Knock, Knock

“Behold, I stand at the door and knock. If anyone hears My voice and opens the door, I will come in to him and dine with him, and he with Me.”

– Revelation 3:20

An okay week, as my weeks go. Might have been better, were I better able to ignore what is happening in the rest of the world. Alas, by constitution, curiosity, and responsibility, I cannot.

So I gazed from time to time at the talking heads, and read a bit from the observations of the watchers I trust. I listened to work reports, and caught snatches of conversation at adjoining restaurant tables and counters. And once or twice, I felt it all catch tight in my throat.

I am watching powerful people kill my country – systematically destroy the land of my fathers … the deepest beliefs of the pilgrims, of Washington and Adams and Lincoln … the legacy of people like Pocahontas and Daniel Boone, Alvin York and Louis Zamperini … the devotion of Martin Luther King, Jr. and Ronald Reagan.

It’s so hard to imagine people knowing anything at all about this country and its people, and still hating it. And yet … the damage being done is not done by accident, by misguided souls trying to do right, making honest mistakes. These are people held in thrall by their own self-destruction. This is the damage of brutal intent.

What’s being destroyed is as ineffable as it is irreplaceable. Something quintessential to my nation’s soul is slipping away, into the dark and the growing fog. And it will not return.

Even for all of that, 'd have borne the week a little better if I hadn’t learned of the death of Cristiano, a great friend of mine from Brazil. He was younger than me (and not only in years) – a gifted minister in his 30s, wed to a lovely, lively girl ‘ve known since she was a child. Their beautiful families blessed my every visit to that remarkable country. A few short years ago, he became a father of twins.

He was such a goofy, delightful fellow … the kind whose life just careens from one high-spirited adventure to another. Who brings laughter and smiles and bright encouragement everywhere he goes. Can’t count how many long Brazilian roads we traveled together, how many dinner tables we sat around, all the pulpits and sidewalks where we stood, side by side, while he translated my awkward sermons and odd humor and polite questions to old men and housewives and teenagers and children.

We had, as they say where I come from, “been through the wars together.”

This week, he killed himself.

He knew his God, believed in His love, believed in the love of his wife and family, knew the deep respect and affection of so many, many people all through that part of the country. And somehow – somehow – for one shattering moment, none of that was enough.

These kinds of things accumulate fast, once you notice the shadows of life growing long. Some heroes of mine betrayed my trust this week. Another old friend slid a little deeper into dementia. Some smart folks I know did some painfully dumb things. Did quite a few dumb things myself.

Maybe that’s what happened to Cristiano. He felt the shadows engulfing him.

“Don’t look back,” Satchel Paige used to say. “Something might be gaining on you.”

At any rate ... “it’s a hard-knock life,” as Annie and her friends remind us. Some days, some weeks, the knocks come faster, harder. And yet, in the midst of all those knocks – sometimes, through the very knocks themselves – our Lord Himself comes quietly knocking.

I saw the young mom and her little toddler on the other side of the street as I swung into my driveway. The toddler saw me, too, eyes wide at the sight of this big white vehicle zooming up out of nowhere. As I pivoted up out of the driver’s seat, glancing back at her over the roof of the car, she smiled. And waved.

I waved, too.

She staggered along for another tentative step or two, then stopped and looked back. I waved again, turning to head into the house.

She smiled, and blew me a kiss.

‘m guessing Cristiano didn’t see a little face like that, his last day. If he had, he’d probably still be here. Hugging his wife. Caressing his children.

I come from a race of thick heads and deaf ears. But sometimes, in the mercy of God, I still know His knock, when I hear it. Or see it. Little blonde curls, big blue eyes. A tiny hand, waving.

When I opened the door, hope came in.