Lonesome Dove

"Whatchoo doin' out here, lonesome dove?" he asks me.  A tall, thin man in a striped and collared shirt, far more chipper than his old age demands.  I've seen him here before, sweeping the floor, moving furniture.  His teeth are so white and straight, I wonder if they're real.

"Oh, just readin'," I respond.  Some stuff on grief, on fear of man, on how to read the Bible, some historical Jesus-lovin' fiction, a kids' Bible and the Word itself.  It's too hot to be sitting outside in the middle of Texas summer, but here I am.

I suppose it's pretty clear I want to hear from you, Lord; yet what plagues me is what always plagues me after a big decision: are you disappointed in me?  Am I still yours? 

I remember now that Jesus let Lazarus die so that His power might be revealed more fully, so that the onlookers might believe.  You let me wrestle and cry and ask so that I might know it's you when the Spirit's comfort fills my veins (com-fort: with strength) and when you really do work all things for those who are called by you, kept by you.  But it's still hard to be a human being and to see you only dimly.

"What's your name?" I ask him.  He seems to me like someone who could've travelled with the circus half a century ago, train-hopping and joke-telling.  He's spunky.  A ramblin' man.

"Dick.  Dick Patrick," he answers like they do in the movies and takes a seat.  "Like the saint, but I'm no saint."

I think, then smile for a second.  "Do you know Jesus?" I ask him.

The crow's feet around his eyes deepen as a smile grows, and he answers, "I know Jesus." He looks down, nodding faintly.

"Well then, you're a saint,"  I say.

"Yeah...that's what my wife says," he answers quickly, doubt in his voice.  "But I sure don't feel like I've reached my saintliness yet."  He looks up at me with wide eyes.

I'm about to reply--something about imputed righteousness, probably, but then he sees that there's furniture that needs to be moved, so he stands up and hurries back inside.

If we're being real, I feel more like Dick than I do like a saint.  But therein lies some of the beauty of the cross.  We really are just jars of clay, broken pottery that God loved before the first sunrise and picked up and filled with Gospel treasure that is ours forever.  We're called sons only because we are friends of Jesus, the God-man who lived to give us life, was slain, was raised, is seated, and prays for us even now, that our faith might not fail.  And if sons, then heirs.  Heirs of all that is the Father's, and nothing can separate us from His love.

We don't feel much like saints, but God can't lie.  He tells us He is greater than our hearts, and He knows everything.  We look and we live.  Praise him.