Mar. 16, 2008 ~ Shelter from the Storm
A certain young man comes to our church for weekly karate lessons. There is something about him which makes everyone nervous and uncomfortable. He looks and acts like a criminal in the making. He is disrespectful of his instructor; he will not do even the simplest things that are asked of him. He disregards the signs posted in the parking lots, the ones which read �NO skateboarding, skating, or bicycles allowed on church property.� The instructor�s sister knows the boy�s family from way back, knows that the father has been in and out of prison for much of the boy�s life.
The boy has been told to come for lessons no sooner than one hour before class, because that is when the instructors arrive. We don�t allow unaccompanied minors in the buildings � a lesson learned the hard way. But the boy gets off the school bus much earlier than the instructors show up. He skateboards in the parking lot or smokes in the prayer garden, giving surly, defiant looks to anyone who crosses his path. We suspect that the bus is his only way to get here, that no one from home could or would drive him, so he comes early and just grumps around. I wonder at the wisdom of teaching a young thug to be a better fighter. I�m sorry to say that my heart, generally all soft and mushy, has become hardened to this young man.
A couple of weeks ago we had quite a nasty bit of weather here, with heavy rain, high winds, and hail. I warned Pastor that the storm was coming, and maybe he would like to move his truck to a safer location. He said he would, and suggested I do the same. But by the time I got my keys, it was already too late. So I stood safely inside the church doors, looking out at the storm, and at the forlorn young man on the bench just outside the door, where the rain and hail were falling. It took all of about a nano-second for me to motion for him to come inside. In clear violation of the rules. He stood beside me, wet and puppy-like, and we watched, wide-eyed, as the wind and rain and hail showed us all who was in charge.
Somehow, standing next to me, he didn�t seem so thuggish, and the hairs on my arms didn�t stand up in alarm. He just seemed like somebody�s son, a wet little boy in a teenager�s body. And that hard place in my heart grew soft and sweet again.
Now on Tuesdays, I don�t worry anymore. I know he is out there, skating or smoking or who knows what, but it doesn�t bother me so much. I don�t know why. He hasn�t changed. But there was something about the look on the boy�s face when he was afraid of the hail, which touched the mother in me. I wanted nothing more than to say, �Come on in, hon. You�re safe here.�
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