Today’s devotional is written by Dr. Richard Stafford, a published author and professor at Georgia State University. Dr. Stafford resides in Cornelia, Georgia.
I have recently completed thirty-two years of teaching, most of it in a college classroom. I am reminded of a weekend during my own college days, when I had been invited to speak to a mid-winter camp experience for high school students. I was asked to kick off an event for 500 young people gathered to enrich their cold winter days with the warmth of Christian fellowship and fun. I did not have a car at college; the event was about 40 miles away in deep East Texas. I was to speak at 9 pm on a Friday evening in the middle of an icy, dark February night. I had failed to arrange travel, so I decided to hitch-hike the pitch black country road. I figured I could get there on time, as I walked out of the dorm at 5 pm. The event was about forty miles away.
I walked out of town and for about thirty minutes the cars passing me never slowed or responded to my extended thumb. Ice covered my hair and clothes, and my appearance did not move anyone to even stop and ask if I needed help. I was losing faith quickly that I would arrive in time for the event. After almost 45 minutes, well passed the last street light, I turned my back to the approaching traffic. I thought about turning around, the trip seemed hopeless and I was going to let down a lot of people. Faith did not seem to matter, only the ice forming on my immature mustache and the cold wind blistering my face.
Finally a vehicle pulled to a near stop just behind me. When I turned around it was a rusty old construction truck, one headlight burning, two faces staring through the windshield at me. I stepped back and the truck pulled beside me, the passenger rolled down the widow and inch or two. The truck crept forward slowly and I had to pick up my walking speed to stay even. Finally they stopped. One spoke.
“You lost fella?”
“Well, not really. I know where I am going, I just don’t have a way to get there,” I responded shaking from the cold and fear surrounding me.
“Well, Jump in. We’ll help you out,” one of the men said, springing open the door, cans and trash falling on the pavement, the smell of a day’s worth of human sweat filling the warm air pouring out of the truck cab.
“Uh, where can I sit, and…,” I stuttered, peering into the truck cab, worried that the wrong ride may have come along.
“Don’t matter, get in,” the man commanded.
I climbed into the small bench seat, and the passenger squeezed in, shoving all three of us shoulder to shoulder inside, me in the middle. He slammed the door, and off we rattled down the dark two lane road.
“Why would you be out here on this road in this weather?” The older driver asked.
“Stupidity. And lack of planning,” I told him.
“You a college kid?” His companion asked.
“Yeah. I am on the way to a youth camp down the road another 35 miles or so. I am supposed to speak there at 9, I might not make it,” I stammered, embarrassed.
“The Methodist Camp?” one asked.
“Yep.”
“We’re Methodist,” the driver confessed, and continued, “Can you sing?”
“No, I’m a speaker, actually. I can’t carry a tune,” I admitted.
“Not possible, everyone can sing. We’ll pick up where we left off before we stopped to fetch you off the highway. Join in if you wanna,” the larger man invited.
The older driver, with a rich bass voice, began the second stanza of Swing Low, Sweet Chariot. Soon the man sitting shot gun joined in on the chorus with a high tenor voice, both sounding like experienced professional singers, sitting there in tattered work coveralls, filthy skin, and tools clanging away in the back of their truck. It was a symphony filling the dismal winter night and warming my body and spirit that were both ice cold only a few miles back.
I joined in, but my college voice was a poor match to the men who were literally saving me that night from my own failures. They never winced when I sang off key or blurted out the wrong lyrics, they just kept singing, making up more and more verses as we traveled toward my destination.
Soon, we pulled up to the sign that read Lakeview Methodist Camp, Palestine, Texas.
I told them they could let me out on the road, they objected saying they knew the main central hall was a mile back in the woods. So we turned in, and in a minute there we were in front of the building just after 8:30 pm, the building clamoring with the sound of 500 young people playing introduction games and singing 70’s contemporary Christian songs. The door sprung open and the large man let me out. I grabbed my back pack; my clothes had dried in the warm truck. The man climbed back in the truck, pulled the door shut, and rolled down the window. The icy rain had stopped. The driver leaned toward the passenger window and spoke to me.
“Fella, I’m glad we could help you out. Might get a better plan next time. And about your singing…” he stalled, I looked right at his eyes, knowing he was going to tell me I was right, I couldn’t sing. Instead he said, “I am sure you will be a good speaker tonight, with great faith, you could become a really fine singer.” And off they went, a single dim headlight shining on the wet pavement ahead.
I have never learned to sing, great faith notwithstanding. But the two men with great voices and great faith have often traveled in my own car all these years, reminding me to keep faith, and more importantly, to share it with others.
