You should meet this buddy of mine. He’s a loud talker, and will not let anyone fit a word in. He’s my age, but we’re nothing alike. This man has been everywhere, done everything.
Presently, he’s taking a year off to hike across Alaska.
I’d be lying if I didn’t admit, I sometimes wonder about my own life. I wonder if I ought to be concerned about how uneventful it’s been. After all, I’ve spent more time around mobile homes than I have around airports.
I’ve never been to Europe, never explored South America. I have not played tennis, ridden a motorcycle, tasted a martini, nor seen the Northern lights.
That’s not to say my life hasn’t been interesting. It has, even though my GPS would disagree.
To start with: I have thrice been baptized. Once Methodist, once Baptist, and one Gatorade bucket.
I once worked as a trim-carpenter with a Mexican man named, Jesus. He was about four-foot tall, and he lived in his car in the Walmart parking lot. He would introduce himself using the American equivalent of his name.
“Hello,” he’d say. “I am Jee-zus, a carpenter. Berry nice to meet choo.”
It was a riot.
Let’s see. I’ve owned too many Labradors to count, and one coonhound who knows how to open peanut butter jars with her mouth.
I’ve floated in the the Gulf of Mexico, just to watch the stars. I’ve been lost in New Orleans, mugged in Atlanta, left for dead at Disney World. I have owned two single-wide trailers, and one house. My truck smells like a wet dog—so did the trucks before it.
I laugh weird.
I learned to drive a tractor at nine, wrecked one at ten, and spent seven years riding another, until it made me hard of hearing.
I’ve worked in four churches, three restaurants, two factories, and one janitorial position.
I’ve known love.
In fact, I still know her.
The truth is, I’ll probably never venture many miles in my life. I’m like my mother, and the furthest we ever travel is the post office.
But people like me don’t have to visit Alaska, or score big accomplishments. Because this morning, I watched the sunrise over a Georgia hayfield, and I don’t know how much that’s worth, but I could’ve sworn I heard the voice of Jesus.
He said, “Amigo, choo are berry lucky man.”
And I believed him.