Chapter 30 Where I Least Expect Him

It was Sunday morning and there was a blur of beauty and a scent of her that wafted over me, half awake, in a lingering sort of way.

You see, her voice is rather angelic, and mine is not, and so she was off to worship team practice, well before daylight, leaving me quite alone to manage four children and all of their pre-church preparations -- including, but certainly not limited to: breakfast serving, kitchen clean-up, refereeing, wardrobe selection, hair design, shoe tying, winter wear adornment and the like. I’m not complaining, nor condoning my incompetence, really; it’s just that she’s much better at these chaotic multi-task-out-the-door-in-some-semblance-of-order kinds of things. She just is.

All the same, as a consolation, a miniature four year old look-alike somehow wandered into the bed not long after her mother’s departure, and that was more than alright with me. She snuggled in tight and we drifted off periodically until the reality of the morning rush was upon us.

It's true, I go through this crazed routine about once or twice a month, and you'd think I'd eventually get the hang of it. But for the most part, it's a mad scene. Nonetheless, I somehow manage each time to corral them into the minivan, looking somewhat respectable and presentable, for the 25 minute ride to a building we call church. We usually listen to secular music on the way, which I suppose reveals the rebel in me. I do choose from the more redemptive of our rock selections, for our Sunday drive, as if that matters -- you know, if you were thinking about judging me.

Of interest, though, about half way through the trip, without fail, we'll come across a group of convicts who are assembling at an informal staging area near a local quarry -- a low security chain gang of sorts, preparing to embark on their tour of duty; to pick up trash and serve a small portion of their sentence by beautifying the highways and by-ways of this town. They wear reddish orange vests as their scarlet letter, and a guard marches behind them with a steely eye and a scary looking gun.

And so, Coldplay was waxing poetic about something or another as we passed the prisoners this particular Sunday, and wouldn't you know it, the One whom we would worship that day had parked his ride on the shoulder and he was sipping his coffee and already laughing with them, and, of course, fitting in like he usually does. He was trying on one of their vests, if you can believe it, goodheartedly identifying himself with them. I slowed the van, mostly out of surprise, because he still tends to show up where I least expect him to. And come on, can you blame me? It was Sunday morning, for crying out loud.

I caught his eye as we idled by. There was no judgment there, no pretense, just a look of longing for me to join in; to get it, to do it, or maybe, to just learn from it.

I stared in the rear-view mirror as we passed and this modern day Jesus and the prisoners he befriended started their march in the grassy ditches and the gravelly shoulder of the road. He went with them, helping them, right away in fact, by picking up debris from some thoughtless driver. I imagined his conversation among them, as he moved from one to the next; taking off his new orange vest and holding it up as a word picture, maybe; or even leading an impromptu discussion on the side of the road, during a break; with all of them, or just a few.

This blur of beauty I passed by left me feeling half awake and quite alone as I finished the trip to church. It’s not that it wasn’t right, our destination, to be among his followers, to ensure my children were taught in the Word; to worship Him, and I suppose, truth be told, to be shallow and marvel at how beautiful my wife was on stage. It’s just that he was picking up crap on the side of the road, a friend of prisoners, walking with them and talking about a different type of freedom. And laughing too, as if this should be fun; loving them, just as much as he loves me.

And me, well, I was on my way, this Sunday morning, ever so respectable and presentable, left wondering instead about church, of crazed routines, and perhaps, chain gangs in general.

Even those of our very own making.