Are You A Messenger?

Thought I was just plain lost!

Recently the prodding of a very dear friend has led me to examine times in my life when I've been privileged to, really in spite of myself, carry a message from God. Here's one such instance...you be the judge.

Seeking a new church at my husband's request (just the week before finding the one I'm now a member of), I drove my 1st grade son and baby daughter down a long, scenic country highway, early one March Sunday morning two years ago. Thanks a bunch, Yahoo Maps or Google Maps or whoever sent me west when I should've gone east. Frustration mounting, I gave up on my 2nd pass and, glancing anxiously at the clock (yeah, I know "Be anxious for nothing..."), saw the sign for a tiny country church in a middle-of-nowhere hick town. My two kid brothers formerly graced the member roster and I'd warmed one of their pews before so thought, "Why not" and swung the turn. Forgetful of the correct street, I asked a few of the gawking locals who slowly mosied down the road toward the same church I sought, and found a hearty welcome inside. Say, "I'm Tim and Sam's sister" and you're a celebrity, apparently.

Sunday school was...uncomfortable. It felt shallow, odd and touchy-feely. I like to open my Bible with a hungry group of "saints" and sink my teeth into unfamiliar meat. I'd heard all this before, a few too many times and started drifting into lala land. Suddenly, just at the end of class, a man at the end of the table snapped me full alert.

His statement, along the lines of "Pretty much everyone in this part of the country knows the gospel and has no excuse" worked my jaw muscles hard to keep from open-mouthed shock. Then I just felt sad for him. Then adamant, I must just must say something. But the elderly lady teacher prattled in enthusiastic agreement and without a breath closed in prayer. I waited. Everyone's eyes opened and I sprang.

"Please, if I may say something," I blurted, my blue orbs grabbing and holding his gaze. "My dad worked in fair ministry and at his first fair, he met a thirteen year old boy who had never heard of Jesus. He literally did not know who Christ was. That was in (my hometown, just 30 min. drive from there). A lot of people, even around here, have never heard." He flinched. Everyone stared silently at me for a moment. The class ended.

In the hour fifteen minute service that followed, the man's head did not raise from his hands. Sometimes his shoulders shook. I wavered between concern and thanksgiving. Impacted and broken, he was, clearly. But awakened as well. I haven't been there since.

Was I sent on that particular Sunday to that in-the-sticks teensy country church to deliver that specific message to that man? The story and the message weren't mine. I could've been a donkey, no credit does this to me except I managed to drive to the "wrong" church at the right time. Wonder what Brother-whoever-he-was is doing now.

Your comments and any similar stories are welcome and hoped for. Blessings.