A dark night at the Beltway and Wilkins Avenue

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"makes my hair stand on end", a foggy - cold - dark night, am I doing the right thing??, Is that gun loaded?, Napoleon - Nap - Nappy, the Baltimore Beltway, Want to come in for a while?, Wilkins Ave

A dark night at the Beltway and Wilkins Avenue

It was foggy; it was cold; it was late; it was Wednesday. But, as I took the Wilkins Ave. East exit off the Beltway, there was someone needing help. The car’s hood was raised and I could see a figure leaning over the engine. It was an old, dark car and an equally old man dressed in black. Various thoughts went through my mind. It was the late 60’s. Reasons both for and against stopping quickly flashed before me.

Joyce is not home, but I have to get up early tomorrow for my trip to Lock Haven for Thanksgiving. That is where Joyce already is, at her parents place. It occurs to me that the circumstances could be perfect for trouble, but someone needs help. At least that is what appeared outwardly.

As I pulled up beside the parked car, I reached across to open up the right window. “Can I be of any help?” I could, of course. But would the help I could offer be what the fellow needed? Or, would the fellow be looking for what I couldn’t provide?

His car engine was silent, and he didn’t appear to know why. “Could you take me home to get a friend to come back in my other car and pull the disabled car home?”

“Where is home?”

“Edmundson Village area.” [Yipes, that is where I read about so much violence.]

“Yes, I’ll take you.”

“I have to get the gun out of my car. I can’t leave it here.” [What in the world am I into now?] “I’ve been hunting and the car won’t lock up. I can’t leave the gun here.”

“You aren’t planning on carrying it loaded in my car, are you?”

“No, I never carry it loaded. Here, you put it in your car. You’ll see.” [Unloaded; he was right about the gun. But, he was part loaded. His breath had the unmistakable aroma.]

It was so foggy, we could hardly see. But, I’m in the thing now. Mixed motives brought the next sally of words. I wanted to refer to Jesus, and hopefully say something significant about Jesus to him. I also wanted to further disarm him.

“I’ve just been to a prayer meeting, and it is pretty hard to thank God for all He has done for you without helping someone else when they need it.” [Silence.]

“Tomorrow is Thanksgiving, and we have a lot to be thankful for, eh?”

“Yes, we do.” [Vernon, you don’t even know his name! At least, be couth.]

“What’s your name?”

“Napoleon.” [Should’ve known – Napoleon, a guy that knew his way around.]

“Do you go by Nap?”

“That, and some people call me Nappy.”

Isn’t it strange that I can remember all this, but I don’t remember very much of the specific “witnessing” words, except that he said he believed in God. I said something about a person being able to believe something occurred but that is not the question. The important thing isn’t believing a chair is in the corner. The important thing is sitting down on it when you are tired. Accepting Christ is like sitting down. 

“Well, Nap, do you go to church?”

“I gotta be honest. Not very much. My wife goes, but when she asks me to go, I just turn over in bed. Finally I get up and watch some TV. Then I go to the bar. But, I am going to do better. This is the best thing that ever happened to me. When you said about Prayer Meeting and helping a person, my hair just stood up on end.”

How hard to stay serious all the time. I thought of his hair standing on end. I took a quick glance. He had on a hat. I’ll never know.

“Well, Nap, I would like you to come to my church Sunday. It is down in Linthicum. Know where Linthicum is?” “No, but I’d like to go. No promises though.”

“Why don’t you meet me at my house, and we’ll go together.”

“It’d be better for you to call me Saturday night or Sunday morning. Let me give you my number.” “OK”

“Where do we turn, Nap”

“Next light, turn left.”

Riding in silence for a while. Another turn. House on the right.

“That’s my other car. Want to come in for a while? My wife is in NY. Only one there is my dog.”

“Thanks, but I better get home.”

That’s about it. I’ll call him to see what will come out of it. I have his name, address and phone.

Why even bother to write this down? Well, one reason is because I have taken the Good Samaritan story seriously. We are afraid to help people. Can’t we trust God that he will take care of us as we have the Kingdom of God first in our lives? We have so much concern about people’s “souls” that we forget their lives.

Jesus talks about clothing, feeding, visiting people. It was serious to Jesus to help people. There are reasons why we should do things for people. But, most of us have “our reasons” for not helping. Is it simply that we are selfish?

Well, that is the story of my Thanksgiving Eve encounter with Napoleon. In the sermon I had preached only three days earlier, on the Sunday before Thanksgiving, I said that a thankful and grateful person is a generous person. I even said that some people in the service might want to invite some unfortunate person to dinner with them. I wasn’t home for Thanksgiving. I couldn’t ask anyone in, for I was a guest myself somewhere else. But, I tried to give of myself for Thanksgiving. One person (I know him quite well.) did hear my sermon last Sunday – the preacher.

 

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The Trouble With Strings, by Ruth Senter

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"What I need is freedom" - I said, flying kites, gliding at about 500 feet, hanging on a wall, I don't remember anything after that, kite strings, my big chance, Ruth Senter, The same old house - yard -trees - furnace - basement

I’m not really an unusual kite. All kites have a basic need to fly. I guess that’s why it was so hard to hang on a nail beside the furnace all winter. “Hey man, this isn’t what I was made for,” I’d say to the fur­nace, as much as to anyone. “I need to fly. I have to fly. Kites were made for skies, not walls.”

I endured those wall-hanging months because I kept thinking of those flying days to come. I could picture the wide open spaces of blue. I could feel the gentle lift of the wind. I could almost smell free­dom. “Man, that’ll be the life,” I’d say to the furnace, as much as to anyone. “No more basement blues for me. Fulfillment. Fun. Soaring. Gliding. Drifting. Living.”

Spring is here now. The breezes are billowing and the blue skies are opened to me. I’m doing what kites are meant to do — soaring, drifting and gliding. I should be starting to live now. My spirits should be float­ing with me.

But they aren’t.

It’s the string. I’ve decided that my problem is all wrapped up in the string. Sure, I can glide 500 feet above it all, looking down on yards and trees and houses. But I can only go so far; the string holds me back. My spirit urges. ‘Go higher, go higher.” But the string is always there.

I look down on yards and trees and houses, but they’re always the same. My spirit whispers. ‘Try new yards and trees and houses.” But the string is always there.

There’s so much I haven’t seen yet. My world is so small. I’ve been so sheltered. Just the same basement walls, the same old furnace. The same old houses and yards and trees. I think a kite needs the experi­ences of new places, new skies, new climates. A kite needs to know how to fly higher and try new tricks. But the string is always there.

I mean, how much can a kite do with a string tied to its tail and someone holding on to the other end? How creative can a kite be when its operator just stands on the ground holding the string with both hands. How much of a kite am I when someone is always there to di­rect me right or left or pull me in? How can I ever develop? How can I experience fulfillment when I’m tied to a string?

“What I need is freedom,” I said one day, as much to the furnace as to anyone. “I need to be my own kite, to do my own thing. Then I would really shine. Then I’d learn to feel, experience, grow. Strings are stifling.” I added in disgust.

I could simply never be a mature, knowledgeable kite until I could call my own shots. When I could see beyond my own house and yard and trees, then I could be more under­standing of what other kites go through. When I could feel new heights of the skies, I would be wiser as to the ways of the atmosphere. When I could make up my own mind about how high and where I flew, I’d be able to handle other de­cisions in life. “It would all be very enlarging for me as a kite,” I said to the furnace as much as to anyone.

And then my big chance came. The call of the skies seemed strong­er to me that day. So did the wind. The string was there as usual, guid­ing me first to the left, then to the right, up over the trees, the house and the yard. The string kept com­ing, a little at a time, whenever I needed it. That’s the way it usually worked.

That was one thing about the string that I did appreciate, in spite of all my hassles with it. It did allow me to fly. It did get me up in the air. There was a time when I could hardly get off the ground. I needed all the help I could get. The string was there. There was a time when I didn’t know direction or control. I needed the string then, too. There was a time when the empty skies looked big and frightening. The string gave me security. There was a time when I didn’t know how to land, but the string always guided me gently in. The string had kept me from lots of tragedies, I conced­ed.

But, I was a kite of experience now. The skies were no longer threaten­ing to me. I felt confident. I knew control and direction. Security wasn’t my need anymore. It was time to cut loose.

I was gliding about 500 feet up. The big gust caught me by surprise I pulled with all my might. For one brief moment I experienced free­dom.

I don’t remember anything after that.

Anyone know how to fix a broken kite?

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