity to serve, for the people who had been saved during the meeting, and for the very generous honorarium the church had given me.

Nevertheless, my body was tired and needing sleep. Only a few more miles and I'll be home. That was the last thought I remember before drifting off to sleep. The thud of the tires leaving the pavement jolted me awake. I struggled with the wheel to turn the car back onto the road. Somehow, by the grace of God, I managed to correct it and avoid an accident. "Thank You, Lord," I whispered, and promised myself I would stop at the next coffee shop to get awake.

The coffee shop came much sooner than I expected. The close call had left me so wide-awake, I even considered driving on. At that moment I felt like I could drive forever. But I remembered my promise and pulled into the parking lot. Getting out of my car, I looked at my watch and noticed it was nearly midnight. I entered the coffee shop and looked around. Four people were sitting in a round booth.

"Sit where you want," the waitress called out. I selected a booth several feet from where the others sat. I had my Bible with me and was about to review my plans for the morning message when one of the men in the round booth began swearing⎯taking God's name in vain. He continued talking loudly, repeating his oaths. One of the ladies who sat with him tried to quiet him down, but he turned on her and blasted her with vulgarity. "I'll talk as loud as I want and any way I want!" he declared. Then he proved his point by continuing on with his diatribe.

I quickly grew restless and decided to finish my coffee and leave. That's when I felt an inner nudge. I knew that feeling. It was the Holy Spirit and He wanted me to witness to the man.

Who, me? But I just stopped to wake up, not to witness! I argued silently.
But aren't you already awake after that little incident back down the road? I had to admit I was.

Weren't you the one who thought you could drive forever back then? Well, yes, I guess I did.

After all, were all those things that happened just a coincidence? Okay, okay! Maybe I was here for this very purpose. Although I didn't realize it, maybe I did stop to speak to someone about Christ instead of just to wake up.

I prayed again, asking God to show me how to go about it, if He was indeed the One behind all this.

My coffee cup was empty and the group in the booth was leaving. I paid for my coffee and followed them out the door into the parking lot.

"Excuse me! Excuse me, please," I said.

They all stopped and turned to face me.

"I overheard you speaking of my Father tonight. I'm not sure which one of you spoke of Him and I am curious as to how well you know Him."

A puzzled expression crept across their faces. Then one of them spoke.

"I don't believe I know you," he said. "Who are you? And who is your father?"

"God is my Father⎯my heavenly Father," I replied. "You spoke freely and often of Him tonight. You even asked Him to damn several things, which as you probably know, He is certainly capable of doing. Do you know Him?"

The man who spoke was now left alone with me in the parking lot. His friends had walked onto their car. Finally, he spoke again.

"Thank you for stopping me," he said, to my surprise. "I do know your Father. I once knew Him very well. I was a Christian for many years, and served on a church board. Then the devil got into our home. My wife left me. I blamed God for my troubles and walked out on Him."

By now his eyes were filled with tears and his voice cracked with emotion. I asked him to acknowledge his sins to God and return to Him, right then and there. Unfortunately, he refused. But he did promise he would do so on Sunday, in his old home church. I could only hope he would keep his promise.

We prayed together before going our separate ways. He joined his friends. I returned to my car and headed for home. My midnight witness was finished. Sunday was coming.

Father, sometimes when we least expect it, You call. In the most unlikely of circumstances, through the people we would least imagine, we sometimes hear Your voice. Tune our ears to hear and our hearts to respond to You.

Christy Is Missing!

I was still working on the last bite of my late lunch when I heard a car sliding to a stop in front of the parsonage. I reached the door in time to see a cloud of dust billowing up from our gravel parking lot and a woman racing toward our front porch in what appeared to me to be an advanced state of hysteria. She was yelling, but I could not understand a word she was saying.

We met at the top of the steps. I took her by the shoulders⎯holding her until she quieted down. When she gained control of her emotions I released my grip. She struggled to speak, but finally blurted out the words: "Christy is missing!"

I was taken aback. Did I know someone named Christy? No one came to mind.

"Who is Christy?" I said, "And who are you?"

"I am Mary," she said, with desperation still in her voice. "I live on the east side of Tulsa. Christy is a little girl living at the end of the new road the county has opened up. She is a little past three years of age."

"I was on that road," she continued, "looking for property that my husband and me might be able to buy, when I saw the woman racing toward me waving her arms for me to stop. I could see she was crying, so I stopped. She told me her little girl, Christy, was missing. She asked me if I would please go for help. I remembered passing this church on my way to look for property and it was the only place I could think of to go for help. On my way here, I panicked."

I asked if authorities had been notified. Mary didn't know. Could she lead me to where she met the lady who told her the little girl was missing? She said she could.

I followed her in my car, thinking as we went that there was nothing in my past that prepared me for search and rescue. Or was there? Down the halls of my memory I could hear echoes of my parents cautioning me about the dangers of snakes, stock ponds, rushing streams, and low clouds covering the mountaintops. Would these be a starting place to look for Christy? Perhaps.

I had traveled the road we were on. Just a few months back I was on this road, doing community visitation. I had even stopped at some of the houses. But I could not recall seeing a pond or swimming pool. No rushing streams or snakes, either. And, today, I could see there were no low clouds covering the hilltops. However, I knew there were hundreds of acres of unfriendly scrub oaks, briars, tall grass, and wild animals.

As we drove, I was surprised at how fast the area was building up. Several families had purchased five-acre tracts, built homes, and were in the process of landscaping their yards.

Mary's brake lights came on. I braked, straining to see why she was stopping. Then I noticed the house, almost completely hidden by trees. This must be the place⎯the end of the road. As I parked, I saw a huge pile of reddish dirt. A shudder ran through my body when I realized this family had dug a pond or swimming pool.

I feared the worst as I hurried toward the pile of dirt. A lady came rushing toward me identifying herself as Christy's mother. Without slackening my pace I asked what was behind the massive pile of dirt.

"A pond," she replied.

I broke into a run, only to be stopped in my tracks when she called out, "There is no water in the pond! We finished it last week and it hasn't rained since we dug it," she explained.

Approaching cars halted our conversation with her husband's vehicle leading the way. Workers from the plant where he was employed followed him. The whole plant had shut down. Business as usual could wait. Christy was missing and finding her was the priority. Only one person remained at the plant to answer the phones. Strangers calling the plant on business were told of the crisis. Soon even some of them arrived to join in the search.

The employees of the plant weren't the only ones who were coming. Sirens could be heard in the distance and momentarily sheriff's cars began arriving, followed by an ambulance and medical team. Trucks and trailers carrying horses were next. Finally, a real search and rescue team came, trained and equipped to comb the hundreds of acres for Christy who had now been missing for more than three hours.

A massive search and rescue was about to be launched. A helicopter, equipped with powerful searchlights, was ordered to stand by as plans were made to search through the night, if necessary.

Professionals, trained in search and rescue for just such an occasion, led the search. Almost a hundred people like myself, untrained but willing to help, formed a line with only a few feet between us. We walked through the underbrush as best we could, calling Christy's name, waiting momentarily for her to respond, and then repeating the call again and again. "Christy! Christy!" The little girl's name rang out across the field, even when most of those calling her could not be seen for the brush.

Finally, the word came, Christy had been found! She was approximately four miles from home. Somehow she had made it through the brush-choked field and found her way to a small clearing at the top of a hill. It was there that a mounted member of the search and rescue team found her.

The search was over just a little before dark. It ended with the joyous return of a little girl who was bruised, scratched, and very, very tired. So tired, in fact, she went to sleep even while people were talking and celebrating her rescue.

Driving home that evening I thought of the effort that had been made to find Christy. For the sake of a missing little girl, people left families, jobs, and businesses. They paid whatever cost was necessary to find her. It was the most Christ-like thing most of the rescuers had ever done.

Just a reminder.

Lord, thank You for seeking us when we wandered far from You. Thank You most of all for finding us and bringing us back home.

From Alcohol to Alleluia

"My husband wanted me to call you and ask if you would pray for a man that is a drunk and has been for 12 years."

Her words were still occupying first place in my thoughts as I parked in front of their house in the flats, a somewhat run-down neighborhood in the southeast part of Oklahoma City. She was sitting on the front porch—unkempt, embarrassed, worried, and hurting—both physically and emotionally.

My heart went out to this woman as soon as I noticed she had only one foot. The other had been amputated about midway to her knee. I saw no aids for getting around—no wheelchair, walker, or even a crutch. As I approached the gate I tried to imagine what Christ would do if He were in my shoes. As I fumbled with the gate latch she said, "Please, don't come in."

I introduced myself as the pastor and she interrupted me. "I know. I called you. My husband wanted me to call, but he is not her now, so please don't come in. Just leave."

When I turned to walk away I heard a loud noise coming from inside the small house. It sounded like something, or someone, had fallen. Very slurred speech followed the noise, "Is that the preacher?"

The figure of a man appeared in the open doorway. He was trying to steady himself by holding onto the door but was slowly sinking down to the floor. Finally, he looked at me from his sprawled position, and muttered a garbled request for prayer.

This was my first meeting with Omer King. A wave of anger mixed with compassion washed over me. I was angry at the liquor industry and all their pretty, enticing advertisements. Yet, I felt compassion for Omer—one of millions who had been deceived and destroyed by alcohol.

Mrs. King sat crying. Shame and embarrassment were etched on her face. "I am sorry I lied to you," she choked. "Please forgive me for lying to you—I didn't want you to see him like this." Her predicament and honesty touched me deeply.

Omer raised his head to look at me and once again slurred a request for prayer. Both of his eyes were red and the right one was turned permanently away from the left, twitching slightly. I looked him in the eye, as best I could, and refused to pray for him. I only promised to come back at another time.

Amazingly, my words seemed to spark something in Omer. Rising to his feet, he stumbled through the doorway onto the porch. As I turned to walk away, I heard him say, "My old Daddy was a Free Will Baptist preacher, and he would pray for anyone, at any time, under any condition!"

Continuing to walk toward the car, I realized that I heard and understood every word he spoke. (To this day, I still wonder if God cleared up his voice so I would truly hear what he said.) Momentarily thinking I had been too hasty in telling him I would not pray for him, I stopped. I turned back just in time to see him slump down on the floor, closing his eyes in a drunken slumber.

I kept my promise. I was at Omer's house at just past 7:00 a.m. the next day—about the time Mrs. King said Omer usually came home from working the night shift. I was there waiting and wondering, not knowing what to expect. I sat in my car, thumbing through my Bible still searching for the right passage of Scripture to use in praying for a drunken man. I wish I could say I was praying, but my only thoughts were of the previous day's scene.

This time, though, the setting had changed. Mrs. King was not in her chair. How did she get into the house? Visions of her crawling into her home flashed through my mind.

Just then, my thoughts were interrupted by the appearance of a uniformed man walking toward my car, head down, as though he was deep in thought. The man wore the uniform of a security guard, complete with a gun. Though I could not see his face, there was something about him that caused me to think I had seen him before.

Having turned my eyes back to my Bible, I was surprised to hear someone speak. "Good morning." I lifted my eyes to see Omer King standing beside my car. He was smiling, his left eye looking straight at me, his right eye looking north and twitching slightly.

"Get out and come in," Omer said. "I knew you would be here waiting for me."

I followed Omer to the porch where we sat down on the steps. Neither of us said a word. The silence between us grew until both of us were uncomfortable. Finally, he spoke.

"I don't know where to begin. I'm a drunk—have been for 12 years. Oh, I drank before then, but I have been drunk—I mean drunk—every day for the past 12 years. I guess there is no hope for me. I've prayed many times, but God never answered my prayers. Does He care about me? Has he given up on me?"

I turned to look at him. Tears dripped off his face and fell to the step beneath his feet. I wanted to say something, but what? My thoughts turned to the promise Jesus gave his servants. "Take no thought how or what ye shall speak: for it shall be given you in that same hour what ye shall speak" (Matthew 10:19b).

After what seemed like an hour of silence, I heard myself saying, "Omer, I remember reading some Scriptures in the Old Testament about the thoughts God had toward some other people. I'd like to share them with you . . . if I can only find them. They might help."

After a quick search I located Jeremiah 29:11-13. I read the words to him: "For I know the thoughts that I think toward you, saith the LORD, thoughts of peace, and not evil, to give you an expected end. Then shall ye call upon me, and ye shall go and pray unto me, and I will hearken unto you. And ye shall seek me, and find me, when ye shall search for me with all your heart."

After a long pause, I spoke. "Omer, you guessed there was no hope for you. And you want to know if God cares about you, and if He has given up on you. Well, according to these Scriptures, you guessed wrong. There is hope for you. God does care about you, and He hasn't given up on you. He is just a prayer away and He is waiting for you to get serious in your praying."

Omer got serious. He broke down. His tears and words flowed together in a prayer of deep repentance and faith toward God. Omer "prayed through"—through years of rebellion and drunkenness.

The spiritual transition was swift—Omer moved from darkness to light, from Satan's control to the Savior's control, from alcohol to alleluia, from the old life to the new. In a matter of moments he was "in Christ." Old things passed away and all things became new (2 Corinthians 5:17).

Omer looked at me. We both knew a miracle had taken place. He had been "born again" (John 3:3). "I must tell my wife!" he said eagerly.

At that moment we heard a joyful noise of laughter and weeping—praise and prayer—coming from inside the house. We entered through the door to find Mrs. King sitting on the floor rejoicing. Her crawl to the front porch had ended when she heard Omer praying. She prayed and waited. When the prayer ending and she heard us rejoicing, she joined in. It was a day she had longed to see.

As spiritual "babes in Christ," the King's first need was love and acceptance. Who would love and care for these spiritual babies? Was there a social agency somewhere? Would I, their pastor? I drove away with mixed emotions. I rejoiced that Omer and Mrs. King had been born again, but I resisted doing the nursery work of caring for these spiritual newborns. (It's only human to rejoice at births and still resist the rearing, you know.)

I did the natural thing. I consulted with my fleshly feelings. I didn't feel like I had the time or the energy to do the spiritual nursery work. I really felt like I should give myself to study and prayer. Someone else should take care of them—after all, I was the pastor. Why should I have to do this sort of stuff?

About then I remembered the words of my father, a preacher for over 60 years. "I learned a long time ago not to consult the flesh when it comes to serving God," he said. Those words prompted me to ask God to help me learn that lesson. My feelings began to ebb. I volunteered for "nursery" work. I knew then that love was not a feeling, but a choice. I had chosen to love and care for Omer and his wife even if I was the only person who did. (Thankfully, I wasn't.)

I realized later that the choice I made was very much like the choice my Heavenly Father made in eternity past. Before the beginning of time, He chose to love the world and give His only Son so that whoever believes in him would not perish but have everlasting life (John 3:16). This same God can and will teach all of us how to love and receive love if we will allow Him (1 John 4:8b).

Now that I had volunteered for nursery work, where should I begin? I determined to stop by Omer's home the next day (Saturday) and offer them a ride to church. When I did so, Omer quickly accepted my offer. Mrs. King, however, declined. She said she had no way to get around. I assured her that I understood.

I drove away from their home anticipating the next day. It would be Omer's first time in church since his father's death nearly 20 years prior. It would also be his first time in church as a Christian. I could hardly wait!

The detective, Bill, and I drove separate cars to Mrs. King's house. I waited for Bill as he talked with his dispatcher. We walked slowly toward the front door of a small white house located on a quiet street in a nice neighborhood. The house was little, but it looked warm, cozy, and inviting. I could not keep from thinking that this was definitely a move up from where Omer and Mrs. King lived in the flats.

Light leaked around the edges of the drawn drapes and I wondered if Mrs. King was still up, or if she slept with a nightlight. Everything was so quiet and peaceful. I regretted having to interrupt the tranquility with bad news. Once again I realized that pastors are no always the bearers of good news.

I took a deep breath and knocked on the door. Almost immediately Mrs. King responded.

"Who is it?" she asked.

"The pastor," I replied.

I could hear a shuffling sound as Mrs. King moved from the bed to her wheelchair—quite an accomplishment for a woman who had by then lost both legs to disease. I then heard her making her way to the door, the rattle of the door chain, followed by the clicking sound of the door locks. I prayed for words to tell her about Omer.

Mrs. King opened the door and looked beyond me at the detective. She rolled her wheelchair back as we entered the living room. Pointing to a couch, she invited us to sit down. As we sat down, I introduced Bill.

Mrs. King turned her chair to face me. Our eyes met.

"Pastor, which one of my boys is it this time?" (She had two sons and both were alcoholics.) I could say nothing. Her eyes filled with tears and she cried, "Oh, my God . . . not Omer! Please . . . not Omer!"

I was still searching for the right words when she spoke again.

"It is Omer, isn't it? Pastor, is he hurt? Is he dead?"

I nodded. Grief overwhelmed her. I felt I should say something, but I could think of nothing to say. I stood, put my arms around her shoulders, and we cried together.

Bill excused himself and left, saying something about finishing the paperwork later. I learned there are times when tears and touch are needed more than words.

Mrs. King calmed somewhat and we began to talk. We relived her last evening with Omer. It had been a joyful time. She had prepared the evening meal and packed snacks for Omer to take to work. Earlier that day Omer had picked up a picture of the two if them from the studio. It was their first time to have a picture made by a professional photographer and it was an excellent photo of them both. This picture would now be her most cherished possession.

Mrs. King spoke, "Pastor, tell me what you know about Omer's death."

"Omer arrived early for his night shift," I began. "He visited with the guard he was relieving. As his starting time drew near he excused himself for his prayer time. When he didn't return to begin his shift the guard he was relieving when looking for him. The guard found him at his favorite place for prayer. He was between the boilers and the wall. He was still in a kneeling position, leaning against the wall.

Mrs. King was silent for a long while before saying, "Pastor, I can't live without Omer."

"Can't, or don't want to live without him?" I asked.

"I don’t want to live without him," she replied.

This feeling of despair would intensify. I was frightened by what I heard and troubled by the look in Mrs. King's eyes.

Mrs. King did not want to live without Omer. She wanted to die. And she wondered why God didn't take her instead of him.

As I listened to her recount her physical condition and dependency on others, I knew living and dying were not new thoughts to her. I encouraged her to talk. She told of feelings of uselessness and how she had no one and nothing for which to live. She even told how on various occasions she had contemplated taking her own life. Only the fear of botching the attempt and the terror of standing before God in judgment prevented her from committing suicide.

Finally, she stopped talking and fixed her eyes on the floor. I could see her sinking into a pattern of bad thoughts. I waited several minutes before asking her to tell me more.

"Tell me about some of your good times," I asked.

Her thoughts began to change and as she raised her eyes to meet mine I could see a smile stretching her lips and her eyes sparkling in a dance of joy. Her hands slowly rose from her lap to form a cone. The dread had passed, at least for the present. She shifted slightly in her chair and I could see the results of her recollection of good times and thinking good thoughts.

Again, I encouraged her to talk—asking her to tell me about the things she remembered at that very moment. As I suspected, at the very moment she was thinking about Omer's conversion to Christ and her own spiritual renewal and the joyful times the two of them had together. The last nine months had been sheer bliss. For the first time in many years she had felt loved and appreciated—like a real wife. Then she added, "Now, Omer is dead."

"Omer is very much alive," I countered. "Only the body in which he lived for a time has died. Omer is enjoying that abundant life which Christ came to give to all who receive Him as Savior."

I went on to explain that life is more than body. Our bodies may be healthy or diseased, old or young, able or disabled. They may serve us well or not at all, but they are like a tent—a temporary dwelling place—until God moves us into the one He has prepared for us. Our bodies, though fashioned by God in our mother's womb and a marvelous work, wonderfully made, are still just flesh and blood. They were never intended to be our permanent dwelling place and they will never enter heaven.

Even though we may abuse and pollute them, when we turn to God in repentance and faith in Jesus Christ they can become (and do become) the temple of God. Imagine, God living in our tent with us! Incredible! (See 1 Corinthians 3:16, 17; 6:19, 20.) Whether our bodies be young or old, weak or strong, whole are partial, God still lives within us. Our disabilities and weaknesses, though a bother to us, are opportunities for God to give us grace sufficient to meet our need and demonstrate His power (2 Corinthians 12:9).

In reality, we all live in perishing bodies—some in more advanced stages than others. Eventually, in God's timing and plan, we will move out of our present body into new one which He has prepared for us. (See 1 Corinthians 15:1-58 and 2 Corinthians 5:1-10.) That will be glory! Literally.

Regardless of the shape, size, or condition of our body, life is sacred. Life is a gift from God. We are to live for Him (Colossians 3:17, 23, 24). Though we may think we have nothing, or no one for which to live, we always have HIM—the One who gave us life.

We may think our body to be useless and worthless to ourselves and others. Think again. Your body is your temporary home—your home away from home. And there is no body which God would not be pleased to live in and use for His glory. It is our privilege to invite Him in and to present our body to Him as a dwelling place (Romans 12:1, 2).

Omer's body was abused and weakened by alcohol. But when given the opportunity, God moved in and only eternity will reveal the full impact Omer made on his friends, relatives, and church family. Omer's memorial service was attended by one of the largest crowds the church ever had for such an occasion. He lived just nine months after his conversion. He was saved just in the nick of time.

Mrs. King's body was weakened and mutilated by disease. But, when given the opportunity, God moved in and used her to touch her alcoholic son. Heaven only knows the extent of her impact on others. She only lived a few months after Omer's home-going. Today, they are both in heaven and I am looking forward to seeing them when my time comes.

Remember Omer's two brothers who had given up on him and forbad him to call them or come near their places? They will get to see and talk with him again. They and their families were all saved shortly after Omer left for heaven.

Remember Mrs. King's two alcoholic sons? I heard from one of them about a year after Mrs. King left for heaven. The one I heard from had been saved, delivered from alcohol, and on his way to haven. I don't know about the other, but I think maybe he also has turned to God. The burden to pray for him was lifted from my heart many years ago.

How God used Omer and Mrs. King to bring their loved ones and others to Christ? Well, that's a story for another time.


Lord, You do Your work in unexpected ways. You bring triumph out of tragedy and glory out of gloom. Tune my heart to praise you in all things, for You work all things to Your good, even when we don't immediately see it. That which is good in Your sight is good for me. Amen.

The Bag Lady Is My Sister

"Be not forgetful to entertain strangers: for thereby some have entertained angels unawares" (Hebrews 13:2).

She was crossing SE 15th Street in Oklahoma City. It wasn't my first time to see her. She was a common sight on South Robinson, a light industrial section of the city. The area was mostly run down rentals in those days, but there was a small park and a few well-kept homes. As always, she was pulling her red wagon and looking for treasures she could collect.

Today was different from other times when I had seen her. She was only a few city blocks from our church, coming from an area called "the flats" ("uptowners" called it the slum). Her Western Flyer wagon was filled—piled high above the small sideboards—with treasures she had picked up off the streets and out of garbage cans.

I continued slowing my car and finally brought it to a complete stop as she struggled to keep her cargo from tumbling into the street. She made it to the curb, but when she lifted the front of the wagon to the top of the curb, her treasures suddenly tumbled off into the street.

Help her!

Who? Me? Why should I?

I eased my car over to the curb and parked—still wondering about the thoughts that came rushing into my mind. Finally, I exited the car and went back to help.

She was bent over at the waist—legs straight as a fence post—picking up her lost treasures.

"Good afternoon. May I help you?" I asked.

Without straightening up, she turned her head to see who was speaking. When she smiled I saw one lonely yellowish tooth. Her skin was dark and wrinkled from overexposure to the Oklahoma weather, but it complemented her twinkling blue eyes.

Her eyes that told me I could help as she continued to retrieve her treasures. Together, we loaded her wagon with the fallen items. She never straightened up until the job was done.

When she stretched to her full height she was still a small woman—well under five feet tall. For the first time she looked me over. Her gaze passed from my carefully groomed hair, to my blue suit, down to my shined shoes. I waited for her comment, wondering if I would pass her inspection.

"You must be a preacher," she said. "Only a preacher would wear clothes like yours on a hot day like this."

I smiled, slightly amused by her observation. My thoughts whirled.

How would she know about preachers? She's a "bag lady!" Why don't I just wish her a good day and get on with my church visitation? Or, could talking to this bag lady actually be part of my church visitation?

A verse of Scripture came to mind: "Pure religion and undefiled before God and the Father is this, to visit the fatherless and widows in their affliction, and keep himself unspotted from the world" (James 1:27). Now I was even more confused.

What is God trying to tell me? Or, is He trying to tell me anything? Is this bag lady a widow? Is she fatherless? Did she grow up as an orphan? How would Christ respond to this little woman who scoured the streets and garbage cans for her livelihood?

I introduced myself and handed her one of my business cards. She looked the card over and reached for a string tied around her neck. As she tugged at the string she remarked, "I've got another card. One from the sheriff." When she pulled the string free from her clothing I was surprised to see a small sack dangling at the end of it. She carefully removed two safety pins and pulled out the other card. It really was a personalized card from the county sheriff.

"The sheriff told me to call him if I ever needed him," she commented. "He said anytime day or night was okay."

I watched her place my card with the sheriff's card as she turned away from me. She pulled her blouse out at the neck, dropping the little sack down inside her clothing. This little bag lady was intriguing. I had to know more about her. In a strange sort of way I even felt a sense of kindred. Is she a Christian? I wondered.

"I would like to be friends with you," said. "I pastor the Central Avenue church, which is only about three or four blocks from where we are. It's the red brick building with the lighted church sign out front."

The bag lady seemed to be smiling as she drifted down memory lane. Not knowing what she was thinking, I waited for her response.

"I went to a red brick church one time. They had donuts and soup sometime." She paused momentarily, then continued. "They moved away. I don't know where. Then another church came. I went one time—no one would talk to me. I didn't go back. They moved away and someone tore the church down. Now there is no church."

"What is your name?" I inquired.

"Taylor," she replied.

I sensed a budding friendship. We were warming up to each other and talking was becoming easier for both of us.

"Do you go to church now?" I asked.

"No," she replied.

"Would you like to come to our church? We would love to have you, and we will come and get you if you need transportation."

"Yes, if I can bring my wagon. I will walk."

I recalled the words of Jesus when He came to his disciples walking upon a stormy sea, "It is I; be not afraid" (John 6:20). Is Jesus saying to me that He is dwelling in this bag lady and I am not to be afraid? A warm feeling washed over me. Is this bag lady actually my sister in Christ?

"Sure," I answered, "you may bring your wagon. I will be looking forward to seeing you soon."

With that I continued on my way, visiting others. But I could not keep the bag lady out of my mind. Will she really come to church? Where will she park her wagon? Will she bring it inside the church—perhaps down the aisle? Will she park it in someone's favorite parking space? What's the rest of her name? Where is her family—if she has one? One thing was certain; she was mysterious.

As the weeks passed I continued thinking about my encounter with the bag lady . . . and her, shall we say, odorous body. The smell that surrounded her seemed to be a mixture of sweat, armpits, and . . . well, other aromas. It made me wonder if this scent was unique to bag ladies and other people who slept on the streets, in alleys, parks, or under bridges. I smiled to myself thinking about her odor mingling with that of the colognes and perfumes worn by the people that attended our church. Nevertheless I was getting excited just imagining the difference she would make in our Sunday evening service . . . if she came.

A few days later, the people were coming in for the Sunday evening service. The parking lot was filling up, but the bag lady had not arrived. I was greeting people when I noticed our song leader and pianist making their way to the front of the church. Glancing at my watch, it was still five minutes until starting time.

I was moving toward the front when I sensed that others were coming in. Turning toward the back doors, I saw Mrs. Taylor, without her wagon, making her way down the center aisle. (I later learned she had parked her wagon outside.) The ushers had already greeted her warmly and now stood watching her slowly walk down the aisle. I went to meet her. Not knowing how to introduce her to others, I greeted her warmly and asked if she were Miss or Mrs. Taylor.

"My husband left when my Jimmy was born," she replied. "I don't know where he is and I don't care. I hope I never see him again."

I asked where she would like to sit. She chose the second row from the front—where Mrs. Peters always sat. Sister Peters was a sweet elderly lady, a full-sized woman, with a humble spirit and a heart full of love. She gladly turned a bit to allow Mrs. Taylor to take a seat.

Mrs. Taylor squeezed by Sister Peters and continued standing, gazing at the baptistery.

"That's a pretty picture on the back wall of the baptistery, isn't it?" I remarked.

"I was dunk one time," she commented, her eyes still fixed on the baptistery.

I had my answer. I would introduce her as my sister in the Lord and discover the details of her spiritual life later.

I walked to the pulpit to begin the service. The song leader was in his place, grinning so big his eyes were just slits. The pianist, leaning slightly to the left to look around the piano light, gave me a large smile. I turned to face the audience. The ushers, standing at their place at the entrance of the room, were smiling too. Even the congregation seemed unusually happy, with only a few exceptions. The ones who weren't smiling had their eyes fixed on the bag lady.

Ignoring the frowns, I greeted the congregation enthusiastically. "Tonight we have a very special blessing. I am privileged and honored to introduce to you my new friend and sister in the Lord. Please welcome Sister Taylor!"

The bag lady's eyes lit up. She stood, waving a wrinkled handkerchief at the people. She turned her head from side to side; she flashed the same smile I'd first seen on the street, exposing that same lonely yellowish tooth for all to see. Instantly, Sister Taylor won the hearts of that Sunday night congregation.

We stood and prayed, then I went to my chair and the singing began. I looked at the hymnal, but my heart wasn't singing. Somehow I sensed something different about the bag lady. What was it? My thoughts drifted back to the moment I greeted her in the center aisle. I had shaken her hand and placed my left hand on her shoulder as I directed her to the pews. What's missing? Then it hit me. The scent! I had not ever noticed the odor that was once so offensive to my super-sensitive nose.

I immediately joined the congregation in singing, The Old Time Religion. When we got to the second verse, we sang of how the old time religion "Makes me love everybody." I knew then why I hadn't noticed the odor.

After the service, I waited my turn to talk with Sister Taylor. In our short conversation I discovered that her "Jimmy" was now a grown man, living with a family of his own in Stockton, California. He stayed in touch with his mother, as best he could, encouraging her to call him collect, since she could neither read nor write. But she never did.

On more than just a few occasions, Jimmy would contact the office of the county sheriff asking them to find his mother. The sheriff took the first call personally. That explained why she had his personalized business card. At other times, it was a deputy that would check on her.

There were other questions I wanted to ask, but Sister Taylor had to leave. I watched as she pulled her red wagon down the sidewalk toward SE 15th Street. I saw two large red reflectors on the back of her wagon and felt a little better about her safety as she walked in the dark. One question did concern me—where will she sleep tonight? I thought about following her, but then it occurred to me that even a bag lady wouldn't want to be stalked, no matter what the reason.

I watched as she disappeared into the darkness, then I walked the half-block my home. A Sunday night snack, the recliner, and even the late newscast, did little to divert my thoughts from Sister Taylor. Mentally, I could not release her until I prayed for her and made plans to locate her on Monday morning.

Monday morning I drove to the area where I thought another red brick church once stood. I arrived in the area a little past 8 a.m. The neighborhood was undergoing some great change. Many buildings were completely demolished, making way for a new freeway bypass and the accompanying new commercial business that would cater to travelers.

Led by the Holy Spirit, I believe, I stopped at one well-kept house. An elderly couple greeted me at the door and with a warm welcome invited me in for coffee. Being eager for conversation about the area, I accepted.

This dear couple was eager for a visit as well, and they enjoyed talking about their home. All of their eight children grew up and attended school in that area. (The old school was now being used for some kind of social work.) They had bought the lot on which they built their house when the area first opened for development. They had lived in their dream home for years and had no intention to leave it. They planned to just leave for heaven from that very spot, just as soon as the Good Lord said it was time for them to go.

The old couple told me about the red brick church. They were once members of that congregation. They called it "The Old-time Methodist." They even had fond memories of a social time with donuts before the Sunday service and unforgettable soup suppers on Wednesday night.

They voted against the church relocating to the northwest part of Oklahoma City. When the move was made anyway, they could no longer attend, so they began going to Capitol Hill Baptist, just across the river, with friends who gave them a ride.

By now my heart was beating faster with excitement and my throat was dry. I had to ask about Sister Taylor. Did they know her, and if so, what did they know? Smiling at each other, they began their story about their acquaintance with Sister Taylor.

"Now that lady was some lady!" he said. "She had been on the streets for many years. People that tried to talk with her found her hard to understand. Her talk was more like mumbling and made little sense. She had Indian blood in her veins."

"Tell him about her coming to church," his wife interjected.

"Well," he began, "that was something else. It was on a Mother's Day when in walked this bag lady with a fine young couple from California. The funny thing was that no one recognized her in a new dress with her hair all done up nice. She even wore a corsage of three red roses. The young man introduced her as his mother, saying, 'We are the Taylor's.' She continued coming once in a while, as long as the church was there. She only came on a Sunday morning or a Wednesday night—I guess it was when she was short on food. We still see her on the streets. That's about all I can tell you."

I thanked them for their hospitality and good coffee, and started my drive back toward the church. My new friends had told me much about Sister Taylor and, perhaps unknown to them, had confirmed the things she had told me. Still, I was eager to discover more details of her life—especially her spiritual life.

On my way back to the church, I spotted Sister Taylor's red wagon at the side of a popular workingman's restaurant. This place only served breakfast and lunch. They specialized in homemade yeast rolls—all you could eat with butter, honey, or jelly. They always kept the hot bread on your table until you finished your meal, whether it was breakfast or lunch . . . my kind of place.

I had a thought. Maybe I could buy Sister Taylor lunch. I pulled into the parking lot and made my way to the restaurant entrance. Stepping inside, I looked for Sister Taylor. Someone called out to me, "Sit wherever you like!" I chose a table facing the front door, with a view into the kitchen area and back door.

To my surprise, when the backdoor opened I saw Sister Taylor headed outside. At that very moment, the waitress brought hot rolls to my table. I ordered a plate lunch, a popular vegetable plate, and excused myself, telling the waitress that I would be right back.

Rushing outside, I saw Sister Taylor pulling her wagon across the parking lot. I called to her. She was surprised to see me, and even more surprised when I invited her to lunch. She refused the invitation, however, explaining that she had already had lunch. She said she ate with the man and woman who owned the restaurant. I would learn later that she often ate with them in what they called their "private dining room"—a section of the kitchen with a table and chairs for four.

I returned to my lunch, enjoying it a bit more knowing that Sister Taylor also had a good lunch. I was excited at the prospect of having a bag lady call me, "Pastor." It would be the first, and perhaps only, time I would be a pastor to a bag lady.

I remembered the words Jesus spoke, "For ye have the poor always with you" (Matthew 26:11a). Why would I think of these words as this particular time? What are His plans for me? Are there other bag ladies or homeless people that I will pastor? I wondered about the spiritual life of other people in similar circumstances. How many are my sisters and brothers in Christ? Do they have pastors? Is there a caring church to love and lead them?

One thing God seemed to settle in my mind—they are not all addicts. Some homeless people have found, for various reasons, their niche in society. In the days ahead, God would teach me, as a pastor to a bag lady, that I must respect her as a person and love and minister to her as He would, for I am His ambassador (2 Corinthians 5:20).

My pastoral relationship to Sister Taylor might be described as "different." There were no home visits, discipleship studies, or socializing. No spoken expressions of endearment—just acts of kindness and warm greetings, genuine respect for each other, and Christian love—a relationship that demanded no payback from each other. Refreshing!

As time passed, my relationship to Sister Taylor was producing change in me. I came to the place where I actually had a great admiration for her. She faced every day with a simple trust in God—trusting Him for daily bread. She would do her part—scouring the garbage cans and streets, and God would do His part. She would graciously accept gifts of food, money, and clothes from various sources as His provision for her needs. Just as God can change a sinner into a saint, He can also change trash into treasures. I saw it, not on one occasion, but many.

I never heard Sister Taylor complain about her lot in life. She lived it without blaming others. She was comfortable in who she was and in what she did. I never tried to move her from her comfort zone, believing it would have been a disaster for her. Instead, I prayed for wisdom to enter her world, not as one superior to the other, but as equals in the eyes of God.

I wanted to show a genuine interest in what she was interested in, and to show appreciation for her skills and accomplishments. I wanted to exchange encouragements with her. I wanted to be a pastor and friend to her. To do this, I would have to deal with ingrained concepts and prejudice toward certain classes of people.

Weeks turned into months. The amount of time escapes me, but I knew my pastoral duties at that church were coming to an end. One day, the ringing of my office phone interrupted my thoughts.

The caller, a woman, inquired, "Are you Pastor Yandell and do you know a Ms. Taylor?" I answered yes. She introduced herself saying, "I'm the lead nurse on the east wing of the first floor of the County Hospital. Ms. Taylor was hit by a car last Friday evening and was brought to the hospital with bruises and a bump on the head. She apparently received no serious injuries, but we kept her through the weekend for observation. Pastor, we would like for you to come for a visit with her and to evaluate her condition. After you have completed your visit, we want to meet with you for your evaluation of her and to ask you for more information about her."

I went immediately to the hospital and was met by a team of three nurses. They thanked me for coming and hoped I did not think they were being silly by calling me in for an evaluation. It seemed to them that Sister Taylor's conversation was not making sense that morning.

Sister Taylor had asked for her stuff. When they brought her clothes to her, she looked for the little sack she wore around her neck. Retrieving my card, she insisted on them calling me.

When I walked into her room, Sister Taylor was sitting on the side of the bed, fully clothed and ready to go home. (I still didn't know where home was.) After visiting with her, I concluded that she was acting normal and returned for my meeting with the nurses. I could add no new information, and they had made all the arrangements for her to go home.

Shortly after the hospital incident I moved to California. I've thought of her several times, and when I do questions fill my mind. You know, questions like you are having about her right now.

She came to the last service I had at the church. We parted with, "I'll see you later." I watched as she disappeared into the darkness, pulling her little red wagon with the large red reflectors, and wondered when and where we would meet again. Heaven? That would be excellent!

I have one regret. I did not tell her of the contribution she made to my life and the impact she made on my ministry. At the time, it didn't seem necessary. If she only knew . . .

Father, You know better than anyone that some of Your children have little of this world's goods. But, You also know that many of the rest of us fail to value and appreciate what is truly important. Thank You for using people like Sister Taylor to correct our perspectives.