In the Middle of the Falling Rain
Drowning in Hope
Challenge: “A Day in the Life” in which we’re supposed to “share a story about how your job helps you make an impact on the world,”
There are at least two reasons why I’m probably not eligible for this challenge.
First, I’m an ordained elder in The United Methodist Church which means by its very nature my job is religious. Community Guidelines for Vocal Media specifically state, “we don’t accept any content that takes a religious stance of any kind.” Then again, maybe this won’t be construed as taking “a religious stance.”
Second, there’s a good chance many readers will ask, “So, what’s the impact on the world? Is it so small as to be negligible? Is this supposed to be like Horton Hears a Who?” For those who do find it impactful, many will question whether that impact is positive or negative. That includes both people outside as well as inside the community of faith, liberal & conservative. It may very well make a lot of people uncomfortable.
Truth is, I can think of a thousand reasons to loathe this story & only one to love it. And that’s the reason I share it with you now. (No, I’m not going to tell you what it is. If you find it, you will likely recognize it, even if you can’t name it. If you can’t find it, that’s okay. There have been many times in my life I wouldn’t have found it either.)
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In the late 1990s I was serving two churches in north-central South Dakota. The larger of the two was The United Methodist Church in Selby, where we lived. The smaller was a country church on the western edge of a largely empty town called Lowry. It was United Church of Christ or UCC at the time. The two churches rotated early & late services every four months &, at that particular point in time, Lowry held the late honors.
It was around ten-thirty on a Sunday morning & the rain was coming down so hard you would swear you could watch salmon swimming right up into the clouds. We had just finished the early service & I was heading off to Lowry. I had driven the two blocks to the three highways that passed along the west side of town (there were only eight blocks east of us—Selby wasn’t that big, either; Oh, & the three highways were U.S. Highways 12 & 83 & State Highway 20, all sharing the same pavement for something like six miles, including the roughly three-quarters of a mile through town; I always liked pointing out that we had three; it made us sound almost metropolitan).
I was having difficulty seeing—the storm was heavy & dark, & my windshield wipers had more than they could handle—but I was pretty sure I could see a man standing on the other side of those two lanes of highways. He had one small bag & was wearing a hat & coat that seemed too light even if it hadn’t been raining. He was drenched to the bone & looking miserable.
Assuming he was hitching, I pulled over & asked where he was headed. All he said was, “South.” I told him I was going that way, but only fourteen miles before I had to turn east. I was worried about leaving him in the middle of nowhere as I knew it could be a while before anyone else came by & it was another twenty-one miles to Gettysburg, the next town of any size. He said that would be fine, he just wanted to be on his way, & climbed into the front passenger seat
We pulled onto the highway & headed off into the rain. I leaned forward over the steering wheel & strained to find the road. Between the rain washing over my windshield & that which was washing over the road, it was difficult to tell what was road, what was shoulder, & what was ditch.
I asked him where his destination was. He didn’t know yet, just away. I asked where he was from. He said Mobridge, which was about twenty-four miles west of Selby on the Oahe Reservoir of the Missouri River. I told him that was where my wife was serving two churches & asked how long he’d lived there. Just a few months. He’d moved in there with his girlfriend & her two kids.
I asked him why he was leaving if they were still there, especially in this kind of weather. Had he lost his job? Was he looking for work.?
“I’m just no good for them.” His face was hollow, his eyes vacant & tired. He looked as though he had no tears left, nor the strength to dredge them up if he did. He sat there staring straight ahead, occasionally turning to the window beside him, appearing neither to see or feel a thing. His body was slack, every sense abandoned to whatever was going through his mind.
And then he began to share his story. Without passion. Without energy. Without any sense of persuasion or hope. He spoke in a lifeless monotone as though nothing more than the dispassionate & disembodied voice over for some movie droning on through his head.
He was an alcoholic & a drug addict. He had a temper & could be abusive. He loved his girlfriend & her kids were great. He wanted to do right by them, but sometimes he lost control. He wasn’t a responsible human being. He couldn’t hold a job. They seemed to love him, but he also knew they were afraid of him. He had become afraid of himself, especially that if he stayed, she could lose the kids. So, he left. Got up after they were asleep, packed his bag, walked out the door & started hitching to nowhere in particular, just away. It was the best thing he could do. He was no good for them.
There I was, driving through an unending downpour, listening to the heartbreak of a man who had lost all hope for himself, who could find only one good thing he still could do, & was doing it. I felt powerless to help him. I could tell him there were programs & services (& I did). I could tell him that God loved him & hadn’t given up on him (which I also did). But he’d heard it all before. They were just words. If God cared, it didn’t matter. All I could do was be there & listen.
Even that had to end, of course. After fourteen miles we reached the Lowry corner. The rain hadn’t let up. I offered to take him to church with me & promised to take him the rest of the way into Gettysburg once we were done. He said, no, he was a mess. I told him the folks at Lowry would hardly even notice. They were farm folk themselves & didn’t mind a little dirt, mud, or rain. They’d welcome him with open arms & hearts & probably insist on taking him out to eat somewhere. He said, no, he’d be alright, & stepped into the rain.
The rest of the drive I thought about this man who could find only one thing left in him of value & surrendered it with all his heart. Did I know how his story ended? No. He might have changed his mind & gone back, perhaps even destroyed all their lives the way he feared. But the thought that kept running through my head was, “What greater love has anyone than this…?”
I don’t remember what I preached that day. After church, I looked for him at the corner, but he was gone. I never saw him again. At some point he told me his name, but I don’t remember what it was. I do remember the following Sunday I shared his story. I’ve never quite been sure what it meant, but somehow it still feels holy.
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It makes me think of another story I wish was mine, but it’s not. It’s something a friend & colleague once shared with me in a mentoring session. He had been sitting in a diner with a church member who happened to be one of the leaders in the congregation. The man needed to warn him about this woman who had moved back to town. She had been a member of the church when she was young but had moved away a long time ago. He recounted to my friend every sordid detail he knew of her life, her wild ways & indiscretions, deep wounds she had inflicted upon her family, church & community, & what a scandal it would be if she came back to church as he feared she would.
My friend listened as he expounded at great length upon this terrible crisis they were facing. When he was finished, my friend looked him straight in the eye & said to him quietly, “And we’re going to love her anyway.” Humbled with these simple words of grace, he agreed.
I wish I had the wisdom to find such words when they’re needed. I’m lucky if I remember to listen. It’s nothing earth-shattering. You’re not likely to find it written up in The New York Times or Washington Post. But it does shatter something. I’m not sure what it is, but I think it’s holy.
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I want to close with a song I finished writing on August 4, 1997, partly because it brings us back around to the image of falling rain which I personally find cleansing & comforting. (Even now, it’s raining outside as I write this & the sound of it is so soothing.)
“Sittin’ Here”
Sittin’ here wet as the rain come down,
Tremblin’ with the earth & the thunder sound,
Watchin’ your blood drip down,
(Into the blood-drenched ground).
‘Neath the cross, standin’ with head bowed low,
Helpless in the crowd, don’t know where to go,
Watchin’ your red blood flow,
(Into the dust below).
Tearin’ at the veil of this broken heart,
Revealin’ hope beyond despair & a brand new start.
The light of heaven reigns anew across this land,
Wherever people come together, hand in hand.
Lookin’ to the heavens, how they’re torn apart.
And even angels cry,
(Watchin’ the Saviour die).
Sittin’ here lost in thoughtless reverie,
Askin’, ”How can this be?”
Sittin’ here wet as the rain come down,
Tremblin’ with the earth & the thunder sound,
Upon the blood-stained ground,
(Rockin’ the blood-stained ground).
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As I said, I don’t have anything earth-shattering to offer you. But I do hope when you are at your lowest, or even just down in the dumps, someone will be there for you to listen, to hold, to comfort, to weep, & simply be with you. And when you find someone at their worst, that you’ll do the same for them.
About the Creator
Randy Wayne Jellison-Knock
Retired Ordained Elder in The United Methodist Church having served for a total of 30 years in Missouri, South Dakota & Kansas.
Born in Watertown, SD on 9/26/1959. Married to Sandra Jellison-Knock on 1/24/1986. One son, Keenan, deceased.
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