The old mortar and brick of the village buildings were scarred and what was left of the roads were a pimpled face, pocked mark version of their former days. The year was 1942 and the conflict with Britain and Germany was in full swing. Townspeople hid most of the time and normal, everyday services were down to a minimum as the community waited for the war… just over the next hill. Men had been parsed out in an attempt to keep the world, and this small community, safe from the tyrants. Only a few shops remained open, and most only opened once or twice a week.
This great endeavor seemed desolate, it seemed in vain, and it seemed as if the world was changing not for the better, but for the worse. The pages of this story were turning faster as the edges became more worn and torn, just like the lives of this war. The struggle for ‘right’ had taken a new turn. It wasn’t about politics any longer, it wasn’t about gas prices, it wasn’t even about personal freedoms. It was about our, the human race’s right, to live freely. Much as it is our nature, we couldn’t agree on ‘how’ to make that happen, and once again, as history had shown, the tyrants of the day claimed a solution. Their solution was that a race of people had to cease existing, so for freedom’s sake, for money’s sake, the ability to ‘choose’ to live, grow and ‘be’ was put to the test… again.
See the ‘idea’ of being right actually meant something back then. ‘Right’ was the definition of ‘living free’ vs. being murdered because of your heritage, or living in servitude to the next biggest bully. Today, ALL of our information sources are built on essentially a good sitcom model. Find the dramatic fools in life and put them on center stage… hence, Washington. There will NEVER be an end to the foolishness that abounds, and for some reason, I guess, our lives are so empty that we must continue with the drug of finger-pointing; who is right and who is wrong.
As a Christian, I’ve spent a number of years within and outside of my crowd, contemplating the message of Christ with the world around me. I’ve participated and watched from a distance, the message being taken and turned into a ‘right vs. wrong’ club membership, or the ‘highjacking’ of God’s love into only God’s judgment. My own alma mater is struggling with how to stay ‘relevant’ in this modern ‘internet, a world connected age’ and the critics on both sides are firing away. In essence, we are firing our own bombs, thinking that not only our right to speak is essential but that our speech is ‘right’.
The war will never cease till we find the heart of Christ….
Down the pocked marked street a single dark green jeep threads it’s way through the small chasms left. It is evening and the slitted darkened headlamps barely peep out enough light for the soldier driving to see.
As he works his way through town, dodging the potholes or small craters, he sees one store still lit, with a bedraggled little figure, nose pressed to the glass, staring in. Curious, he pulls the jeep over, parks with a slight jolt as he lets the clutch out and the engine dies as he walks up to the little boy. Homeless, with little chances of survival and nowhere to turn, the boy was dreaming of donuts.
“Would you like a donut?” the soldier asks.
“Yes sir,” the boy answers, with a brightness that lights the dark evening.
The soldier, really one of the few during this time that carried money, walks into the store and speaks to the shop owner. The street urchin stares in wonder trying to figure out what they are saying. The big cash register blocks his view so he can’t see what is occurring. There is a handshake, an exchange of coins, and the soldier walks back out.
The evening chill settles in as the soldier leans over and hands, to the amazement of the little boy, a whole bag of donuts.
“Here you go, little fellow.”
With shock and amazement on his dirty face, the little boy carefully takes the bag as a new mother would hold her baby for the first time.
The soldier smiles and heads back to the jeep. Just as he starts to climb in, he feels a little tug on his paints. He turns and looks down into the wondering, saucer size, wide eyes of this boy.
Bashful but full of the persistence of one who has learned the hardness of life, the little boy asks one question…
“Mr., are you Jesus?”
Let’s just say, with all of our finger-pointing, with all of our pontificating, I wonder if the message of Christ is the most powerful, most ‘heard’ when no one is looking, and it’s spoken through the language of a simple act of kindness, of small gifts, the moments where the link between us all connects in a flash, like the sun glinting off the rippling water of a pond, to show His love not in word but in-deed…
Peace on your Journey this week.
