A Few Boxes

“There’s only a few boxes; I only have a one bedroom apartment” should have been a red flag but it was not. How could my dear husband have gotten us into yet another job that was way over our heads and miles beyond our physical ability? Moving furniture, boxes and other unnecessary treasures from a second story apartment would have been difficult under the best of circumstances but when you throw in an elderly lady bound to a wheelchair and equally as bound to her stuff; there is certain to be a glitch or two.

The story had probably replayed more often than we wish to believe. Her children had “taken her estate” and left her with a small pension to live on and no remarkable contact or assistance. She was truly all alone. The plan was that we would deliver the truck the evening before the move and two volunteers from a local church would load it. We would drive the loaded truck to the new apartment and maybe unload a box or two. However, the next morning plans changed. The relieved look on the faces that met us as we poked our heads around the door to see if help was needed, should have been adequate warning. A quick affirmative chorus started the adventure that would occupy us for the remainder of the day. Her helpers needed helpers and they were happy to see us.

Our journey home that evening would provide plenty of time to rehearse all that actually took place while we were moving furniture. Not only did we have time to compare what motivated us and kept us working that day (Her deceased husband had fought at Normandy, she was someone’s mother and Jesus would have helped this little lady if given the chance), but also, there was time to assess the not so obvious work that we were privileged to do. This was not an easy assignment but it would later become apparent that it was a divine one. The stifling heat and humidity seemed to place an explanation point to every action. Saturated hair and perspiration dripping in your eyes has a way of accentuating any experience. We were frayed mentally by our own agenda, physically stressed by all the “stuff” that had to go to the new apartment, emotionally squeezed by the sad circumstances, and spiritually cornered to do all that we were doing as unto the Lord (with the right heart attitude). We mustered a grateful chuckle as it occurred to us that Jesus had been “given a chance” and in the form of two unlikely moving people, He had helped.

We were there to listen to four different devastating scenarios. Apparently, some very heavyhearted people had come to help this little widow. The heartaches were passionately explained at different times during the day. The hope of God’s Word was shared amid boxes on the tailgate of the moving truck, while wrapping breakables in the middle of a dusty storage unit and while balancing bed frames and waiting for reinforcements. We just thought we were there to help a widow move her world from one side of town to another. God knew that we were there, more importantly, to move His message from one person to another.

One

We’ll call him Mason. He had stumbled over to the Care Fair out of curiosity and found people who would give him dignity. It was obvious he was surprised, almost stunned. He had not gotten the reception that he expected. Usually, people shied away from him especially people that were a different color. Honestly, everyone stayed away from Mason. Years of drug abuse and entertaining other demons had almost robbed him of his humanity.

My vantage point gave me the opportunity to watch the street traffic as well as the people coming and going during the Care Fair. It was interesting to me that *Mason had parked his bike across the street. The rule of the street is: If you want to keep it, keep it close. Mason had parked his bike and walked across to the Care Fair. He was undoubtedly a person of the street, he knew the rule—why wasn’t he following it? Mason fumbled with the buttons on his shirt like a youthful executive during his primary review. As if on cue, his steps shortened and his jaw tightened as he walked past the volunteer with the Care Fair information. Everything about him gave reason for concern. The prayer that slipped from my heart to the throne room of Heaven made more sense to me than trying to out step our latest Care Fair attendee. This disheveled man with the empty eyes and a severe scowl may have evil intent but he was not in charge. The God of the universe, the creator of Heaven and Earth is always listening; it is comforting to know that the control is His.

Care Fairs are a kaleidoscopic statement to the community that we are anxious to meet them, introduce them to the ONE who changed our lives totally and eventually serve their community alongside them. At Care Fairs there are games, food and give-a-ways in a festival atmosphere. During the look for a would-be disturbance, the not so proud owner of a skinned knee pulled at my shirt. After solving the crisis by applying some major first aid equipment, a band-aid, it was time to locate our troubled guest. By this time, there was a steady stream of people. They were meeting volunteers, reaching for the hands of their children and anticipating a fun Saturday morning that would not disturb their wallets.

Finding Mason would not be simple but with each person that joined us, finding this angry young man became more necessary. Much planning and hard work goes into the execution of a Care Fair. One of those strategic steps is prayer for provision and protection. The rapid wandering from point to point looking for the misplaced young man combined with meeting and greeting brought a renewed gratitude for that vital prayer covering. Everything was fine. The God of Heaven was certainly on the morning shift (Psalm 121) and my fretting was an exercise in futility. It seemed that Mason melted into the activity, he was nowhere to be found.

My apprehension over the tight jawed attendee was soon replaced with giving directions to the sno-cone stand and the clothing closet. This was the perfect day: beautiful weather, anxious volunteers, uplifting music, various activities and curious people. This was the combination we had prayed for and seeing it unfold was terrific. The familiar voice accompanied with a tap on the shoulder brought a surprise. Turning around abruptly placed my nose just a couple of feet away from the rumpled, soiled shirt that had been the object of my intense search. Simultaneously trying to extend my hand, produce a sincere greeting and camouflage the shock on my face took a little juggling.

Flanked by volunteers that could not have been more his opposite Mason reached his leathered, ashen, unkempt hand to mine. What happened next brought a heavy mixture of shame and joy. As the volunteers explained bits of the story he had shared with them, Mason ducked his head. It seems that he had almost passed the Care Fair, afraid that he would not be welcomed. There would be time to hear the details but for now, he wanted out of the hell that plagued him. Mason (said) he wanted a new life. His eyes that had seemed almost reptilian, an hour before, were brimming with tears. While nervously, pulling up his sleeve to show ravenous scarring from repeated self-mutilating episodes with a sharp blade, Mason kept begging, “I need help, Mam—I really need help.”

We would take him to a safe place for the night. He would get a hot shower, a good meal and a much-needed night’s sleep. We would begin making phone calls and Mason could be in an appropriate treatment facility within six weeks. If a person clears the waiting time, they have a good chance of successfully completing a program. Waiting for a slot in treatment is one of the most difficult parts of rehabilitation. One volunteer stood with him while he gave us random information. The other went to get hamburgers for our hungry friend. An updated wild man of Gadera (Mark 5) was standing before us. The words “cutting himself and sitting among the tombs” was exactly how he had spent the last 10 years of his existence. The same Jesus who restored sanity to the demoniac could heal Mason’s deep inward pain evidenced by the outward scars.

According to Mason, he “stayed” a couple of blocks from the church. We were familiar with the house that he described and were not surprised that this was where he had landed. He would take the bike back; it did not belong to him. He would make a phone call to his grandmother; she would be so happy that he was going to get help. Mason would get some clothes together and be back in a few minutes. The volunteers that waited for Mason were very discouraged when, he did not return.

Since Mason’s explanation of his plans was all too familiar; my expectations were not as vulnerable. Our encounter with Mason was very successful. He did not leave the way that he came. Mason carried away intangibles that he will not escape. Mason will not be able to get “high” enough to erase the scripture that The Shepherd’s Staff volunteers shared with him. The streets of Montgomery seemed to have swallowed him up and he is once again hidden like he was at the Care Fair. However, the memory of our unexpected welcome and the kindness that he was shown will come to mind when he least expects it. A seed of hope was planted in hard soil that warm spring day. All the planning and preparation, all the hard work and tedious coordination, all the efforts of the volunteers and support of the church members may have been orchestrated in Heaven so that one hardened drug addicted “nobody” (society’s perspective) could come face to face with Truth. One is a huge number in Heaven.

The Roof Man

The roof had been leaking for quite some time and this was the third estimate; the other two though a little steep were comparable. The roof was not going to repair itself and my dear husband had done a whole lot of patching to no avail. After enduring the numerous buckets scattered across the kitchen, the idea was to hire a professional but the wiry, weathered option under the ragged cap was not my first choice. There was something very wrong with hiring a roofer that did not have a ladder. Besides, everyone knows that contractors drive trucks, not broken down old cars. However, Linnie was convinced this was the man he was to hire. There was not even a second guess when the roof man needed to “borrow” gas money to get home after giving his quote.

It would take more than a written estimate and a few technical roofing words thrown at me to convince me that we had made the right choice. My convincing would come when raindrops were no longer an inside issue and not until. My best skeptic face accompanied me during each encounter with the ragged roofer. However, there was no way to ignore the progress. The man on the roof was not only competent at his work but he was also a confident communicator. While we listened, he became an important person instead of a mistakenly chosen contractor. Life had pounded him soundly. Difficulty was woven throughout his humorous stories. His truck had been destroyed in a fire, his wife lived with a very serious illness and he had a colorful history. Interestingly, the sadder notes of the roofer’s song did not play as loudly as the happy part.

“Headed to work?” his question cheerfully bounced from the housetop. My explanation that this part of my day would be training prospective foster/adoptive parents brought a somber response and request. After his second sentence, my mind began jumping ahead of him filling in the blanks. It seemed that he had agreed to take in a friend’s child to help while the friend was serving time in prison. Having no idea what that agreement would require, the roof man and his ailing wife watched as this little person in their charge began destroying everything in sight, including setting fire to his work vehicle (Rewind: “Everyone knows that contractors drive trucks”).

Tears began to push the dust off his ruddy cheeks as he explained how he had not been able to care for the child but had suffered many sleepless nights wondering what had actually happened to him. “They (*DHR) had told me that I would be able to keep some contact with him but it never happened.” “He was so bad, I can’t imagine anyone being able to handle him. I should have tried harder but, my wife was so sick…Maybe you can help me, I just have to know what happened to him.”

This story was all too familiar. Thankfully, from his position on the roof he could not see my shock. Pretending to cover my eyes from the sun while nodding in his direction seemed to keep him from noticing the amazement that stamped itself from my forehead to my chin. My thought at that very moment: “God, You are awesome…amazing, fabulous…and everything in between”.

Two days later, the roof man left our house with a spring in his step; He had his answer. The child that he had tried to help was safe, well adjusted and living the life every little boy dreams about. He had in fact done the “right” thing by taking the little guy to the authorities so long ago. Relief replaced the heavy load of guilt that he was finally able to set aside. It was as if time rolled back a bit; the severe lines in his face gave way to a huge smile. The information he was given was enough to lighten the horrid load he had been carrying. We had already discussed the importance of confidentiality. The roof man knew that if we were able to get any information from DHR, it would be slight. He understood and the information he had been given was enough.

The job was finished in less than a week. The roof man left with a promise to stay in touch. We will pray for him. In Heaven, we will be able to tell him that we were the foster family and the child was never moved from home to home (a possibility that haunted him). It will be great to tell the incredible story of how God brought his adoptive family to us and how He (true to His Word) sets the solitary in families (Psalm 68:6). The picture of that young boy and the happy (adoptive) family is once again in its prominent place in our den, their story safe and lives undisturbed. The roof man is on to his next job and we are more convinced than ever that God will move Heaven and earth to heal the broken hearted. Occasionally, He lets us see a thread or two of the tapestry; when He does, it is simply fantastic.


Follow up note on this story: The roof man finished his work on our roof on Friday afternoon. The following Monday, Montgomery experienced what some meteorologists called a “500 year event” with torrential rain and flash flooding all over the city. It was the worst rain that many Montgomery residents can ever remember. Over 10 inches fell in Montgomery that day within a few hours – zero drops of rain fell into my kitchen. Thank you Mr. Roof Man and bless you Lord. You are good all the time!

*Department of Human Resources