A Precious Sight

I was on a plane today sitting next to a dear, elderly woman - probably in her 80's - who was flying to Seattle to visit some of her grandchildren. We talked for awhile of life and family and traveling and her embarrassment about getting to the point of needing to use a wheelchair. And then we noticed a small boy about 2 years old sitting 2 rows ahead of us.

The woman started smiling at him, and his eyes lit up, instantly enthralled. She contorted her face into all sorts of shapes, widening and squinting her aged eyes, pursing her worn lips, blowing her wrinkled cheeks out, and scrunching her weathered nose - all for the sake of connecting with this small, 2 year old boy. And he loved every minute of it. His look of interest turned into a smile, which soon transformed into giggles of glee.

The bonding of an elderly, gentle woman getting nearer and nearer to leaving this earth with a young boy who had just recently entered it. What a precious sight!

Wes' Story

Katelin and I had just learned to knit and crochet from two brothers in their 50’s, Chris and RJ. They frequently sold their needlework wares at the Saturday market and also taught knitting and crocheting “classes” to anyone on the street who had an interest in learning the art along with the desire to listen to their ceaseless banter. Check and check: we were in. After spending some time talking about how they got their starts in the realm of needlework, their families, their past, and working clumsily to create a few rows of knitting, then purling, then knitting, we decided to offer our gratitude for the training and the conversation and move on to be blessed by other homeless men and women of downtown Portland.

We got up and moved to the outer ring of the gathering that was taking place under the Burnside Bridge, looking for people who seemed lonely or available. Suddenly a man approached Katelin and me, wearing 3 coats on a warm September evening and walking with a slight limp and a hooked cane.

In a rough, accusatory voice, he dryly stated, “Let me guess. You guys are volunteers.”

“Yep,” I hesitantly replied, not knowing where this conversation was headed. We had driven the two hours down from Olympia to have the privilege of being a part of the weekly Thursday evening event called “Nightstrike,” put on by Bridgetown Ministries. Dinner was being served, clothes and sleeping bags distributed, popcorn popped, hair cut, feet washed, nails cleaned and filed, litter picked up, and prayers and encouragement offered.

The man continued, “Let me tell you why it’s wrong that I knew you were volunteers just by the way you looked. It’s because of this” – he held up his cane – “that I go into coffee shops and other places and they refuse to serve me, all because of the way I look.” He shook his cane back and forth in emphasis. Before I could respond, he blurted, “so right now, I need 2 straight up dollars to get on a bus.”

My mind struggling to follow the seeming spin in conversation, I replied, “I’m sorry. I don’t have any cash on me at all.” The truth. But another wrong answer in this man’s eyes. “This is the problem with you volunteers. You don’t have cash because all you carry is plastic. Well, I had to earn my way in this life after Vietnam, and you all” – he waved his creased, life-worn hand at us – “get your education and credit cards and everything else given to you by your parents. You don’t have to work for it at all. Now right now, I need two straight up dollars so I can get myself a beer.”

“Not a bus ticket,” I stated.

“Of course not a bus ticket. And of course I wasn’t going to ask for money for a beer because you wouldn’t have given it to me. Let me tell you something, it’s not your business what I spend my money on. I need it, and that’s all you should care about. Now I know you know people here who have some cash, so go ask one of them for a couple of straight up dollars.”

This man had a tough exterior. Really tough. But I wanted to get deeper than the exterior. What was going on in this man’s life that made him so coarse and angry. Not responding directly to his plea for beer money, I held out my hand and offered, “My name’s Kristin, and this is Katelin.”

Hesitantly, he shook my hand and said simply, “Wes.”

“Hi Wes,” I said. And somewhat randomly, yet cutting straight to the point, I continued, “Thank you for serving in the military. Can you share your story about Vietnam?”

His face darkened and he shook his head. “No. And don’t thank me. There’s not a place in Heaven for me because of what I did there, so don’t thank me. I’m not worthy of it.”

My heart rate increased because of the untruthfulness of his comment. “No,” I said, “no matter what you did there, you can be free from that. You can be forgiv….” “No,” he cut me off forcefully, “there’s not a place in heaven for me!” Perhaps he had already heard about the forgiveness offered by Christ’s death. Perhaps he even believed it for other people. But the burden he was carrying would not allow him to believe that his own sins were covered by the death of Christ.

I pressed him, perhaps foolishly. But not willing to remain shallow, I urged, “Tell me your story.”

His already angry demeanor worsened, and his voice became louder and louder throughout his account, but he willingly shared.

“In Vietnam, they used to drop bags of candy from the air for the children, bags that looked something like this.” He held up his half-eaten sack of popcorn. “Then one day, a very small girl” – he held his hand up a little below his waist - “came up to us and stuck one of the candy bags out toward us.” Wes suddenly shoved his bag of popcorn into my sternum, knocking me backward a bit. I tried to suppress my surprise, and willing him to continue, I held my stance and my gaze. By then, his voice was loud, and he was making emphatic hand gestures.

“Except that there wasn’t candy in the bag. There was a bomb. This little girl’s parents had sent her over to us to blow herself up. I watched as my friend and the girl exploded, and then I started firing at anything that moved. I killed men and women and children. And babies. Even babies who had bottles in their mouths. I killed them. When the bomb exploded, I just started shooting everything.”

I looked for emotion on his face and found hardness. My heart broke for this man of 61 years. His actions during a horrible war had left him with an unbearable burden, and he had carried this burden for decades. I wanted so badly for him to find freedom, a deeper freedom than he could have ever imagined fighting for. If only he would realize that no matter what he had done, those things could be forgiven by a God who had already paid the debt for those actions.

Our conversation ended with Wes backing away into the crowd, his hand waving in anger and guilt, continuing to adamantly proclaim that there was no place in heaven for him, refusing to listen to words of Truth.

I do not know what it is like to fight a thankless war, take part in a killing spree in the name of self-preservation, and then live under such an agonizing weight of guilt for 40 years. But please pray for softening. Pray for release. For freedom for all who are yet unwilling to accept the definitive sacrifice that Christ gave. Please pray for Wes.