“This is God’s Word to me; it reminds me that in Jesus Christ, all my sins are forgiven; in Jesus Christ, I have a hopeful future, and in Jesus Christ, I have the possibility of a great day every day, and that includes today.”
Those words, written in a letter to the parents of a young lady who was far from home, were a direct quote from something I’d said many times.
“I’m not sure if I got the words right,” she explained, “but in the morning, when I read my Bible, that’s what I say.”
The mother let me know about this for a reason: for years, I would begin my sermon by having everyone present in the congregation repeat those words with me. I stopped doing it somewhere along the way.
But, that little mantra, spoken Sunday by Sunday, stuck, at least with that family, for the mother who shared her daughter’s note with me told me, “In case you ever doubted if we were listening to you, well, we were.”
It just so happened that the mother shared this with me on the very week I had arrived here, 18 years ago.
It gave me pause to reflect.
At the time, when I arrived here those years ago, I didn’t think in terms of staying eighteen years, or even two or three. I was in survival mode, making it one day at a time, trying to support my wife’s fight with breast cancer and protect my pre-teen kids from the clouds looming on the horizon, storms I feared would inevitably strike in their young lives.
The kids were resilient, though not immune from grief’s pain, much to the credit of a church family that surrounded them with love. And so, I stayed on with this fellowship of loving and caring folks. One day turned to another until the days became 6,570 days this past Sunday, August 2.
Week after week, I’ve stood in the pulpit, or more recently, at a table for the online services, and opened my Bible, and albeit through many dangers, toils, and snares, I’ve done my best to let God’s Word speak.
At times, maybe when I’ve been tired or worn down by the daily routine or disappointed in something or somebody, or myself, I’ve spanned the congregation, usually on one of those sleepy days in summer, or bone-chilling mornings in winter, searching for bright eyes and eager smiles, wondering, “Is anyone listening? Does anyone care? Am I just punching holes in the air? Am I leading a charge into nowhere?”
Then, it happens: a seemingly random message enveloped in a by-the-way-not-really-important-sentence, lands right in front of me. At once, the fog lifts, a bright light shines, confirming the truth I have sometimes doubted in darker places:
“In case you were wondering, we were listening.”