SCOTT M. ROSE

Let me give you the backstory of what inspired me to start speaking to strangers: I was studying John 4 and the story of the “Woman at the Well.” Jesus was traveling from Judea to Galilee when he stopped at the well where he met the Samaritan woman. He engaged her in conversation and, in spite of her efforts to keep it impersonal, he quickly moves the conversation to the personal, her immoral lifestyle, and her need for “living water.” I had, of course, read the story many times. But this time something new made an impression on my mind: the seemly coincidental nature of the meeting. Jesus was traveling from Point A to Point B. She was in between the way a cashier or waitress is. I prayed then that the Lord would help me to see what I call “the people in between.” Shortly thereafter I took my car for a repair. It was Christmas Eve of 2004. I had a lunch meeting and asked them if someone could take me to the restaurant. They pointed to an elderly retiree who drove a shuttle for them just to stay busy. I got into the front seat of his van and he cracked a few jokes. I was barely listening and, impatient in my DNA, in a hurry. The Scott Peterson trial was big news at the time. Some will recall that he murdered his pregnant wife. He asked me if I thought Peterson should get the death penalty. Reading emails on my Palm Pilot, I said without much conviction, sure, why not. Again, I wasn’t really present in the conversation. Then it happened. He said, “A man murdered my daughter about ten years ago and buried her in a hole under a bridge, and if that son of a b*tch was in front of this van I’d drive right over him.” This jarred me out of my conversational slumber. Putting the phone down, I prayed silently without closing my eyes, “Lord, please give me the words.” In moments like this we are inclined to say something inane like, “I know how you feel.” Uncomfortable with silence, we fill it with nothing of substance. And I definitely didn’t know how he felt. How could I minister to this man? He pressed on: “60 years ago today I was fighting in the Battle of the Bulge, and I killed Germans who never did me personally any harm. So I know I could kill the man who murdered my daughter.” I wanted to kill her murderer, too, and I didn’t even know his daughter. Finally, I spoke: “The Lord has given us three fine boys, and I cannot even begin to understand the depth of your grief.” He waved a hand airily as if dispersing dark clouds, and said in an almost chipper tone, “Oh, it was a long time ago. I’m over it.” He wasn’t. For the rest of our journey, neither of us said anything. I just prayed, “Give me the words, give me the words….” Arriving at the restaurant he turned and gave me a cheerful goodbye. I drew a deep breath to summon my courage — I’ve felt less anxiety facing gunmen than in this moment — and said, “Sir, if you don’t mind, I’d like to pray for you.” He gave a consenting shrug of the shoulders, so I prayed something to the effect of: “Lord, I do not know the depth of this man’s grief and suffering, but you do. You know it, Lord. Please comfort him and let him know that you love him.” When I opened my eyes he held the steering wheel with both hands and his body convulsed in sobs. It was as if in that prayers the Holy Spirit had loosed the bonds of grief and hate and it all came pouring out of him in a torrent of tears. Not wanting to compound the awkwardness (such things are always awkward with men), I patted his shoulder and wished him a Merry Christmas. I went into the restaurant and watched as he sat there in that van weeping for what seemed like an eternity. “You’re late!” My friend said. Still fixated on the van, I did not reply. “What’s wrong?” “You won’t believe what just happened in that van,” I said. Since that day, I look for the people in between. Some days I do it better than on others. But I try. Here’s a warning: If pray that prayer, hang on! You might not ready for what comes next.