I fell in love with a man a few months ago who walked around the town with a slur and old jeans and a pistol in his back pocket. Skin like leather. Hair like Jesus. I’m sure if I understood him he’d talk like a gentleman.
He showed up one lazy afternoon on our makeshift front porch. The neighbors had warned us about him in their broken sign language and I sat reading comfortably, alone in the cool air as he approached me.
He sat down and started speaking to me, head down, hands raised in a prayer. In Thailand, the higher you lift your hands in this greeting, the more honor you’re being given. The way he spoke to me and lifted his hands was normally reserved for royalty, elders, nobility. Not young women.
“I’m sorry. I can’t understand you. Do you want food? Prayer? I’m sorry I don’t know. . .”
He did the same, this time getting on his knees in front of me, asking. Mind you, he still has a gun, but in the moment I nearly forgot. He looked at me with kind and pained eyes. Head down. Hands raised in reverence. Got back up. Still asking.
My teammate came outside after hearing the commotion and mirrored my words of moments before:
“I’m sorry, sir. I can’t understand you. Tiff, you know he has a gun?”
“Yeah I know, but he’s harmless, look at him.”
A few of my other teammates showed up, were scared and left immediately waiting and wondering what to do about the situation.
I can’t tell you why I wasn’t afraid in the moment, other than maybe Jesus let me think I was okay. Our nosy neighbor ended up hearing and going to get the landlord to tell him to leave. We then found out that Pistol Man, as we affectionately began calling him was asking us for shoes.
Hayden freaked out a little. And by a little, she freaked out a lot. She learned some lessons and wrote about them on her own blog, but I think I said something like, “I knew I was okay, and even if I wasn’t I know Jesus. I’m going to heaven anyway. I mean, I’d like not to die, but if it came down to it, I’d rather me than him,” and then walked away. In one of those moments where nothing seems too big to ask for and where God doesn’t seem so far away, I looked Him in the eyes and said, “I want to give that man shoes, and I want Hayden to be the one to do it with me.”
I forgot about it mostly, until I’d see him walking down the road, barefoot, lonely eyed. On our last day of ministry, in the middle of a parade, Hayden looks at me and says, “I bought these shoes and I’m thinking of dropping them. Do you think they’d fit Pistol Man?” We walked up to him, away from the parade with the disapproving eyes of the neighborhood acting like a catalyst. She slipped her shoes off, and I walked up to him and gave them to him. It wasn’t anything major. No fanfare. I don’t think we cared. I honestly have thought long and hard about whether or not to post this because I don’t care if you know, but I think I’d be cheating all of you who sent me here if I didn’t tell you of the little things we’ve experienced.
We rejoined the parade and turned around and watched him look at us in shock as they fit him perfectly.
We got on a bus, and onto a plane, on the way to Africa.
The Lord has been teaching me a lot about the healing power of acceptance. He’s brought me to my knees in gratitude, and also in the moments where I’ve missed it and continue to. But I think that in the moment that we gave Pistol Man some shoes, we offered up a little bit of the healing power of Jesus. I hope it opens doors for him to get to know Love. I know Hayden and I were just a small part of a bigger story, and I know just how powerful that can be.
The Lord has spoken “healing” over my time in Africa. I am hoping I can bear witness to it, have my hand in it, and marvel at what the little things can do.
I’m still not fully funded! I just need 6 people to sign up to give $50 a month for the rest of the Race and I’ve reached my goal! I hope you can be a part of this with me!
