Ask Him Again

Author © Scott D. Zachary

       My initiative to turn our 74-acre farm into a technical school for young men from Haiti had put mine and Bobbie’s marriage on the chopping block. In retrospect, that school was one of the best ideas I’ve ever had. Though, the timing could have been better. My having sponsored 29 more children through Children International, in addition to the eight we were already sponsoring through Love-A-Child in Haiti, raised the ax.

       Bobbie was not pleased with, nor even amused by, my unrestrained generosity, especially since I had shut down my software business and delegated the task of earning money to God, who was starting to get behind on His payments. But I had unwavering faith that He would come through.

       Unable to quit drinking altogether, I had been striving for over three months to control my drinking in an attempt to not surrender consciousness to alcoholic blackouts. I was totally unaware that swilling alcohol had been keeping my mania in check for most of my life. Now three months into full-blown mania, I was stepping into a fanciful world of delusion.

       Where does one draw the line between faith and delusion? I’ve never heard anyone reference that distinction. My mania unleashed, that line disappeared. Completely. Lots of wonderful spin-offs resulted from my distorted view of reality, some not so good.

       On this particular day in late July 2009, I was driving to Owensboro so that I could worship the Lord at Owensboro Christian Church some thirty miles away from our house. I had spent tens of thousands of dollars and most of my free time repairing a dilapidated church and parsonage. The leaders of that church had shown their appreciation by ostracizing me over my zealous concern for the Haitians. As well, a chilly expanse had developed between Bobbie and me, so I felt more comfortable attending church elsewhere.

       Driving along Highway 60 near Maceo, I saw a man leaning over the engine of his pickup truck on the opposite side of the road. I pulled onto the berm, rolled down my window, and leaned out. “Need some help?”

       “Yes, please! May I use your phone to call my father-in-law?”

       “Sure.” I walked across the road and handed the obviously frustrated man my phone. He called his father-in-law and handed my phone back to me.

       “My wife’s dad, Frank, is in the middle of fixing his own truck, but he’ll be out to help me in a while. Thank you so much, sir! I’ve been broken down here for hours, and you are the only person who stopped to help me. I’ll bet out of the hundreds of folks who’ve passed by me on this Sunday morning, most were on their way to church. That’s why I don’t go.”

       “That’s where I’m headed, to church. In my experience, few people who go to church earnestly try to follow Christ. Besides, not one of us is anywhere near perfect. People will fail you more often than not, but don’t give up on God because of them. I’m glad I could help you.”

       We waved as I continued on toward Owensboro. Driving into town, I noticed a grungy man standing at the end of the Daviess Country Detention Center driveway, his thumb in the air. I reflexively slowed to a stop and unlocked my passenger door.

       The man opened the door. “Are you going anywhere near Breckenridge Street, sir?”

       “Sure, I’m on my way to Owensboro Christian Church on New Hartford Road, which is a short distance to Breckenridge. Hop in.”

       “Thank you so much for stopping. I didn’t think anyone would pick me up. Please forgive my appearance. I know I look terrible, and I smell even worse.”

       “No problem. Just point me in the right direction.”

       “Yes, sir.”

       “Had a rough night, huh?”

       “I had a dreadful night. Got awfully drunk. Don’t even know how I ended up in jail. No idea where my car is.”

       “That sounds too familiar to me.” I chuckled. “I’ve been there—more than once.” I extended my hand. “I’m Scott Zachary.”

       Shaking my hand, “I’m Terry Bowman.” Terry, a soft-spoken man who I figured to be in his late fifties, looked down at himself, sniffing. “I smell disgusting.”

       “Nothing a hot shower and a bar of soap won’t fix.”

       I drove for a few minutes before asking, “Would you go to church with me this morning, Terry Bowman?”

       “I couldn’t do that. My wife must be awfully worried about me.”

       “An hour or so won’t make much difference. Besides, that would help clean up your spirit before you see her.”

       “Thank you, but I better not.”

       As we passed Owensboro Christian Church, I said, “That’s where I’m going to church this morning.”

       “You can let me out here, then.”

       “Are you sure? I don’t mind taking you home.”

       “I’m sure. I can walk from here.”

       Terry thanked me profusely and got out of my truck. I watched him walk down the street, thinking how much my life had paralleled his on numerous occasions. I made a U-turn and pulled into the Owensboro Christian Church parking lot. I opened the door and placed my foot on the ground. A mental voice spoke to me. “Ask him again.”

       I took a deep breath and sighed, “Alright, Lord.”

       I drove until I found Terry walking alongside the road. I rolled down my window and looked into his eyes. “Mr. Terry Bowman, would you please, please go to church with me?”

       “I was kind of regretting that I didn’t take you up on your offer. Yes, I will go to church with you, Mr. Zachary.”

       “Thank you.”

       Terry got in my truck, and I drove us back to the church. I remember the two of us walking down the hallway toward the worship hall. People were avoiding our eyes as they dodged our presence. Terry muttered, “I look nasty.”

       “Not in God’s eyes, you don’t, Mr. Bowman.”

       We walked into the worship hall and sat down. The preacher’s message touched on the idea of forgiving yourself. As the offering plate was handed from person to person, Terry looked at me and shrugged his shoulders. I reached into the hidden compartment of my wallet and pulled out my emergency hundred-dollar bill. Terry’s eyes widened with disbelief as I gave it to him to put in the plate.

       After the service, Terry directed me to his apartment. Along the way, Terry shared, “That’s the first time I’ve been to church since Grandma took me when I was seven years old—over fifty years ago.”

       “Don’t stay away so long next time. Did you enjoy the service?”

       “Yes, sir, I needed to hear that. You can turn right here.”

       I pulled into a parking spot near Terry’s apartment. “Is there anything I can do to help you get yourself together, Terry?”

       “No, you’ve already done a lot for me, Mr. Zachary. Nobody has ever treated me the way you did this morning. Thank you so much.”

       “You’re welcome, Terry Bowman. Remember, God loves you.”

       “I will.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

       Driving past Maceo on my way home, the man whose pickup truck had broken down was sitting in the driver’s seat. I pulled up behind him, got out, and walked alongside his truck.

       “Are you my guardian angel?” he asked. “Nobody has stopped to help me since you were here a couple of hours ago. Could I possibly use your phone again, please?”

       “Of course.”

       I handed my phone to the man, and he again called his father-in-law.

       “He’s on his way. Thank you so much, sir. You’ve brightened a lousy Sunday morning.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

       That Sunday morning was nearly ten years ago as of this writing. I’ve done lots of good deeds, but nothing similar to those two since then. How many times in that decade have I overlooked or dismissed such wonderful opportunities as those? Would I take a few minutes out of my busy day to stop and help someone stranded on the side of the road? Would I pick up a destitute Terry Bowman today and ask him to come to church with me? Or must I be delusional to truly care about a lost soul?