Another day, another El adventure.
I had just left a good friend catch-up, with a belly full of kofta, Lebanese tea, and baklava (my favorite), when the El swished into the station. I sprinted up the stairs, slashed my pass through the reader, and managed to stomp my boots onto the platform just before the mechanical voice intoned "doors are closing" and the doors snapped shut. That meant another ten minutes on the frigid, concrete platform. Ugh.
I waited for the next train.
Somewhere around 13th Street he and his friend slung themselves into a seat and started talking about their music and a trip to the Middle East. My ears perked up when he said, "ya know, it's all for Christ" and started detailing how believers in this country surreptitiously identified themselves to him. Story after story about God working through his performances, people coming up to him in the marketplace and telling him their testimony.
I don't know him, his name or anything about him. But I know that he's my brother.
I caught his eye shortly before my stop and smiled. As the train slowed, I identified him as my brother and asked God to bless him. He smiled back and thanked me, and I slipped out of the train.
Two lines (out of context) of a Larry Norman song kept playing in my head as I shuffled the rest of the way home "...I hope I'll see you again someday. But if I don't, I hope I'll see you in heaven."
How many stories will we hear then? How many amazing stories of God's grace surround us each day, but won't be fully known until we get to heaven!
I had just left a good friend catch-up, with a belly full of kofta, Lebanese tea, and baklava (my favorite), when the El swished into the station. I sprinted up the stairs, slashed my pass through the reader, and managed to stomp my boots onto the platform just before the mechanical voice intoned "doors are closing" and the doors snapped shut. That meant another ten minutes on the frigid, concrete platform. Ugh.
I waited for the next train.
Somewhere around 13th Street he and his friend slung themselves into a seat and started talking about their music and a trip to the Middle East. My ears perked up when he said, "ya know, it's all for Christ" and started detailing how believers in this country surreptitiously identified themselves to him. Story after story about God working through his performances, people coming up to him in the marketplace and telling him their testimony.
I don't know him, his name or anything about him. But I know that he's my brother.
I caught his eye shortly before my stop and smiled. As the train slowed, I identified him as my brother and asked God to bless him. He smiled back and thanked me, and I slipped out of the train.
Two lines (out of context) of a Larry Norman song kept playing in my head as I shuffled the rest of the way home "...I hope I'll see you again someday. But if I don't, I hope I'll see you in heaven."
How many stories will we hear then? How many amazing stories of God's grace surround us each day, but won't be fully known until we get to heaven!
