Jeff (July 2017)

“I would do all of it again if even one person is saved from me sharing the Gospel with them,” he said, and he meant every word – he, who sat on the ground on a sidewalk street crowded with wealthy tourists, a cardboard sign resting on his knee that said, “I lost my wife to cancer; a year later, my son also died” in handwritten black ink.

I love to run. So much so, that I’m probably the only person in the world who made it my New Year’s resolution to run less days of the week, as working out tends to easily overtake more valuable priorities in my life.

This past year, I learned that Chicago in the summer is the best and worst place for runners. The best, because the sun is dazzling and lakeshore along glistening water is a dream, and the city is bustling with energy – and people, which also makes it the worst. The amount of frustration that would beat in my chest when a row of pedestrians taking up the whole sidewalk forced me to break my stride was shameful.

Needless to say, it was a rarity when one day this summer not an oblivious person, but a very pressing urge in my heart forced me to halt mid-run.

I had just come up to the point on lakeshore where I usually turn around and head back to complete the second half of my run, but I felt the Spirit urge me, “Abby, just stop. Just be.” In a fuzzy state of mind, I obeyed.

The sun was looming on the horizon across the water in hot red and flamboyant pink, bleeding into the deep purple of the sky. Couples dotted the steps and sidewalk along the lake, pausing to just drink it in. It was breathtaking. It was depressing.

I was already depressed. I had just been through a rough breakup, and in this city of millions, I was probably the loneliest I had ever been in my life. I walked slow along the lakeshore past lovers, feeling loveless and numb. I had been drowning in irrepressible words and questions for the past few weeks, but I heard, “Don’t talk. Don’t do. Just trust.” I turned, for no reason at all, onto Michigan Ave – the tourist-infested Magnificent Mile which I usually avoided at all costs.

Gradually, I approached the back of a man hunched over against a lamp post, and against the rush of a million strangers, I sat by this one who was lonely too.

He lifted his chin up slow as I plopped down crisscross and dripping sweat on the sidewalk beside him – as if years of being treated like he was less than human had taught him that his head belonged below his shoulders. I saw, then, that Jeff’s eyes are dazzling blue.

I just introduced myself to him and asked who he was and how he was doing.

And he just told me his story.

Been out here for a few years, he said. Used to work in a factory, living the American dream. A wife, a son – lost them both unexpectedly within one year, said this fifty-some year-old man. And then everything crashed and here he was. I had already skimmed the cardboard sign that rested against his knee, describing his story in words too simple to mean anything but another stereotype to most of the people passing by. I wasn’t surprised by his story. I was surprised that as tears spilled over his eyes, I felt them slide down my own face. For the first time, I could relate at some level – be it a very shallow level, in comparison – to his feeling of loss.

“Jeff,” I said. “Tell me, honestly – do you believe God is good? How do you reconcile that with the fact that you’ve been through so much suffering and yet you’re sitting here, still suffering, and I’m not?”

“Trust me, I’ve asked that questions a million times,” he said. “And I’ve come to the conclusion that I don’t know. I don’t know why God let this happen to me. I don’t know why I’m here.

“But I do know that God is good and He is sovereign. And so that’s my answer. That’s enough.”

            What. Okay God.

“You know, most people get wisdom poured into them all the time,” he said. “People talking at them and giving them advice. I get passed by thousands of people a day, and yet I go days without anyone talking to me. I don’t get much wisdom. But I would do all of it again if God uses me sitting here to save even one person.”

WHAT.

I just sat there. I couldn’t say anything. Praise God for this man of God – this warrior.

And hearing his story gave me perspective God knew I needed. (Thank God for suffering – it is truly a gift to be able to share in it with others.)