Messenger

He looks like someone who has made so many bad decisions in his life that he’s forgotten he even has choices anymore.

I snuck a glance through the windshield of my truck, trying not to be too obvious that I was observing him; while also trying to calm my nerves and settle my thoughts. I judged the guy when I first saw him. He’s not someone I would typically interact with at a Stop and Go along the side of the highway. He’s tall, skinny, probably a drug addict. Dressed in black with silver chains. A tough guy worn down by the consequences of his own bad choices.

I’d been sitting in my Toyota Tacoma inputting notes regarding my last sales call when he pulled up next to me just a few minutes before. I barely took note of him as he disappeared inside, other than to notice the old, beat-up car he was driving and the fact that he looked like someone best to avoid, overall.

It was a few minutes later — when I saw him standing next to an outside table counting some change — that I heard what I heard.

“Please, would you give him a message?” It was a voice in my head. Some would say it was just me talking to myself. But that’s not how I think. I don’t ask myself to do things, and I certainly don’t say “please” in my normal thought conversations. And I knew — something in me just knew — that it was God talking to me.

“A message? For that guy?” I looked back at him, but this time I saw him differently somehow. He looked lost and out of sorts. His hands trembled as he fumbled with the money he was holding; not counting it as I originally thought, but staring aimlessly as if uncertain as to what to do next.

“Please, tell him I love him the same.”

Well, that’s awkward! Couldn’t you give him a better message than that? One that doesn’t feel so cliché? I mean, if I’m doing this thing, I want this guy to know it came from God and I’m not just some crazy person running around saying “God loves you” to random people.

“Please, will you tell him?” I sighed, closed my eyes and laid my head back against my seat for a second. As my eyes opened, I noticed the Stop and Go sign on the building in front of me. The Stop part of the sign was burnt out and barely noticeable, but the green Go flashed over and over in the window before me.

I sighed, “Okay, Okay, I get it.” I opened the door, took a deep breath and stepped out of the truck. Here goes nothing.

“Hey, could I talk to you for a second?” While I’d hesitated, the guy had made his way back to his car and was about to get in. I realized my opportunity to catch him was dwindling and the urgency gave me a new boldness.

That urgency, however, did not seem to be reciprocated as he ever-so-slowly turned to face me. He seemed to be bracing himself for what was to come. He didn’t say anything for a few moments as he seemed to take me in—probably judging me just as I had done him.

“Sure,” was the simple response he finally gave.

“My name is Dalton.” Once I had his permission, I spoke quickly. “I was just sitting in my truck doing some work and I felt like God asked me to tell you something.” I paused in expectation of a response. But when he didn’t give one, I took a deep breath and continued. “This isn’t normal for me. I mean, God doesn’t just go around asking me to tell people things.”

Stop explaining yourself and just tell him … my thoughts interrupted my speech.

“Okay, I’ll just tell you,” I mumbled more to myself than to him, as he remained expressionless.

“He wanted me to tell you …” I tried to swallow the uninvited emotion attempting to escape as the words came out. I wanted so badly for him to value this message and all I was getting from him was apathy, “… He loves you the same.” As I spoke, the reality that this message wasn’t just for this stranger, but was also for me, caused an even greater surge of emotion and I could feel the tears gathering. Here I was, a grown man, giving another grown man a message from God and I was the one crying, shamelessly.

I awkwardly waited for him to respond as the tears began to flow. He didn’t. “I didn’t expect … all this,” I said as I wiped the tears away.

Finally, he spoke. “I believe you.”

“You do?” I asked.

“Yeah, but can I ask you one question?”

“Of course.”

“Did you see the back of my shirt? Before, when I went inside, or at all?”

I was confused. “Your shirt? No, I didn’t see your shirt.”

He slowly turned around and I took a step towards him to see better. He was wearing a black t-shirt with an illustrated image of a creature on the back and the words The Devil — just in case there was any uncertainty as to who this creature was supposed to be.

He turned back to me. “This morning, I put this shirt on because I was fed up with God. I’ve been living in a halfway house, trying to get my life together, but it’s hard. It’s hard, and God doesn’t seem to care. I’ve been asking him for a sign for a while. Anything that would tell me that I’m on the right track. He’s given me nothing.” He took a deep breath before continuing. “So, today, I made the decision to stop asking. I put my devil shirt on, packed my things into my car and stopped here on my way to go get f’d up.”

At this point, he looked me boldly in the eye. “I saw you sitting in that nice truck looking like you have everything together and I said to God, ‘I bet you’d give that guy a sign, if he asked. I bet you give that guy everything he wants.’”

I stared, dumbfounded. “Man, I don’t know what to say,” I was embarrassed, humbled and yet grateful all in the same moment.

“It’s cool, man.” His tone softened. “I think I’m going back to that halfway house. I was looking for a sign, but I didn’t expect a message from … well … you,” he gave a hint of a smile as he gestured towards me.

“Yeah, that’s great,” I grinned and reached out to shake his hand. “What’s your name? I’d love to keep in touch, know how you’re doing, if that’s okay.”

We exchanged numbers, shook hands again and awkwardly said goodbye. As he pulled out of the parking lot, I sat in my truck staring at the flashing Go sign. “Thank you for loving me as much as you love that guy,” I said as the tears flowed freely.