Ever ask yourself Am I
really living? The answer to this question shifts, changes and transforms
itself as we move forward throughout our days. It links itself to how we feel,
what we do or even what we say. Hope influences our answer by our desire that
defines it. For me, the answer ought to unearth itself as a sometimes. These subtle moments in my life
find themselves tucked away not-so-neatly in my so-neatly planned life. Value
draws itself from the smallest things rather than the biggest. One of these
moments came about whilst out volunteering on the New York City Relief Bus.
The
idea itself carries the undertone in which it was born. To selflessly, with
careless abandon, donate what we have as individuals in a group to those less
fortunate than us. Prior to leaving each morning, Director and great friend of
mine, Josiah Haken, shouts the organization’s battle cry: “These things we do, so others may live”. How succinct the calling
to the cause. Moments like these provoke the realization that the rift between
how we define living literally lies
on the opposite side of the spectrum to those of whom we serve.
To
us, living means feeling excitement, angst or the combination of both; the
thought of doing good things for the glory of God or representing CHRIST in
Christianity draws us to say bold things and act even bolder; while those of
the South Bronx define living as being able to find a place to sleep at night
during the cold winter months or the hope that they can score a loaf of bread
at 1:30PM (when the bus gives out portions) in order to feed themselves, their
children or perhaps an ailing relative. That, to them, is living.
This all brings me to a humility that
reverberates as I transfer from those of the wealthy to the destitute. In
Philippians 4:12, Paul writes I know what
it is to be in need, and I know what it is to have plenty. This paradigm
shift from helping manage multi-million dollar assets for high net-worth
individuals and then throwing myself in the face of the poor creates a
traumatic image for me, as I’m sure it did Paul. By desire, I immerse myself into the situation of serving others and by hope and
knowing that God reveals himself through the hungry and weak do I continue my
struggle in understanding what Paul actually meant.
I’m
sure my version of this anecdote may pale in comparison to those around me, but
I’ve taken away God’s testimony that we truly are saved by way of a single man
who came to me and pulled me to the side to tell me about his story.
Isaac
is his name. From what I could see he was a worn, but well-kept, Latino man who
busily collected a large pot of soup from our bus. His garb was nothing out of
the ordinary: plain, tactical and sufficient enough to shield his body from the
coldness of the wintery NYC streets. He came to me with a soft voice, not one
that shouted for attention; a voice that was indelibly forged from years and
years of strife, joy, poverty and wealth. His eyes were of serious intent and I
immediately felt that this man could write volumes with the wisdom embedded in
his memories.
He
came to me and told me that he had once been a proud owner of a construction
company of which he built up from scratch, where he also purchased real estate
in the South Bronx area. He told me that he had two children, both in Harvard.
He told me he lost everything. He also didn’t
tell me about his wife. After I
listened to his story, I asked him what it all meant. Why did God provide so much only to take it all back? Both of us
were at a loss for words, but the communication we had was vivid through the emotion
bounced between us. I could see the lack of prosperity in his eyes; they were
filled with uncertainty, with a look of hopelessness and indecision. Isaac kept
repeating to me that he didn’t know what to do next. He didn’t know how to
start over.
After
a few intense seconds passed, he looked me in the eyes, as if he had been
waiting to do this all of his life. He lifted up his shirt and pointed to a
scar at the left of his chest and said “I was stabbed in the heart, but He let
me live… He let me live.” What shocked me most about this is that I don’t think
he meant it just in a mortal sense. I understood he also was referring to
eternal life. I should have asked Isaac if he was really living, but in hindsight, he had already answered me. After praying with him, I asked if there was
any advice he could lend me. I felt it necessary to repeat his words here
because I, without a doubt, felt the presence of God there on the sidewalk with
me and for a split second I knew that I wasn’t just speaking to a brother in
Christ, but to the Lord God himself. Isaac then leaned over and told me that I
should never run from God; that I
should never turn away from him nor think that I can figure my own life without
Him. Absolutely floored by the depth of his advice, I could see his respect for
the unbeaten path; respect for the trust in God that for whatever He giveth, He taketh away (Job 1:20).
It
occurred to me that in a contemporary world full of death and taxes, the
miracles happen in the nooks and crannies of our life where we look to help,
but instead receive the help we secretly are looking for. I received a
spiritual medicine that could only be administered by a man who offered up his
troubles to a complete stranger for the sake of creating a bond that he may never know will last a
lifetime. No amount of words, articles or praise can offer justice to what he
taught me that day, but if you were to ever ask me how I’ve come to spell
Christmas, I’d tell you it was spelled I.S.A.A.C.
Originally written December 24, 2011
Originally written December 24, 2011
