That’s the Way it is…
Stan awoke in the middle of the night sitting on the edge of
his bed and gasping, “No, no, no, not you. I don’t belong to you.” In his daze
he felt he needed to escape from something, or someone. A shiver slid down his
spine.
After fully waking up and realizing he was dreaming, he lay
back down and pulled the sheet up to his chin. He blamed the nightmare on the alcohol
he’d consumed at the bar earlier that night.
He glanced at the clock on his bedside stand. The luminous
numbers taunted his bloodshot eyes and cesspool-like pupils. A muffled “you’ve
got to be kidding me” echoed through his muddled mind, 3 a.m.?”
But, before his alarm interrupted a couple of hours later,
he slept.
At work, he stood by
the highway and enjoyed the last gasps of early morning. Soon, the rays of a
raging sun would beat down on him and rebound off the blacktop to beat up on
him.
Stan worked for a construction crew. As a flagman he’d hold
a stop/go sign and direct traffic for 3 hours, then for 3 hours he'd drive the
pilot-car, then flagman again. Nine hours of mind-boggling excitement.
Off at 5 p.m. he went home. He made a sandwich, warmed a can of
soup, took a shower and collapsed into bed, all before the clock struck 8 p.m.
Nevertheless, again that night he woke up in distress; this
time the luminous hands on the clock pointed straight up. He spit out an
expletive and with the same venom threw his pillow across the room. Exhausted,
he lay back down and drifted into a fitful sleep.
When the alarm went off that Friday morning, Stan swore,
literally, that over the weekend he’d find the answer to what was going on
below the surface of his conscious life.
Mid-morning Saturday, with clenched fists, he strode out the
front door. He had no idea who, what, when, or where. Just walk until the urge
to stop intervened, and then decide what to do.
He walked past businesses, churches, schools, and through
residential areas. Nothing sent a message so he kept on walking. He turned left
at a corner and then stopped. Across the street squatted a quaint little church
with an immaculate lawn, which was surrounded with a whitewashed picket fence.
He stared in awe at the church and its surroundings.
An invisible forefinger waggled at him; he crossed the
street and walked through the gateless opening in the fence. He conquered the three
cement steps in a single bound; a slight twist on the handle and the front door
opened into the sanctuary.
He walked in.
He looked around the room. It had eight rows of two pews on
each side of the center aisle. Each pew had two bookracks with a Bible and
hymnal in them. He walked to the front of the church; the pulpit stood on a
raised platform with a table behind it. The table had a narrow cloth lying
across it, and candles in holders sat on each end with a gold-plated cross in
the middle.
The scenario spoke of perfect peace. He felt he belonged
there.
“May I help you?” a courteous voice from the side of the
sanctuary floated into Stan’s consciousness.
Turning, his two eyes met a pair eyes as soft as the voice.
“I’m Stan, are you the pastor?”
“I’m Pastor Robert.” The reply came from wherever peace is
found.
The pastor’s mellow tone opened the internal spigot of
Stan’s emotions. They gushed out in torrents. He covered his eyes, his
shoulders convulsed, and he crumbled to the floor on his knees.
I don’t want to go to hell,” he sobbed. “Please tell me
about Jesus.”
Pastor Robert walked across the room and knelt down. He put
his arms around the sobbing mass in front of him. “Stan, all you need to know
about Jesus is that He’s the Son of God and loves you.”
“How can he love me with all the bad things I’ve done?”
sobbed Stan. “I’m finished, I’m finished.”
“
You’re right, Stan, you’re finished,” the pastor said. “But
that’s the way it is with Jesus. You must be finished before you can
start.”
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