Monday December 8, 2014 Oh, I’ll keep writing as long as I’m able to think and type. Because you’re important: To me, to us, to others, and because stopping a good thing started is not a good thing. While I can, as long as I can, I’ll look forward to our mutual visits here. And always with humility and thanks because I know for sure that many of you can do a lot better at this than I. I said to the congregation gathered yesterday morning “How glad we were for them to be there.” The real truth is that ‘we be’ because they are there, and would not ‘be’ if they weren’t. Let me add that there is not one person who has left us for whatever reason that I do not honestly miss and sincerely wish could still be ‘out there.’ Yesterday morning was special because a couple we hadn’t seen in years was present and on the way out said, “It was good to be home again.” Thank God for each of them there, and each of you here. Now back to “Man In the Hall.” More of the story as we promised. In the message yesterday I told his story. He came dressed fit to kill in a suit from Great Scott, pushing a cart full of things, and calling out in the night on an inner city street: “Dress clothes, work clothes, all brand new. Dress clothes, work clothes and just for you.” A fellow leaving a shop saw him and wondered what in the world. The tall handsome young man dressed so fine came to a woman sitting on the curb. She was the picture of despair and defeat. She wept so hard her shoulders shuddered. “Dress clothes, work clothes,” he said as he reached down and took her old shawl. He put a brand new one in its place, and touched her heaving shoulder ever so slightly and walked away. As he walked from the woman, the man outside the shop saw the young man’s shoulders shudder, and he could hear him weeping. Weeping loudly. Intrigued, he decided to follow this man a bit longer. Now the young man stopped his cart. A little girl leaned out the open window of a shabby room. Her head was covered with a bloody bandage, and a bit of blood trickled down her face. Her eyes were hollow, and she didn’t speak when he stopped in front of her. “Dress clothes, work clothes,” he said softly, as he walked toward the little girl. He unwrapped the long bloody Ace bandage from her head, gently wiped her wound, smiled brightly at her and put a yellow baseball cap on her head. A hint of a smile appeared, as the tall young man pushed his cart away. He lifted the little girl’s bloody bandage to his own head, and the man observing declared he saw a trickle of blood on the side of this strange man’s face. In just a few moments, the cart stopped again. A man leaning against a telephone pole wearing a torn and weathered jacket stood there in that strange slight light. “How are you?” the young gift giver asked. “Going to work?” The leaning man looked sourly at this out of place fellow, then turned to show he had one arm and had lost the other, “Work?” he said in bitter voice. Lifting his stub, he said, “Viet Nam. They don’t hire people like us.” The young man didn’t hesitate long. He carefully and slowly removed his jacket, extended it toward the man at the telephone pole, a jacket with a right arm in it! “Put it on,” the younger said, “and go to work.” The observer couldn’t believe what he was seeing and had to keep on following. He was totally caught up by this man and in the whole giving and taking thing. Moving more slowly now with some pain the young man stopped his cart near a fellow sleeping on the cold pavement. Covered with a stinking, holey, sticky wool military blanket, the fellow on the street was obviously drunk. Badly drunk and long time drunk . “Dress clothes, work clothes, all brand new,” the tall young man said. The drunk smiled and closed his eyes again. The young man took the old blanket, put a light but warm new one in its place, and paused for just a moment with his open hand on the brow of the sleeping drunk. The observer then saw the young man move on down the street toward that great hill of garbage there. He was now staggering as if drunk himself, his clothing mostly gone, a shawl on one shoulder and the old blanket on the other. He held the bloody bandage in his hand, and had difficulty pushing the cart with only one arm. The young man, one step at the time, climbed to the top of the garbage hill, and lay down—and then he died. The observer, totally taken by all this, went to the nearest liquor store, bought a big bottle and tried to drown all he had seen by drinking every last drop. He then fell into a deep sleep. He actually slept for three days, from a Friday until a Sunday. He was awakened by a sense of light, bright wonderful light. When he looked up the hill, there stood the young man dressed again in wonderful clothing, both arms in place, and he was picking up the old shawl and bandage and blanket, cleaning up where he had lain, When he turned he faced the observer who noticed his face—clean and bright, but with a slight scar where that girl’s wound once was. The observer walked toward him before the tall young man-- now healthy and strong-- could come to him. “Dress me,” the observer said, “Please dress me.” And the young man did. + God did use this story in our worship. It’s a revision, retelling and rewriting of one from Walter Wangrein wrote a long time ago called Ragman. When I read it, I knew I had to tell it in my own words and my own way, and so I did. With sincere thanks to W.W. Always love, always, Keith Yesterday was Pearl Harbor day. Lets pray harder than ever for peace on earth.
Posted on: Mon, 08 Dec 2014 12:38:36 +0000
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