Everything good dreams are made of.

TapTapTapTapTap.

Each poke of her little index finger on my shoulder hit the elevator button on my slumber, bringing me up from a sub-terrainian Stage 5 sleep to the lobby of reality.

Ding.

“Huh? Hey, Emma…what is it, baby?”

“I have a headache and my stomach hurts.”

So much for the happy place. I’d love to close my eyes and go back. But on this day I’ve been tapped out of my dreams.

Dreams. We are fascinated by them. So much so that they are part of our speech. “You’re dreaming”, we say to someone we think to be living in La-La Land or are hoping for something impossibly out of reach. To which they may reply, “Oh well, I can dream can’t I?”, expressing that hope really does spring eternal.

“Dream with me!” says the team leader at work when he wants to inspire thinking outside the box, or cubicle, as it were. And when the cumulative results are presented to the boss, she may say, “This is what happens when we dream big!” Or she might say, “Nice try. But it’s a pipe dream…” a poetic way of saying you’d come up with better ideas after an all-nighter in an opium den.

Guys hope for their “dream girl”. Girls hope for their “dream guy”. And in the dreaming neither stop to consider that even if and when they find them they will be creatures who squeeze the toothpaste in the middle and leave wet towels on the floor.

People speak of their “dream job” and their “dream vacation” knowing that if they can ever figure a way to combine the two they’d be “living the dream”, a phrase that suggests there’s no point in sleeping because what you see with your eyes open beats anything you’ll see with them shut.

Dreaming is the hope for something better. Something grander. Something that takes us beyond ourselves. Out of the mundane mud into the golden glory. Wherever we find ourselves, we long to live and exist on a higher plane. A tall order in this broken world, but we still try because inherent in each of us is a desire to be more than we are. We all want to live the dream.

It’s the broken world part that gets in the way.

Some 55 days ago my friend Greg was living the dream. Beautiful wife, three precocious children, and a job he enjoys. Because of a senseless, thoughtless driver, Greg’s dream was shattered when his wife Leigh Ann was killed.

My high school friend Crysti watched her Mom pass away last week after a long battle with cancer. She already lost her sister to that disease.

A few days ago one of my Facebook friends sadly posted, “Baby Jackson lost his fight to survive today. At 6:52pm today, Jackson Thomas Watt took his last breath on earth & his first breath in Heaven…he’s with his Maker now…we love you little man…”

When it comes to dreams, Greg and Crysti and Jackson’s parents are all tapped out.

Maybe you are, too.

Psalm 121:4 tells us that God never sleeps. Nor does He slumber. And in that verse the Psalmist describes God as “Israel’s protector”. There’s a degree of security in having a body guard. But even they need sleep. Imagine a protector who never tires and never needs a nap? Better, imagine that same Protector as the One protecting you?

In this broken world, some of our dreams will turn to nightmares. They are awful and terrifying. Yet even in these, God is our protector who never sleeps. When our dreams are broken, when our dreams seem impossibly far away, God is wide awake; always paying undivided attention to the details of our lives. We may toss and turn, yet God is here for us with the divine calm that comes from having everything under control.

I did manage to go back to sleep. That happy place was just around the corner. I could feel it.

TapTapTapTapTap.

Ding.

“Daddy…I had a bad dream.”

“No worries, Annie. It’s all good. God’s right here.”

“I will lie down and sleep peacefully, for you, Lord, make me safe and secure.” – Psalm 4:8

Todd A. Thompson – ASliceOfLifeToGo.com

I go in hopes that Bob will be on duty.

It’s supposed to be a three hour drive from Lubbock to Roswell but it’s funny how the wide open spaces make 65 miles per hour appear so very slow and 75-80 miles per hour appear so very reasonable. On my first trip to Roswell last year I pulled into Sam’s Club to refuel. When I look up, the attendant is standing there. I’ve never seen an attendant at a Sam’s Club gas pump. Usually they are holed up in the little cinder block building watching TV. Yet here he stands. Baseball cap, mustache and the blue Sam’s Club vest with an I.D. badge pinned to it.

“I see by those Texas plates that you’re traveling somewhere. Is there anything you need prayer for?”

My first reaction is to look around. Isn’t that curious? Am I on camera? I’ve been to Wal-Mart and Sam’s Club more times than I can count. I expect low prices. I don’t expect their employees to pray for me.

I give Bob a closer look. He doesn’t look like a nut job. He looks normal. More importantly, he seems sincere. And with his question, definitely a cut to the chase kind of guy. I like that.

“Now that you ask, I sure do. It’s been a tough day and I could use all the prayer I can get.”

With no more small talk, Bob launched into a prayer. He prayed for me. For safe travel. For God’s intercession in the problems of my life. He asked God to bless me. Then he said, “Amen” and told me to drive safely before turning his attention to the next car.

As I opened my driver’s door I couldn’t see him but I heard him ask someone, “Is there anything you need prayer for?”

From that initial visit God has blessed me with a growing number of customers in Roswell. Wonderful, encouraging people and more reasons to return. Without fail, I always go to Sam’s to fill up my tank because I want Bob to pray for me. He prays for so many people that I’m not sure he even remembers that he’s prayed for me multiple times before. But it doesn’t matter. While the digits on the pump keep track of  the gallons and dollars and cents, Bob prays. He’s prayed for me, my kids, my safety in traveling, that God would intercede in circumstances beyond my control, and that God would bind the enemy from doing evil in those same circumstances. And every time I drive away blessed that someone cares. That someone has lifted me and my concerns up to God.

Though I can’t imagine why, not everyone wants prayer. I’ve seen people smile awkwardly and respond to Bob’s offer to pray for them with a, “Nope, I’m fine” or “I’m good, thanks.” But it doesn’t stop Bob from asking. And I bet it doesn’t stop Bob from praying. He will pray for the self-assured guy in the Chevy Avalanche anyway. Prayer doesn’t have to be loud to be effective. Who knows how many of these same people chalk up their good fortune or near misses to dumb luck, when in reality it was Bob’s silent prayers for them as they drove away that made the difference?

Roswell has plenty of good churches. We expect ministry to happen in church. That is as it should be. Yet I wonder if people realize that the gas pumps at Sam’s Club are a place where earth touches heaven? A place where problems and hurts and worries and fears are lifted up to God? A place where kind words and encouragement are spoken? A place where strangers are welcomed and cared for?

Who wouldn’t shop at a place like that?

Come to think of it, who wouldn’t go to a church like that?

And if our churches aren’t like that, why aren’t they like that?

We expect ministry to happen in church. That is as it should be.

Wherever we are and whatever we do, we can pray for others.

That is as it should be, too.

Be a Bob.

“Continue earnestly in prayer, being vigilant in it with thanksgiving…” – Colossians 4:2

Todd A. Thompson – ASliceOfLifeToGo.com

“Hi, I’m Greg.”

“I’m Todd. Good to meet you.”

Dr. Oberholtzer opened the class by asking everyone to introduce themselves. When it came around to our table, my new acquaintance said, “I’m Greg Tonkinson…and I’m scared out of my mind.”

I liked him right away.

We were all scared. But Greg voiced what everyone was feeling. How can you even begin to see the end of a 94-hour Master’s degree on the first day? We had no idea what was ahead.

The unknown becomes known, one day at a time.

Over the next few years we spent tens of hundreds of hours together riding back and forth to seminary classes, sitting in class, talking ministry and theology over coffee, working on staff together at FBC-Tempe, planting a church, and playing in worship bands together.

Today my friend Greg is once again scared out of his mind. His beloved wife Leigh Ann was killed in a car accident on Saturday night. Leigh Ann was only 35 years old. I don’t remember ever seeing her without a smile on her face. A kind and gentle spirit, she was a nursing supervisor at Phoenix Children’s Hospital. More importantly, a godly wife to Greg and amazing Mom to three children.

Everyday we drive our cars and trucks down streets and roads and freeways, and almost always our minds race faster than the wheels we ride on. Schedules, work assignments, kids, to do lists, errands to run, and people to call. We multi-task at 60 miles per hour and our thoughts are almost always focused on what we are going to do next.

Only a series of painted white and yellow lines separate us from life and serious injury. Or life and death. We count on the fact that the other person will stay on their side of the line. And when they don’t it all comes to a tragic screeching halt.

And life is never the same.

Can I say it? Even Bible verses sound trite in times like this. Romans 8:28 promises that “God works all things together for good to those that love Him and are called according to His purpose.” True. And I believe that. But I hope no one says that to Greg for at least a year. Because from where he stands it’s impossible to see how losing your wife and best friend and mother of your children in a horrific accident could ever be worked into anything positive.

Psalm 138:8 promises that “God will accomplish everything that concerns me.” True again. Yet this side of heaven how can anyone who knew Leigh Ann comprehend that God accomplished everything that concerned her when she leaves behind a grieving husband and three young children?

Inherent in God’s sovereignty is that it will rarely make sense to us.

God’s promises are there. And they are true. And we take comfort in them. If not now, eventually. Yet for now, in these moments and days of stunned shock and disbelief, there are no words.

My friend and Pastor Duane Cross is no stranger to grief. He and his wife Sheri lost their 10-year old son Tyler in a car/bicycle accident. A couple of their closest friends were missionaries in Africa and were unable to return for the funeral. They sent a letter of condolence in which they said that within the African tribe they were living with, their word for “grieve” means “to sit in tent with”.

How profound. No words. Only “to sit in tent with”.

My friend Greg is scared out of his mind. How can you even begin to see the end of the rest of your life on the first day without your best friend? He has no idea what’s ahead. He will need people to “sit in tent” with him as his unknown becomes known, one day at a time.

Leigh Ann’s death makes no sense. There’s nothing good about it and everything bad about it. In our anger and sadness and confusion and agony and grief…God and His promises are there.

Even, and perhaps especially, when there are no words.

Greg, I love you, brother. I promise to keep you and yours in my prayers every day.

“God is near to the brokenhearted. He saves those who are crushed in spirit.” – Psalm 34:18

Todd A. Thompson – ASliceOfLifeToGo.com

Just inside the door was a guest book inviting those who entered to sign and leave a note if they wished. Flipping through the pages I remembered why DFW is one of the world’s busiest airports. There were signatures from all over the globe.

Abu Dhabi. France. South Africa. Japan. Guatemala. China. And exotic places like Indiana, Iowa and South Dakota. Beside the name and address line was a space for people to leave a message. The notes inked on the page reminded me that wherever we live on the planet, life happens. Sometimes good and sometimes painful, but life happens everywhere.

Someone in Arkansas asked prayer for their Dad’s health. A passenger from Texas wanted prayer for success in their new job. A man from Cleveland, Ohio asked people to pray for wisdom and guidance. A Mom in Michigan asked people to pray for her son’s safety as a police officer. A woman from Wisconsin wrote joyfully with an exclamation point that she was off to a mission trip in China. “Christ Is King!”, she said.

A wife in Michigan wrote, “Please pray for my husband and father-in-law as they both deploy to Iraq on September 2nd. Oh, and for fertility issues.”

Sometimes life doesn’t just happen. Sometimes it piles on.

A mom from Texas used a black ball point pen to write, “My son drowned in a river in New Hampshire. I’ve just come back from seeing the river.” Peeking out from underneath the 3-ring binder was a copy of the eulogy handed out at her son’s funeral. His picture on the front and his life summed up on a single page. A twenty-something kid who made his living designing and making costumes for Shakespearean theaters around the country. 

Airlines take us places and airlines bring us home again. I wish it were as easy to lose our grief as it is for them to lose our luggage.

The last person to sign was a man from Israel. He said simply, “Thanks for providing a place of prayer.” I flipped back through the pages one more time, glancing at the names and addresses and requests. Men and women, a sampling of humanity across the globe, intersecting here in this international airport. Each stopping in this chapel long enough to pray and jot a brief request in hopes that someone might talk to God for them about the life that’s happening in their corner of the world.

I said a prayer for each and added my name to the list. Turning to leave, I thought about the people who might find their way to this room after my plane was gone. Is there a message I’d like to leave them?

Life’s a real head banger no matter where we live. What keeps any of us going? Only the thought that there has to be a purpose behind the pain. That somehow God, in spite of what we see, knows what He’s doing. On my worst days, that can be a stretch to believe. On my better days, my faith sees dimly. Thankfully, God’s faithfulness isn’t dependent on how my day is going.

I wrote to encourage myself as much as anyone else.

“Hold tight to your faith…God can be trusted.”

“Let us hold fast to the confession of our hope without wavering, for He (God) who promised is faithful.” - Hebrews 10:23

- Todd Thompson    www.ASliceOfLifeToGo.com

The girls and I have a way of cramming a lot of theological discussion into the 15-minute drive to 1st grade.

Annie wonders out loud, “So we’ll get to see all our friends up there, right?”

Her question unknowingly intersected with my homesickness. I really miss all my friends back in the Phoenix valley. The people here in this new place have been more than kind. It’s made the hard work of starting life over not quite as daunting. Still, they are all new. Everything is new here. It’s the difference between the brand new loveseat at the furniture showroom and the favorite couch at your best friend’s house. The difference between sitting gently and not for long and flopping down, hugging a pillow and settling in for the entire four quarters of Monday Night Football.

New takes time to become comfortable.

Emma must have caught my expression in the rear view mirror. “Are you okay, Daddy?”

“I’m fine, baby.”

I thought she’d press the question. But it’s like she knew what I was thinking.

“You’ll make new friends here, Daddy.”

Who is this kid? Ten minutes ago we were standing in front of the bathroom mirror battling over ponytail vs. “some up, some down”. Now she’s Yoda, the life coach with a Hello Kitty backpack.

“That’s right, Daddy.” Annie joins. I love when they do this. The twin dynamic never ceases to intrigue me. They share a brain. And whatever thought they offer is delivered in stereo.  “It’s just like the song we sing at Girl Scouts, Daddy.”

I was going to ask what song but all Annie had to do was sing the first word and by the next eighth note Emma was in perfect sync and perfect pitch.

“Make new friends, but keep the old.

One is silver and the other is gold.

A circle is round, it has no end.

That’s how long I want to be your friend.”

A relational reality of living in a fallen world is that those we love are never “all together”. Even perfect attendance reunions of friends and family are only momentary distractions; a weekend glimpse of what life would be like without separation. When everyone gets in their car to go home, we all go back to loving from a distance.

The Bible says that no one can imagine what God has prepared for us in heaven. That we can count on. No one does surprises like God. And just think what He can do with all this time to prepare? And while I can’t point to chapter and verse to back this up, I have to believe a big part of heaven will be enjoying all the friends we’ve ever made without the tyranny of a fixed schedule. There is a freedom in “forever”. Not the least of which is never having to say the word “good-bye” again.

Till then God calls us to “…one another” one another. Pray for one another. Bear one another’s burdens. Encourage one another. Cry with one another. Laugh with one another. Serve one another. Forbear and forgive one another.

We do this where we live, wherever we live. Making new friends. Silver, perhaps, for the moment. But they will all be gold up there.

With no end.

“Eye has not seen nor ear heard what God has prepared for those who love Him.”

- 1 Corinthians 2:9

Todd A. Thompson – www.ASliceOfLifeToGo.com

“Daddy, look! There’s Hazel!” Annie and Emma take off running to give her a hi and a hug.

At the other end of the long hall, sitting in her wheelchair, is Hazel. She came here a couple months ago after suffering a stroke. A Southern belle originally from Baton Rouge, her soft Louisiana voice is charm school sweet and dipped in Mint Julep.

During our first conversation the topic of her age came up. Her daughter told me she was 93.

“Hazel,” I said, “I’m gonna take you to the fair and make a lot of money having people guess your age because there’s no way you’re 93.”

“Why, thank you.” Her smile seemed to agree that I’d make bank.

Hazel’s memory has been affected by the stroke. Almost like a sporadic dementia. Some days we visit without difficulty. On this day, her short-term memory has stepped out for a bit. She is slowly wringing her hands; anxious, fretful and nervous.

“I’m hoping they’ll come for me. If I sit here I think I’ll see them. I hope they find me.”

Her daughter Nita is running errands and will be back in an hour or two. Hazel has forgotten that. She squeezes her hands together and leans forward in the direction of the elevator, anxiously looking for the familiar face that will put her heart at ease.

Emma pats her shoulder. “It’s ok, Hazel. We’re right here.”

Perhaps a distraction will help. “Hazel, I’m sure Nita will be back soon. You can hang out with us while we put out the flowers. Why don’t you come along with us to the rooms. Emma can push your wheelchair.”

“I can push you, Hazel.” Emma grabs the handles and Annie puts a hand on her shoulder.

Hazel is lost in her worry. “I hope they come for me. Because I’m here. I hope they come for me.” She looks up at me with tears in her eyes. “I’m right here, you know.”

“I know, Hazel. And we’re right here with you.” And we are. But we’re not sure if today is a day that Hazel can know that.

We begin putting out the flowers. Hazel doesn’t want to move, afraid she might miss whomever she is hoping for to come around the corner.

We make our rounds, visiting with our elderly friends while replacing last week’s roses with fresh ones. By the time we get around to Hazel’s room, a nurse’s aide has helped her into bed. Her demeanor is changed. She seems relaxed. At peace. I wonder what happened to make it so.

She points to Annie and Emma with excitement. “They found me! I was waiting for someone to find me. And they found me!” Hazel is happy now.

Making certain she has my attention, she points to Annie and Emma. “These are my precious little girls. They are my fairy princesses. I see their angel faces in my dreams.”

I don’t doubt that she does.

As I turn to leave for the next room, Hazel reaches up and squeezes my hand. Hard. With a relieved smile she says, “I’m so happy to be found.”

Sometimes we wander through our days oblivious that we are lost. Sometimes we feel lost and we’re fearful that what is comforting and familiar to us will never return. Sometimes we’re running hard away, knowing full well we are lost but afraid of what will happen if we stop long enough to admit it.

However it happens, being lost is scary.

Saying goodbye to the patient in the last room, I go looking for Annie and Emma. I hear crazy loud laughter coming from Hazel’s room.

Peeking in I see the three of them playing volleyball with a balloon. Hazel, laying down in her bed says, “Oh, girls, you’ve got to hit it harder than that. You’ve got to really smack it!”

Smack!

Hazel serves up a high floater.

The girls giggle and trip over themselves, whacking it back to her. The volley goes between them till Hazel’s return puts the balloon out of reach, stuck in the lamp.

“Hazel!”, the girls shriek, “What a shot!”

Hazel is proud. She showed them how to really smack it.

I step quietly away. It would be a sin to stop this game.

More giggles. More “smacks!”. More laughter.

Indeed, it is a happy thing to be found.

“Then Jesus told them this parable: “Suppose one of you has a hundred sheep and loses one of them. Does he not leave the ninety-nine in the open country and go after the lost sheep until he finds it? And when he finds it, he joyfully puts it on his shoulders and goes home. Then he calls his friends and neighbors together and says, “Rejoice with me; I have found my lost sheep. I tell you that in the same way there will be more rejoicing in heaven over one sinner who repents than over ninety-nine righteous persons who do not need to repent.”

- Luke 15:1-7

- Todd A. Thompson   www.ASliceOfLifeToGo.com

A gathering of friends to watch Monday Night Football. A Pampered Chef party. A Neighborhood Watch meeting. Maybe even a Bible study.

There’s lots of houses in this valley of 3 million people and more cars than houses. So many cars that to the eye they become invisible moving pieces against a background of stucco houses and palm trees.

The extra cars parked in front of the house could have been there for any reason. Those that drove by in their minivans full of kids coming home from soccer practice or clarinet lessons probably didn’t give it a second thought, save an extra tap on the brake to cleanly split the middle between the Ford Expedition and the Chevy Silverado pickup parked on either side of the street. We live in a big city. Cars park anywhere and everywhere at every hour of the day. As long as we get from A to B and back again without a scratch to ours or anyone else’s, it’s a good day.

The extra cars parked in front of the house could have been there for any reason. Unless someone told you, you wouldn’t know their drivers were inside doing their human best to comfort the family of a young man who, for reasons no one will ever know, made the decision to silence the ghosts of his mind with a bullet through his head.

There was an extra car parked in East Mesa a couple nights before. The young man behind the wheel, parked in a favorite spot. He’d been there many times before to escape the city lights and look up at the stars. No one knows if he looked up this night or if he looked only at the gun in his hand. Only God knows what his thoughts were, what words were spoken, or how he expressed the torment and pain that pushed him to his limit. Only God knows.

From now on there will be one less car in the driveway of this house. Unless we’ve experienced the same, we can only imagine the pain. We can only imagine the reality of living the rest of our life without a beloved son or grandson or brother. Only God understands what happened. Only God has the answers. Only God knows. We make ourselves too big and God too small when we pretend otherwise.

The extra cars parked in front of the house were there for a reason. The pickup was big, but not big enough to hold any answers. Just big enough to bring people to gather around the grieving. To hug and to hold. To cry and to comfort. To sit and stare. To pause and to pray.

The stucco houses all look the same. Yet behind every front door are unique human beings created in the image of God who share the common burden of living in a fallen world. We don’t always have answers but we have God and we have each other. In the face of tragedy, we often discover both. When ours is the extra car in front of the house, we’re showing the love of God as best we can by “comforting one another with the comfort with which we ourselves have been comforted by God”.

On its best days, life is rough and tumble. You don’t have to wait for a crisis to comfort and encourage. Be the person who drops by to say, “I was thinking about you today. How’s life?” Be the person who makes dinner and brings it over to your friend just because it’s Tuesday. Be the one who sends the funny email to give someone a laugh. Be the person who buys the coffee and listens to the concerns. Be the friend who says, “I’ve been there and God helped me through.” When you bring comfort and encouragement, nobody minds if you park in front.

Be the extra car in front of the house.

Because the day will come for all of us when we’ll want a crowd in our driveway.

“Blessed be the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Father of mercies and God of all comfort; who comforts us in all our affliction so that we may be able to comfort those who are in any affliction with the comfort with which we ourselves are comforted by God.” – 2 Corinthians 1:3-4

She must have asked the question at least three times but I didn’t hear her over the spray of the garden hose. It was a Saturday afternoon during my last year of seminary. I was washing my truck in the driveway and a couple of stubborn tar spots on the bottom of the driver’s door were receiving my undivided attention. When it finally registered that someone was talking to me I looked up to find a girl standing on the sidewalk, a polite distance away.

“Excuse me”, she said again, “Could I possibly get something to drink? I’m walking to a friend’s house over on the other side of Mesa Drive and I forgot to grab a water bottle before I left.”

“Sure. No problem. Wait here. I’ll be right back.”, is what I said. “Thanks”, she said and smiled a very pretty smile as she unshouldered her bag and set it down beside her. It was a big bag. One of those oversized canvas duffle bags that causes certain husbands to wade into the perennially fruitless marital argument over luggage and how he could live out of a bag that large for a year so why can’t his wife survive out of it for a short weekend?

The bag looked heavy. Too heavy for a girl to be carrying down the street on a long walk. The black canvas matched the color of her duster coat and leather lace up ropers that peeked out from the legs of her boot cut jeans. Tossing the hose off into the grass and turning toward the house to get her something to drink, I knew this girl had a story. I wondered if I’d have a chance to hear it.

“I’m Todd”, I said, handing her a bottle of water and a phone. “I thought you could call your friend and see if they can come pick you up. That way you wouldn’t have to walk.” She touch-toned a number, got an answering machine and left a message. She handed the phone back to me with a thank you.

“I’m Annie”, she said, extending her hand. I shook it and tried to find the doorway into a conversation.

“So you’re headed to your friend’s house?”

“Yeah, it’s a couple miles from here.” Standing there in front of me she didn’t look any older than 17. I was thinking of my next question but didn’t need to ask it.

“My friend said I could stay at her house for awhile. I just need some time to think. My boyfriend and I broke up ten days ago and I’m not getting along very well with my parents, so this is probably the best. At least for now.” Well, I thought to myself, that explains the bag.

“I know you’re not supposed to ask a lady how old they are”, I said, apologizing in advance,”but will you forgive me if I ask you anyway?” She laughed at that. Like a sudden breeze it momentarily diffused the heavy cloud of reality she had just admitted to living under.

“I’m 19. Almost 20.”

Annie ran a hand through her shoulder length brown hair and pushed it off her face. Almost 20. The time in life when your convictions run faster than your life experience. Still, knowing how old she was made me feel somewhat relieved. When you’re almost 20 you can’t be considered a runaway. At least not technically. But she was running away. She knew that. And she seemed to know that I suspected it, too.

Her eyes caught my eyes looking down at the black canvas duffle resting against her leg. “That’s a nice bag. I’ve thought about getting one of those. You can put lots of stuff in it.”

“Thanks. I like it, too. I’ve got just about everything in here right now. My clothes. My boots. Some books. Even the things my boyfriend gave me.” She tugged on the button hole of her coat. “This duster is…or was, my boyfriend Larry’s. I bought it for him as a birthday present. But that was before…” Her voice trailed off as she remembered she was talking to a total stranger.

“Before you broke up?”, I offered. “Yeah. Before we broke up.” Her matter-of-factness wasn’t enough to mask the sadness in her voice.

“So what caused the break up?”

“I’m not sure, really. I thought we were happy together. His friends didn’t like me spending time with him. They don’t have girlfriends. I think they talked him into breaking up with me.” Annie tried hard to make her assessment sound convincing. Whether it was true or not, it sounded flimsy and she knew it.

Stuffing her hands into her coat pockets she looked down and ran the toe of her boot along a crack in the sidewalk. Then Annie took a deep breath. The kind of deep, serious breath you take right before you shoot straight with the person you’re talking to. The kind of breath you take right before you’re honest with yourself.

“To tell you the truth, up until ten days ago I was living with Larry. I thought for sure we would get married soon. I did everything for him. I put everything I had into our relationship. Because I wanted to. When we broke up, I moved back home with my parents. It’s been awful, being apart from Larry. I really love him.”

She bit down on her lower lip and looked across the street. “And, honestly, I’m really scared right now because I think I might be pregnant and Larry doesn’t know.”

It was an awkward moment. I wanted to let her know I cared but I didn’t know what to say. I reached in to the pile of phrases tumbling around in my mind like shirts in a dryer and grabbed one.

“I’m really sorry to hear that. I don’t know anything about your situation except what you’ve told me. But I’ve listened to lots of people’s problems. I’d be happy to listen to you.”

She gave me a hopeful look. “What do you do?”

“I’m a seminary student.” As soon as I said it, I questioned the wisdom of it. Saying you’re a pastor causes people to either open up like a book or close up like a clam. Occupational hazard, I suppose. I prayed that she would tell me more about this chapter of her life.

When she heard my answer she took a literal step back and swallowed hard on her water. “Wow. Really. That’s, uh,…that’s nice.”

She said “that’s nice” as if it were the main ingredient in her recipe for clam chowder. This conversation was over.

She reached down and snapped together the leather handles on her bag, paused, then stood up again.

“I used to go to church. In fact, I used to go a lot. All the time. You’d probably never believe it but I was one of the main leaders in our youth group. I was even one of the counselors at a Christian camp for high school kids.” And for a moment after she said it, she was quiet. I could almost see her memories of those days flash across her brown eyes. With a tear, Annie looked up and said, “I guess I should have taken my own advice.”

We talked for a while longer. We talked about God and I told Annie what she already knew. That God loved her and that there was nothing she could ever do to cause God to stop loving her. We talked honestly about choices and consequences. Mostly we talked about the grace of God. It was 20 minutes of real life conversation.

Just then her friend pulled up in a white Chevy 4×4. I picked up Annie’s bag for her and set it in the back of the truck. It was every bit as heavy as it looked. We shook hands again and she thanked me for the water. I thanked her for the talk and promised that I would pray for her. They pulled away from the curb, did a U-turn in the middle of the street and waved as they drove off.

I still pray for Annie. And when I do I can’t help but wonder if she’s still carrying that heavy bag.

“Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you and learn from Me, For I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. For my yoke is easy and my burden is light.” – Matthew 11:28-30