Dallas Cowboy football, a buffet of food cooked by my grandmother Minnie, granddad in his easy chair, spittoon at the ready, television playing the game, these were some of the wonderful memories of my childhood. I’m thankful for the good memories but sometimes the bad memories play important roles.
“My life didn’t turn out the way I’d expected,” was how Redford’s Roy Hobbs explained it. How can you explain a San Franciscan, a convert to Christianity who was attending Bible college by day and scrubbing floors by night boldly sharing the gospel with a farm boy from Dadeville. I didn’t have much use for him or his faith at the time. Fast forward a few months. I was working the night shift at a Git-N-Go on the north central side of Springfield, Missouri and a fellow of the lewd and baser sort asked me for some money. It was the gun he held that I found to be quite persuasive. Along about this time a relationship I was involved in was crumbling and I began to look for a new way of living. This was Christmas time 1987 and the next few months were spent in reflection of what would have resulted had the gun been fired.
July 7,1988. I didn’t know much about God but I had been asking the heavenlies for help and I dreamed Charlie Sarchett’s name. That night he let me in the front door of what was then Smitty’s supermarket on north Glenstone and showed me from the Bible who could help me, Jesus the Christ.
To say all has been good since would be false. I have built close relationships only to see them dissolve. I have been part of churches destroyed by wolves in sheep’s clothing. I have had my faith pushed to the point of being extinguished. Even so, please come back soon, Lord Jesus.