thumbed through it. He made to return it.
â I have had it a long time. Itâs
time for me to get a new one, and itâs time for you to have one
close by. Just do me one favor, Erik? Iâll meet you next Sunday at
10 oâclock at New Life Center. Until that time, read my gift to
you, which is actually His gift to all of us.â
â Thanks, Iâll see about meeting you
next Sunday.â Erik still felt reluctant to commit to anything. When
he had opened the Bible, he saw John had marks and note on almost
every page. Erik felt like he had a cheat sheet for his high school
exams. He knew he needed every answer he could get.
Erik left John in the cashierâs
line. Small as the town was, Erik had never met John, but many
people in line clearly knew John. It was obvious they had just come
from church. Those are his type of
peopleâ¦and I guess now I am, too.â
Â
Â
Â
Chapter Six
J ohn
quickly moved to the now considerably shorter line to pay his bill.
Through the diner windows he saw Erik get into his pickup and John
worried. How much can one kid take? He’ll
need someone to help him so he doesn’t get lost in his problems
again. Christ will surely help, and that help also needs to be from
a mature Christian.
John knew how hard it would be because he had been
the same as Erik not that long ago. He remembered the exact day he
met Christ.
On that day John walked into a
church not to pray, but to get a handout. He, too, had looked like
a harvest bum, but at the time John was a bum, a hobo. He had just
arrived in Fairfield early in the day in 1969. He hadn’t picked
Fairfield as a destination; no one would. John rode the freights,
not as a paying customer, but as one who had found an open door on
an empty boxcar and jumped aboard. John was hungry when the freight
stopped in Fairfield, so he slid off the car and looked for the
nearest church for a handout.
It wasn’t unusual for such visitors at the New Life
Center. Fairfield was located on the Great Northern train tracks
that were the main route from Minneapolis to the Port of Seattle.
The train traffic brought its travelers, not from Pullman cars but
from empty freight cars. These men were the rejects of society; the
ones who couldn’t make it within the main stream. John was one of
them, but God still beckoned.
His life, and that of the other
hobos , was the
life of the big freights with four locomotives that could take
twenty minutes with their seemingly endless line of boxcars to pass
through Fairfield. As the trains slowed to pass through town, it
was easy to see those open cars with men’s legs dangling out the
side as they sat staring at nothing. To the kids of Fairfield,
watching by the siding, these men were exciting. These men were
foreign travelers who were free to come and go as they pleased and
the kids would fantasize of the exciting trips they would
encounter.
The reality of John’s life wasn’t a fantasy. It was
the life of a person who had to search for every meal in trashcans
behind restaurants or at soup kitchens. It wasn’t a life anyone
would fantasize about or choose to live. It was a life reserved for
those who had left their lives and their hopes behind. No one knew
or cared about these men.
When John had hopped the freight days before in
Seattle, God knew his name and cared to follow him. All of the bums
had a story; most were fiction. John’s was true and known by God.
John’s story began in the Vietnam War. Most of the people of
Fairfield would never hear the stories of what John saw. John was
so determined to leave that hell behind that he would not repeat
its misery. Later, a few people came to know John had served two
tours of duty in Vietnam.
He arrived in Vietnam early when many in the States
weren’t even aware there was a place called Vietnam, let alone a
war. He stayed through some of the fiercest battles. But he never
would tell how it felt or how it looked to be part of
â I have had it a long time. Itâs
time for me to get a new one, and itâs time for you to have one
close by. Just do me one favor, Erik? Iâll meet you next Sunday at
10 oâclock at New Life Center. Until that time, read my gift to
you, which is actually His gift to all of us.â
â Thanks, Iâll see about meeting you
next Sunday.â Erik still felt reluctant to commit to anything. When
he had opened the Bible, he saw John had marks and note on almost
every page. Erik felt like he had a cheat sheet for his high school
exams. He knew he needed every answer he could get.
Erik left John in the cashierâs
line. Small as the town was, Erik had never met John, but many
people in line clearly knew John. It was obvious they had just come
from church. Those are his type of
peopleâ¦and I guess now I am, too.â
Â
Â
Â
Chapter Six
J ohn
quickly moved to the now considerably shorter line to pay his bill.
Through the diner windows he saw Erik get into his pickup and John
worried. How much can one kid take? He’ll
need someone to help him so he doesn’t get lost in his problems
again. Christ will surely help, and that help also needs to be from
a mature Christian.
John knew how hard it would be because he had been
the same as Erik not that long ago. He remembered the exact day he
met Christ.
On that day John walked into a
church not to pray, but to get a handout. He, too, had looked like
a harvest bum, but at the time John was a bum, a hobo. He had just
arrived in Fairfield early in the day in 1969. He hadn’t picked
Fairfield as a destination; no one would. John rode the freights,
not as a paying customer, but as one who had found an open door on
an empty boxcar and jumped aboard. John was hungry when the freight
stopped in Fairfield, so he slid off the car and looked for the
nearest church for a handout.
It wasn’t unusual for such visitors at the New Life
Center. Fairfield was located on the Great Northern train tracks
that were the main route from Minneapolis to the Port of Seattle.
The train traffic brought its travelers, not from Pullman cars but
from empty freight cars. These men were the rejects of society; the
ones who couldn’t make it within the main stream. John was one of
them, but God still beckoned.
His life, and that of the other
hobos , was the
life of the big freights with four locomotives that could take
twenty minutes with their seemingly endless line of boxcars to pass
through Fairfield. As the trains slowed to pass through town, it
was easy to see those open cars with men’s legs dangling out the
side as they sat staring at nothing. To the kids of Fairfield,
watching by the siding, these men were exciting. These men were
foreign travelers who were free to come and go as they pleased and
the kids would fantasize of the exciting trips they would
encounter.
The reality of John’s life wasn’t a fantasy. It was
the life of a person who had to search for every meal in trashcans
behind restaurants or at soup kitchens. It wasn’t a life anyone
would fantasize about or choose to live. It was a life reserved for
those who had left their lives and their hopes behind. No one knew
or cared about these men.
When John had hopped the freight days before in
Seattle, God knew his name and cared to follow him. All of the bums
had a story; most were fiction. John’s was true and known by God.
John’s story began in the Vietnam War. Most of the people of
Fairfield would never hear the stories of what John saw. John was
so determined to leave that hell behind that he would not repeat
its misery. Later, a few people came to know John had served two
tours of duty in Vietnam.
He arrived in Vietnam early when many in the States
weren’t even aware there was a place called Vietnam, let alone a
war. He stayed through some of the fiercest battles. But he never
would tell how it felt or how it looked to be part of
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