Stranger than Chicken Salad
He smiled and looked around the room, clearly he wasn't one
of the locals. He was related to
no one, had only seen one of us before today, had no roots in this area and yet
he was one of us just like the rest
of us.
He started his story with a laugh and a tear. The tear came before the laugh I’m
sure, but I didn’t know that till after he’d spoken. He was at the age where you typically give more advice on
living than you get yet somehow his life had to go through a dark night before
that privilege was truly his. In
those later years of his life, he explained, there was a failed marriage still
to come. There was confusion and
estrangement still to come.
When they came he dealt with them like any of us might. The pain and depression of all this
collapse gets coped with though anti-depressants, rightfully administered. Then more, still rightfully
administered, then the ones from friends that were thoughtfully administered. Later still came the personally
administered combination of those drugs followed by the blending of those
personally administered medications with the professionally served
alcohol. By this time the pain in
his life was strong enough that a mild ignoring of the warning labels on both
of those thoughtfully, professionally and rightfully administered inhibitors
was by choice, by accident and in some ways by design.
He spoke of the point where the numbing combinations no
longer proved of any value and how as that value diminished, so diminished his
hope for reconciliation. He’d
always been in control, in fact both of his parents were dead by the time he
was 10 years old so taking matters into your own hands was (I believe) his life
long legacy. By this time however,
his own hands had failed him.
There was nothing left.
He said that in his despair, he decided to head off to the
mountains; to take a walk that would allow him to either sort things out or
resolve the entire issue once and for all – a walk that in some ways was probably
more like the ancient Inuit ritual of heading off to the ice flow. It wasn’t a conscious decision to end
his life, more of a convenient result of his decision. Were he to conveniently fall off the
mountain, die of exposure, or in some way be victim to a force greater than he;
so be it. He explained that he was
gifted in playing the role of the victim, so much so that he had even convinced
himself so were he to perish that too would make him a victim.
He threw some of his hiking gear into his truck, tossed in a
can of beef stew and can of Spam (both items that emotionally pulled him back
to his childhood) and headed to the trailhead. He said it would take him a few days to get from there to a
town, should he make it that far.
It’s interesting to note that the reason he said, “if he made it that far” was based on his decision to give
everything up. He gave up the
pills, gave up the booze, gave up water, gave up eating, gave up everything not
the least of which was hope. So, he walked.
When he finally decided to eat he came to the quick
realization that a can of anything requires a can opener. He had given up everything and was now
hungry emotionally, physically, socially.
He was at that point where some strange line is crossed, a line that
defies explanation. Medical
science will tell you it’s the combined effect of dehydration; a time at which
at the level of the cell, the moisture has been reduced to the point where the
body can no longer sustain normal function and all energy goes back to
preserving the “core”. Brain
function, vital organs, the real essential
portion of our bodies – the portion that gets things done; those were all
failing. Some of the medications
he gave up were specially designed to support exactly those functions. Blood pressure medications, heart
medications, even something as elemental as sun block were all gone – all
abandoned and in their places were two cans of food which he was helpless to
open. His body was clinically in danger of catastrophic
failure.
The other science though, the one that’s not really a
science at all but carries even more influence was being affected, but in far
more positive way. The science surrounding
his spirit was in the process of re-engagement, of actually being
rekindled. That science relies on catastrophic failure of the
physical body as the fundamental building block of success. That science is the science of God. Power is displayed through weakness and
success is identified through failure, the poor are rich and the rich are
poor. My new friend was now
learning that fundamental “God” science thing that says, “its not until you’re completely broken and useless, that I will do
great things through you”.
After some time of wandering in a rapidly disintegrating
state, he stumbled upon a campground parking lot. 30 years ago while walking the Appalachian Trail I learned
all about campground parking lots and what I called the “hungry hiker” look.
You learn how to slide up next to a tourist and play the role of the
victim. How you talk, how you
strike up a conversation about anything that interests them. Their cute
little dog (that for all intensive purposes looks more tasty than cute), their
awesome choice of campgrounds, the marvelous smell of coffee, even their
shoes. Anything that gets them
talking about themselves while highlighting your
great taste in their great
taste. Pretty soon they trust you,
then they like you, THEN they feed you.
Its not uncommon to do this 5 or 6 times a day, till in a gorged state
with fried chicken grease running down to your elbows, you slink off into the
woods to continue the journey northwards.
My new friend was no different.
He met a man, who would not only feed him but also feed him with food
he’d seen but never tasted.
The one man in this room full of strangers that was not a
stranger to my new friend was the man who had offered him a chicken
sandwich. He was the camper with
the cute dog, the choice campsite, and the marvelous taste in campgrounds. And through the process of building
trust, aimed at feeding the stomach – he told his story. He spoke of his misfortunes, he spoke
of his substance abuse, he spoke in a watershed moment that was a combination
of catharsis and confession. It
was an odd blending of victim and victor, of ending and beginning. His time in the wilderness both
physically and spiritually were being directed towards a compassionate ear,
which having heard the story of the can-with-no-can-opener, knew that this man
needed more than a chicken sandwich.
He needed the Lord.
Its always funny to me when I hear of these intricate stories
of how the Holy Spirit moves lives in criss-crossing patterns that we tend to
call “fate”, or “luck”, or “serendipity”.
That criss-crossing was no accident and it literally saved that man’s
life in multiple dimensions. He
went on to check himself into the hospital rather than die a victim in the
mountains. He chose to accept the
Bible that the man with the chicken sandwich felt so moved to go and leave in
the hiker’s truck. He chose to
accept the food that the camper offered his spirit: “have you thought about asking the Lord into your heart”? A bold and crazy question that was asked in perfect sincerity. A question that in today's world only a fool would ask. A question that was perfectly timed, perfectly appropriate and perfectly balanced to change what was a death-spiral into a thing of beauty.
A funny thing about the physical
diminishing of cellular structure in the human body; it induces activity from
other systems; one is the nervous system the other is known as the limbic
system. Within those systems of
action-reaction type physiological activity, those drying and damaged cells
send a message to the thalamus, which then lets you know that you hurt. Your legs feel pain, your hips hurt,
you knee swells, and your stomach and head are on fire. All of these signals mean something; physiologically
they mean you’re on the road to dying. Spiritually, they mean you may be on the
road to healing. My new friend was
on the road to healing and that obscene question was the starting point. He
accepted Jesus in a way that made Him not only tangible but also essential, he
learned that not until you’re broken are you healed.
He spoke of standing up after the prayer of acceptance, he
spoke of standing and feeling no pain – it simply no longer “was”. The demons were vexed but not gone, they were now to be
challenged by hope. His story on
this morning gave me hope; it gave me the realization that meeting him was no
accident, no convenient fate, no serendipitous and lucky collision. His being there at that point, sitting
next to me was fully intentional and it scared me to death.
His discussion of his victim’s walk “into the wild”
resonated in my soul with an alarming clarity. How many times this week had I hoped for a personal, convenient
victimization? A quick
snap-of-the-neck in a tragic accident? Perhaps a speedy death from some bizarre aneurism while
swimming and I’d be free of the pain and grind of watching Bethany as she seems
to decline, from watching Sherry slowly die from the stress-with-little-relief of her life? I had even gone so far as to wear my ID bracelet on my wrist
as I got into the pool so that they could identify the body quicker (not much
space for a driver’s license in a Speedo!). His story was my story; the alcohol, the pills, the pain, add
with it the stress we feel as a couple and his story is indeed, all ours.
At the end of our time together, we all had the chance to
pray over this newfound friend. We
prayed just as the guys had done for me only weeks earlier and the blessing
that came from that then, carried the power to sustain me through my
trials. The blessing now was being
extended to another and now I was laying hands on him, praying on his behalf,
praying that “evening wolves” of
doubt, fear, temptation and confusion, (all hungry after an unproductive day
and desperately hunting before nightfall), be sent off in the name of a loving
God thus enabling this man to continue growing.
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