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Perhaps you can remember putting off a major decision because you thought you were just not ready. You may be talking to someone about the decision for Jesus, even as I am writing this. "Being ready" is probably a personal judgment of one's self, or way of life. I have an opinion about that. It has grown out of observing many truly precious people in various degrees of decrepitude. It goes like this: The degree of life's filth they are mired into is directly proportional to God's ability to clean them up. And that seems to be proportional to the depth of their final humility. This incident from the saga of Big Bill will make that clear. Many years before this story, Bill had tried Christianity. But he was squashed by those who wanted him clean first. So, naturally, he thought he just wasn't good enough. It wasn't God's idea, and maybe. . . . Well, take that where you want. Here's the pivotal segment of that saga. I call it "Good Enough," because Bill couldn't go lower. Apparently God saw something that Bill couldn't. Swallowed up in Victory Thanksgiving morning 1975, about 2:15: Big Bill sat on the sidewalk, his back against a brick wall drenched in pain. He watched his blood trickle across the cement, his life pooling in the cracks of the cement, draining into the sewer. And he thought of his family whom he had just treated like garbage. This, it seemed was a just reward. Bill and his family had driven to Denver to visit his wife's sister and her husband, B. J. The wives, trusting creatures that they were, sent them to buy a turkey. On the way, they decided to relax over a quick beer and catch up on events. Now, beers, for some people, are like potato chips: one leads to another and bars do the same, this time ending on Larimer Street. They were getting low on cash and decided to challenged a bunch of men to dollar poker. They took a lot of money from them. And these men, being the sort that don't take kindly to getting scammed, became angry and started yelling. Now, neither Bill nor his brother-in-law were the sort to yell at; they were both over six feet, weighing in excess of three hundred pounds, with long hair, more disposed to scare the life out of a turkey than shop for one. So, when B. J. busted a bottle on the edge of the bar and went after the loudest, they all tried to fit through the door at the same time. For the remainder of the night, they supped on whiskey with beer chasers and smoked marijuana. So, by closing time, they were in no condition to walk strait, much less protect themselves. It happened then, when they walked out that door, the men they'd scammed were there with reinforcements. They jumped the two all at once, with knives drawn. Bill was stabbed in the back, stomach and side 17 times. B. J. was stabbed 8 times including his head, and his right little finger was cut off completely. Bill always thought he was so tough he couldn't die, but here it was, the end-the end of a lifetime of loneliness, anger, cruel disappointments and poverty that had left him with nothing but meanness. And that became his favorite sport. Bill says, "I'd go into bars, look for the biggest, toughest looking guy there and proceed to stare at him till he got irritated. Or I'd just walk up to him and say something like, 'I always remember a stupid face and yours is awful memorable.' I'd keep after him till he was ready to fight. Then I'd beat him up." He seldom lost. But as he watched his blood drain into the sewer, his meanness didn't mater; his strength and weight were useless. There would be no more wins. He began to fade into his last sleep, thinking of his wife and children. "My kids were just little guys, one, three, and six years old." He knew he wouldn't be seeing them again and consoled himself that they'd be better off without him. There was no one less worthy of life than Bill. But, with lungs that hardly worked, this dirty, bloody mass of mean and dying flesh prayed, "Lord please give me another chance; just let me live." And God who sees beyond our sight, and hears the dying heart preserved Big Bill. Bill opened his eyes. Instead of being in Hell, he was hooked up to machines like a life-science experiment with a tubes and wires sticking out of him, going to things that whirred and beeped Bags of fluids, hung on poles and his beard was gone. It was the next morning In Denver General ICU. One lung had collapsed, both eyes were black and blue, and his nose was broken. And, of course there were a lot of knife holes here and there covered with bandages. Anyone would have to pity him. ...except for one tiny nurse. She was less than a third of Bill's weight, and had the double-barreled grit to say, "Think you're really bad don't you?" She held up a mirror and chided again, "You think you're so bad, look in there. Does that look like a bad man to you?" She wasn't being dumb or hateful, she just knew what Bill needed and proceeded to tell him about a loving, forgiving Jesus who was closer than a brother, who was just the opposite of his father, and loved him enough to give his life so Bill could have life. Bill says, "That little speech birthed something in me that never left. It was a sense of peace, like a set of eye glasses that color things softly. I quit brawling." God not only saved Bill's life he sent him a little life-changing lecture. Big Bill couldn't have gone lower than he did Thanksgiving, 1975, 2:15 A.M.. But he prayed and in God' sight he was good enough. Over the years, God was never far from Bill, even though he was a difficult challenge. (It's taken several more miracles to finish the work.) Today, you couldn't guess that Bill was ever mean. In fact, the biggest part of Big Bill is his heart. He's helping a lot of people who have themselves been beat up by life. If you'd like a copy of this story to give to a tough case who thinks he isn't good enough, write. We'll send you a reprint in tract form with an illustration on the front. If you have a story that must be told we would like to hear about it. |
