MIKE

My 91-year-old father is in hospice care and not long for this world, so I'll be traveling cross-country today. I had the privilege of leading him to the Lord in 1981 so he will be going 'home' soon. Since I may not have time to pen the devotional while I'm away, I have posted some of my personal short stories. Thank you for your understanding ...

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MIKE

Mike saw me from his window when I drove into the gravel parking lot. As I got out of my truck and headed for the door, he came out, extended his hand, and pulled me in for a silent bear hug. 'What a blessing' I thought, smiling to myself.

Several months had passed since that fateful day when Mike and I met. He was the newest resident at the group home for mentally disabled veterans. I visited them every Sunday evening for close to twelve years.

The facility housed twenty men and was managed by the owner who did a wonderful job making sure they were fed nutritious meals, maintained their personal hygiene, and received their medication. He would take some of the more capable on short outings in a passenger van to keep their minds engaged and their bodies physically active. A few were in wheelchairs; most were elderly.

I would gather the men on Sunday evenings and sing with them from songbooks kindly given to us by a small church down the road. Most of them sat quietly forcing me to sing alone until they could refocus and join in again. I would then teach a story from the Bible, attempting to paint word pictures that would hold their fleeting attention. Every visit ended with me sitting down with each man individually, listening to them talk while I made eye contact. They deserved respect regardless of their condition. 

Mike was six-foot-five inches tall and not quite as old as the others. The unyielding symptoms of schizophrenia were evident and turrets syndrome would cause him to act out suddenly. When we met, he briefly shook my hand then went to his room and shut the door. The manager observed the situation and asked me to come to his office so he could inform me about the new resident's past. The story was heart-wrenching.

On his desk was a tablet taken from Mike's room. In ink were the words 'God Forgive Me' scribbled over and over and over. The pen had been pressed through the paper as though he was begging an unhearing God. I was told that Mike had just gotten out of prison where he had spent most of his adult life, the crime ... murder. The news was a lot to take in, but my heart went out to him. I wanted to earn his trust but week after week he would hide in his room as soon as I arrived.

I was at work when an unsettling call came informing me that Mike was in the hospital. He had tried to commit suicide by cutting his wrists. I made my way to his bedside and witnessed the unresponsive shell of a broken man. The torment of his guilt, the frustration of his mental disorders, and a deep sense of hopelessness had brought him to this most serious condition.

Once he had healed from his self-inflicted wounds, Mike was brought back to the group home where his behavior was closely monitored. My weekly visits continued but he still took careful steps to avoid me. I prayed that God would show me how to break through that wall so the message of the cross could be delivered.

That opportunity arrived most unusually.

Early in the day a small sore formed on the edge of my tongue and rubbed against my tooth. I experienced a sharp pain every time I tried to talk. For so many years the men had depended on my weekly routine and now it was in jeopardy. I wondered how I was going to interact with them and an idea came to me. I'd take my banjo and sit in the lobby playing the few songs I knew. At least they would know I was there. For some, I was their only family, and Sunday evenings were greatly anticipated.

So that evening I arrived, sat down, and started making noise with my clumsy picking. Then it happened. Mike came out of his room and stood near me. I couldn't tell if I was in trouble or if this was a crack in the armor. I hoped for the latter and stopped playing.

"Mike, do you like the banjo?" ... He nodded ... "Well, anybody that likes the banjo is a friend of mine ... can we go somewhere and talk?" 

He nodded.

We made our way to the weather-worn bench under the courtyard elm tree. I think back on it as 'ground zero' for the precious souls who graced my life during those years. We sat quietly for a few moments as we watched the cool evening breeze gently move the leaves overhead.

I opened my bible.

Mike listened carefully as I read aloud the verses that reveal the plan of salvation. I invited him to accept that precious gift and He did. The weight of his sin was left at the foot of the cross and he finally experienced the forgiveness he had pled for on that writing tablet found in his room.  

The days and weeks that followed were a joy to witness. He was still very quiet but it was obvious that his soul had found a resting place. 

Mike smiled now ... and always met me in the parking lot for a silent hug.