It was a pristine autumn day recently as our plane winged its way up the California coast. The woman beside me, in her early fifties I judged, was friendly, and told me about the sights far below. But as we crossed the Oregon border, cloud cover blocked our view and the conversation turned to other matters.
I learned Vicki was a Canadian nurse who had moved to San Francisco from New Westminster, BC, because, as she said, “It’s hard to have a good time in a town where the bars close at midnight.” California offered the good life.
Now, however, she was divorced. The three young women who had made the pilgrimage with her to Fun City had scattered. The sense of community had evaporated in the suburb where she lived and she was thinking of moving further from the city. She reminisced about a simpler time when people cared about each other, when they had time to sit on the porch and contemplate. “There’s nothing more Zen than that,” she observed.
She asked me what I did. I explained that I teach people how to study the world’s all-time best seller for themselves. Had she any contact with the Bible, I wondered.
“I suppose I’m a Heinz 57 variety of Christian,” said Vicki. “I was sent to whatever church was on the corner–mostly to give my mother a break on Sunday morning.”
Did she remember any of the Bible lessons she had been taught, I inquired.
“Not really, but….” There was a long silence. A faraway, wistful look swept across her face. Then, “Helen, Helen Neufield! I haven’t thought of that name in forty years! Why would I think of that now?” she asked no one in particular.
“Who is Helen Neufield?” I queried.
“A woman, a girl in her twenties, I guess, who lived in our neighborhood. She had her hair pulled back from her face…she was so kind to us. I remember…”
She wasn’t on the plane anymore. She was back before the divorce, before the bars, before Zen, before the broken dreams and aching heart. She was a little girl again.
“I remember,” she continued, “you had to go through a, like a rain forest to get to their house. Then you stepped out into an open field–a field with wild strawberries. There was a little house at the back of their yard, like a playhouse. Helen would gather us in there…and teach us the Bible. She gave us dimes if we memorized verses.” Silence. “It sure would be nice to see Helen again…” Her voice trailed off.
I asked her if she remembered any of the verses she had learned as a child.
“I was a long time ago,” she explained.
Could I guess some of them? Yes, she responded. I quoted John 3:16. She smiled in remembrance. John 1:10-11. Romans 3:23, 6:23; 10:9. I explained the gospel simply, as I thought Helen might have done. Occasionally she nodded her encouragement to carry on.
When I finished, she sat quietly for a few minutes, then again interjected, “Helen! Why would I think of her after all these years?” Why indeed. Hidden away in her heart, under years of neglect, of sin and failed attempts to be happy, there was the incorruptible seed, alive, waiting to germinate. Planted there by a long-forgotten agent of the King.
He has His agents everywhere. Some see the CIA behind every tree (or Jesuits, or the CFR, or New Agers, or whatever flavor-of-the-month conspiracy you choose). They may be right–the Enemy sows tares across the fields of the world. But our God will triumph.
Paul preached the gospel to the Jewish High Court, to Felix and Festus, to Agrippa, and to Nero in Rome. He led some of Caesar’s household to Christ. Manaen, his fellow-worker, was Herod’s foster brother. Erastus, treasurer of Corinth, worked with Paul. But the same verse (Rom. 16:23) also mentions Quartus (Slave #4)! In every strata, on the highways and byways, to the down-and-outers and the up-and-outers, the Lord has His people strategically placed to share heaven’s Good News.
Who will you meet today?