I’m retired so I don’t have to be concerned about road accidents in the morning and don’t have to dash a quick iron over a blouse. The children are full grown adults by anyone’s measure and off and busy in their lives. But I still have a routine, things that need to be done. I am the CEO of this household only because ‘someone I know’ has completely abdicated and likes to be out and about. Each day has something that needs to be done, finished, sent out, brought in, reconciled, opened; decisions need to be made and research done. Then there’s paying some – not a great deal – of attention to the news outside this house, in what we laughingly refer to as the ‘real world’. It’s a full day.

After dinner and kitchen clean up, I settle down at my desktop. Now is my time. I like games; I’m not ashamed to say so. But a lot of the games I play require memory along with hand/eye coordination which I’m grateful for because, you know, brains are like muscles – use it or lose it. But then I’m in my quiet room in the quiet house. After awhile the quiet begins to make me think of other, better things I could be doing; what am I putting off that I could do right now. I’m tired, I rise early so by late evening, early night, I don’t feel like getting things done. What to do?

I found a way to multitask. While I play my games, I listen to Alexander Scourby reading the Bible. He does all sixty-six books and he’s quite an accomplished voice actor. He doesn’t change how his voice sounds; rather, he brings the required emphasis to each passage by speeding up his reading, or slowing it down; he makes his voice harsh if needed and soft when that is called for. It’s really quite an effective practice.

As he reads, I notice that I nod my head when Jesus says those things I like, give sarcastic remarks to the disciples when they say stupid things (“can you be baptized with the baptism with which I am baptized?” “Yeah! Sure!” to which I am apt to mutter, ‘give me a break!’ I whisper the Beatitudes right along with Him. Church flashes through my mind as He institutes Holy Communion and I say the words with Him. I chuckle to myself at the verses that state He was in a crowd of people who wanted to grab but – He manages, in a very Jesus sort of way, to not be there and is found elsewhere, away from that particular angry crowd. I always get my ‘Lord’s prayers’ messed up, the Matthew from the Luke – you’d think, after all this time, I’d know but it’s that memory thing.

While my hands are busy, I’m walking the roads with Him, cursing that darned fig tree or listening to Him invite Himself to Zacchaeus’s house for lunch. I mentally point to the woman with the issue of blood when Jesus asks who touched Him – yes, I know; that makes me a snitch but this is Jesus we’re talking about and I tell Him everything. I take comfort when he heals the lunatic who cuts himself because I have a daughter who does that, too. I shake my head in disgust when those folks with the hogs would rather have their hogs than Jesus in their midst.

It’s a long road. He and I have walked it many times before. Sometimes a tumbler moves into place and I get a revelation about a passage I wasn’t clear about. Sometimes I get corrected in my misunderstanding of an event. He’s always showing me something I missed on a previous walk. Each journey is two thousand years old – and only five minutes ago. We sail the lake, I watch as He walks on water and mentally shake my finger at Peter who got distracted by the wind and waves and starts to sink.

When it’s time to go to bed, I shut down Alexander Scourby (found on YouTube – all the books), shut down the puzzle of the day, and wander off to bed. I’m so relaxed, so relieved from the concerns of the day; I tuck myself in, turn on my side, say the correct Lord’s prayer and I’m off to meet Him in my dreams. Day is done.

Two things I have to tell you before you view the video. I first saw this a few days ago; a friend had posted it and it came up my Face Book page. I watched it four times. I cried each time. Be prepared to be touched. The other thing is the use of ‘language’. You’ll hear the f word and s word but listen to the tone in which those words are used. Not hurled at someone else, more toward themselves. Sometimes used in awe; sometimes used in sadness.

The back story is about a rehab center in California. It’s for people coming out of the gangs and starting life fresh. Except – they are permanently marked and the boldness of the markings, and where they are placed, are what is so frightening to us. Just by the markings, I would be afraid to pass anyone of these folks on the street. Yet – what does Jesus tell us? “You will know them by their fruit.” We, as Christians, are to look not at the person as presented to us, but at what they do and say and how they live. That is the fruit we’re to look for. Through the rehab center they are able to get ‘normal’ jobs, support themselves and their families, walk a different road than the one they chose when they were younger.

The image that made my cry – time after time – is the picture of the young woman. I’m a mom; I have a son and a daughter. My son has no tattoos, my daughter has a couple on her arm. She dreaded the day I saw hers. What can you do? It’s a done deal. But this young woman – so pretty, so fresh and young, and a whole life ahead of her – her facial tattoos, especially under each eye, tore me up. What must life have been like for her to put such a thing on her face. If eyes are the window of the soul, what does this ‘window dressing’ tell us? And I just start crying again. So young to be so hurt by the world. Maybe it was family, maybe it was ‘friends’. I don’t know. It’s a culture so beyond my experience, I find it hard to relate. Except … I have a daughter, too. The world has hurt her, too. Maybe what a tattoo really is, is a symbol that tells the world, “I’ve been hurt” – even if it’s a cute little pixie or a dolphin; it says, “I’ve been hurt”.

They looked for acceptance from man rather than the unfathomable love of Jesus. Somehow, Jesus was less real to them than the people they ran with. Whose fault is that? There’s no way of knowing. I look back at how I was raised and ask if my life was different. My parents were both believers but they never taught us about Jesus – the church did that. The closest we came to discussing Jesus was the lighting of the birthday candles on the cake Mom made for Him every Christmas. Had I lived in another place and time, could I have been one of the people in the video? It’s possible.

I’m a firm believer that we are defined by the choices we make. These people have made new choices and they are to be applauded. But their poor choices are right there, on their faces and their bodies; they are going to have work harder to dispel peoples’ perception of them. They chose a hard road to begin with and now they’ve chosen a road that will be even harder.

The next time you walk down the street and see someone who looks like these people coming toward you, try to remember that person is also a child of God. And that there but for the grace of God go I.