Let me set the scene--imagine a very small old fashioned church, in a very small old fashioned town. This particular little church just happened to have a basement. And in the basement were several rooms. One being a kitchen, and also there was a "fellowship" hall, a classroom, and a storage room. We used to hold our ladies Bible study down in that basement. We were able to make extra rooms by using an accordion type door, it was perfect for small discussion groups, etc.
So, one day as the ladies of my Bible study entered the basement to set up for the morning, something a little out of the ordinary happened. One of my friends went into the small storage area to grab some supplies and let out a little shriek. We all came running--thinking possibly a mouse maybe? Something small like that. However, what we found wasn't a mouse at all. No, it was a boy, or should I say, young man. I'm guessing he was somewhere in the 18 to 20-year-old range. He seemed like a mere boy to me at the time, as my own boys were almost his age. And being a mom, I didn't like to think of my own children as growing up.
My friends, understandably, were a bit shaken up. He looked disheveled and outright scary. The ladies began to back out of the room, however, I did not. My heart immediately connected to him, just as if he were one of my own. There is no other way to explain it, I wasn't afraid of him, nor was I afraid of what he might have hidden in his scruffy duffel bag. In fact, I didn't notice what the others did, I didn't even realize that as I was talking to him, he was clutching that duffle closely to his chest.
He was so afraid, so dirty, so desperate. There was no way that I was going to let him leave without making sure that he was OK. That was the mom in me. I felt the need to care for him, to make sure that he had a place to sleep, something to eat, and clean clothes. As I began to talk with him in a kindly manner, he slowly began to open up. He told me that he had crawled in through the window, he was cold. He had wrapped some old tarps around himself to keep warm. His mother had kicked him out due to drug use. The more he told me, the more I felt that God had brought him to our little church for a reason.
I stood in that little storage room for a long time talking with that boy. He said that I reminded him of his mother, that he missed her and that he wanted to go home but was afraid that she wouldn't let him in. I told him how I would feel if my son came home and asked me to forgive him, promised me he'd stay away from drugs and would get cleaned up. He was sure that she'd never agree. He was not only heartbroken for what he'd become, he was broken period. His very spirit was broken. I could see all this in him as we talked. My friends were waiting in the room next to ours, I could sense them praying for me as I spoke with this boy. I wanted so badly for him to make things right with his mom. I wanted him to be able to go home and to be safe.
After a while I asked him if he was hungry, he said yes. I gave him money for breakfast and then invited him to come to church on Sunday. You can sit with me and my family, I said. You won't be alone. I then encouraged him to go home, ask his mother for forgiveness and then, get clean and sober. I told him that I would help any way possible. And that I would be praying for him. I also gave him my phone number.
That, unfortunately, was the very last time I saw the young man. However, to this day, I still think of him and when I do, I pray for him. God knows where he is, God knows and is taking care of him for me. I truly believe that with all my heart. That He protected that boy and that he eventually got his act together. That is my hope.
The fallout from that little adventure surprised me though. I have to include it in the story, for without it, the account of the past would not be complete. You see, I guess I did not follow protocol. I was told later by the leaders of our little church that I should have immediately called the police. That the boy had broken into our church and that he could have had a gun in his duffle bag. I, by not calling the police, endangered the lives of the other women in the room. I was completely dumbfounded by this statement. I truly was. I wanted to know--since when do we as Christians rely on our human responses to handle situations? Since when do we not rely on the Holy Spirit to guide and direct us? These were my questions. Since when? And if you know me at all, you know that I am one of the most cautious people out there. I am a door locking, backseat car checking, close the drapes at night type of person you'd ever want to meet. I am not naive when it comes to reading people, I am not trusting by nature, especially of strange people hiding in a basement! I am also the mom that practically tattooed be careful on her children's foreheads. In other words--it wasn't like me at all to feel so comfortable with that young man. However, I felt a peace about talking with him and helping him. I truly felt God leading me and protecting me. And, truthfully I wasn't about to let anyone change my mind. In my opinion, I had made the right decision by not calling the police. In fact, that thought had never entered my mind.
I will say this now--my heart was so broken and sad by the responses of those so called leaders, those people that we had placed in authority, those we depended on to pray! No, in retrospect I would not have called the police, I would not have handled the situation any differently. I followed the leading of my God. The God who goes after the one lost sheep, the God who feeds the poor, the God who heals the brokenhearted, the God who is love, compassion, and who gives us hope, the God who died for me and everyone else. No, my kindness to that boy in the basement was driven by a force so much greater than myself. To me, what I saw was a poor damaged, broken, shattered little boy, hovering in the dark, cold, hungry, and needing his mom. That's what I saw. That's what I felt. Maybe the others saw something different. Maybe.
So today as with many other days in the past, I will take the time to pray for that boy from long ago, who was found in the basement by a lady who did not call the police, who gave him money for food and who invited him to church. Today I will pray that as the years went by, he found his way home and is now worshiping his God, in a church somewhere. Maybe his mother is sitting next to him. Yes, I certainly want to think that is the case.
I serve a mighty God. One who heals. One who saves. One who answers prayer. I believe with all of my heart that that boy in the basement was brought to us for a reason. Yes, I truly do. I learned something that day--I learned that no matter what others say or think, my job on this earth is to go by what I feel God is telling me to do. I trust Him. He will protect me. He always has and I know He always will.
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