Prayer Warrior
My wife had told me our Garbage Man is a nice guy. She told me he’s patient enough to wait at the end of our driveway, garbage truck idling, when she is frantically dragging the big plastic garbage can wobbling on its tiny wheels down the few hundred feet of bumpy gravel driveway, having just remembered it’s Garbage Day.
By the way, I hope the term “Garbage Man” is okay. I Googled it and a guy was quoted, “Don’t worry about being politically correct. I’m a Garbage Man, and proud of it.” So, I’m going with it.
Out here on the rural route in Butte Creek Canyon, Garbage Day is Friday, and it alternates every other week with Recycling Day. But sometimes it’s Saturday depending on holidays, natural disasters, road closures, and such. It gets confusing. Hence, the mad dashes down the driveway now and again. If you miss it, the garbage piles up, you fill extra cans, they stink, and the bears tend to pay you a visit and enjoy your garbage. The bears don’t tend to tidy up after themselves. Last weekend, because of the Holidays, Garbage Day was Saturday, so I was home that morning. My wife stood at our bedroom window, looking toward the road. This time the cans were waiting. “I think the Garbage Man is having trouble. He’s been down there with our cans for a long time,” she said. Soon, walking up the driveway, here came the Garbage Man, a stocky guy in his yellow vest with reflective stripes.
My wife opened the door before he got there. The dogs flew out, snarling and barking. He strode fearlessly through the melee, and soon my wife had him in our kitchen sipping a cup of coffee and using the phone he needed to call a mechanic for his broken-down garbage truck.
He introduces himself. “I’m Art,” he says, and he shakes our hands. He has clear eyes and a big smile, an open and appealing demeanor. “Doug and Coral,” he says. “It’s great to finally meet you, Doug and Coral. I guess my truck broke down here for a reason.”
Art learns I’ve been in Real Estate for a hundred years and mentions a guy he knows who works in my office. “Great guy,” says Art, “and a God-fearing man.”
“Yes,” says my wife, “and he’s aMinister, too.” Art nods, smiling. He knows.
“Are you in his church?” I ask Art.
“No,” he says, “I was saved in prison. Ten years ago. I went to prison for running stuff across the border. I was a gang leader in prison. One day, a little old guy pulled me aside and told me that I was missing something inside of me. He showed me the Bible. He explained the scripture. Suddenly, I could see!”
Art stood up and delivered an inspiring, powerful oration on his acceptance of Jesus Christ as his Lord and Savior. “Before being saved, I left a trail of mud everywhere! I left mud on everything I touched! And I couldn’t see! I couldn’t see my beautiful wife!” He held up his cupped hands. “This beautiful jewel, this shining ruby! Right in my hands! My angel! And I couldn’t see the faces of my beautiful children! I thank God they stayed with me!”
Art asked if he could pray for us. His prayer was personal about us, our family, our home. We were stunned and flattered. He sensed there was more to do or say and asked if he could pray for anyone else.
“Yes.” said my wife. “The friend of our daughter’s in New Mexico, Julie, is suffering pain from her cancer, and it’s been a hard Christmas for her and her children.”
Art summoned even more power. He started his prayer with a loud, strong cadence, then shifted to a very quiet and softer pace as he addressed Julie and her cancer, her body, her spirit.
We were all silent for a time after his prayer for Julie. My wife said, “You should be the Minister of a church.” Art hugged us and said, “No. I go where God leads me. I’m a Minister of the streets.” He smiled widely and said, “I’m a PrayerWarrior and my prayers work.”
Looks like Art’s truck broke down at our place for a reason.