I don’t remember much about how the day started except I’d left the dog behind and scarpered out the door early to drive the forty-five or so minutes it took from our place to town. A girlfriend and I had made plans for a good walk. Up the Port Hills.
When I’d first met my friend at beauty school, she’d told me in no uncertain terms did she go up hills. She didn’t even drive up hills if it could be avoided. Her sister had strongly reiterated the sentiment when I met her for the first time. “We don’t do hills,” she’d said as I scrambled up a rise and they stood at the bottom watching but having none of it.
It was a mystery to me, but since they’d grown up in a small town on the Canterbury Plains it wasn’t that difficult to avoid hills since it was flat as a pancake in all directions until you reached the Southern Alps to the west or the Port Hills in the north-east.
When my friend decided to be brave and give it a go – long before this particular Saturday morning – she discovered how much she enjoyed it. Did I tell her “Told you so”? Probably.
And this Saturday morning we had another great time. Walking with the sun on our backs going up, the city of Christchurch laid out splendidly below us, we puffed our way to the top, talking about everything and sundry, took in the view of Lyttleton harbour on the other side and then made our way back down to the parked cars.
We’d had such a good time we weren’t yet ready to part company. The morning had grown warm, and the day promised to stay that way, so we made plans to change clothing at her house and head out for lunch and a spot of shopping. Hopping into hot cars, I said I would follow her. All was going as planned until we came out on the main road.
That’s where I saw him. The first and only time.
He was wearing long pants, a jumper, and over the top a heavy brown tweed jacket. On top of that, each hand was weighed down by a full bag of groceries.
“He must be hot,” I said to no one, and my eyes focused back on the road before me intent on my destination.
“Pick him up.”
The words whispered so loudly in my heart I could not deny they’d been said. I also knew Who had spoken.
I didn’t argue. I’d already thought he must be hot, and it was a kind thing – a right thing – to do. Was it going to disrupt my plans? Nope, only delay them. By this stage, he had walked around the corner, so I swung the car around and caught up with him. Sliding in alongside, I lowered the window and offered him a lift.
Gratitude filled his eyes, and he didn’t argue either. After placing his bags onto the back seat and sliding himself onto the front, I asked him where to.
“To the top of Huntsbury Hill,” he said.
My eyes widened. “To the top?” He nodded. He wasn’t younger than I’d thought. He was somewhere in his eighties.
Remember how we had just walked to the top? Four hundred metres more-or-less straight up? Well, Huntsbury Hill was all that – only it took a series of switchback corners and there was no ‘more-or-less’ straight up. It was just straight up.
“I missed the bus,” he said, “but it’s hotter than I thought.”
We chatted a little for most of it, but as we plateaued on the top and he pointed out his driveway for me to pull into, I parked, but I felt I was meant to say something more. I honestly didn’t know what. But I felt God prodding me to take the opportunity. So, I said the first thing that came to mind.
“Do you want to know why I offered you a lift?”
Ah duh! Surely it was obvious – it was hot, and he was old. ‘Nuf said. Wasn’t it? No. God was pointing me in a direction that appeared obvious, but I didn’t know what was happening.
“No,” he replied.
Large birds not butterflies decided to take up residence in my gut. I was new to this, but I didn’t want to let God down, so I blurted it out.
“Well . . . “ I stammered a little, “God told me to.”
Silence took over again. I didn’t know what else to say and since I couldn’t look at him for a bit because I felt like a ninny, a religious nut, and my imagination took over. Yet he didn’t move. So, I looked.
I was so unprepared for the sight before me. He was sitting as though carved from stone, except tears poured down his cheeks. What had I done?
“Are you ok?” I asked gently.
“I have always wondered,” he replied, and I sat perplexed.
He pulled out his handkerchief and wiped his face then turned to me.
“I was in Israel – then Palestine – during the Second World War,” he said. “I walked the Via de la Rosa (the path of Jesus carrying the Cross) and I have always wondered if He was real. Now I know He is.”
My chin more than wobbled. There was only one way what I said had made such an impact on this man -and that was God.
To this day I don’t know the man’s name. I know his wife was sick in hospital. I know he missed the bus. I know he was old. And now I knew he had been wondering about Jesus being real for about sixty-odd years.
I don’t know what happened to him after that day, but I do know at the top of that hill, a light turned on in the faded, weeping old eyes. Old eyes that suddenly saw a possible future not an end. A hope. I knew God had heard his heart cry and through one simple action, He had revealed to this man He was real. That while he might be old, he was still seen and not forgotten.
God does things like that – takes the ordinary and turns it into the extraordinary. Beauty for ashes. Hope for hopelessness. Life instead of death.
Maybe you’ve been wondering too. It’s ok – He is safe, gentle, and kind. He can be trusted. Just ask.
See you on the road,
PD Dawn. xx
because of mercy, pddawn, Purpose, Romans 10:15