My dad and I made daily gas station trips when I was young. Yep. Pretty much daily.
He always got his jam: a sausage biscuit with a coke and I got my jam: frosted honey bun with a Dr. Pepper.
Yes. The picture of health, I’m aware.
One such day as we waited in line, the ding of the bell on the door loudly rang and every eye was on a giant of a man, seemingly 10 feet tall, with long messy hair, not the cute-messy-bun kinda messy, like the maybe-I-just-killed-a-guy type of messy. He was covered in tattoos and wearing a ripped up rough-and-tumble looking beige shirt, unbuttoned with no shirt under it.
But the most important part, the key element to his appearance that day, the one piece that tied his entire look together perfectly was…. BLOOD. He had blood all over him.
(Here’s a amateur composite sketch directly from dad’s memory, almost 30 years later…I die.)
And here he came, just bee-boppin into our local, friendly convenience store. Just your regular old Grab-and-Go…which we were all hoping and praying he wouldn’t actually do.
He wandered, calmly-frantic, to the back of the store. You know the look. Deer in the headlights.
My dad squatted down to me and decided to take this moment, this particularly-tense moment, and make it a teachable one.
“Hey sweetie. You see that man over there. He’s a scary, ugly man and I don’t want you to ever mess with someone like him. Ok?”
I gazed at the man. Got it.
Scary. Check. Ugly. Check.
This bounty-hunter-type-individual came and got in line right in front of us. A total-line-cutter. He boldly stepped up to the counter with no regard for who was next in line. Us. But I mean if you just killed someone I guess line-cutting is easy-breezy-child’s-play stuff.
Sweet dad did his best to keep his eyes down. There would be no friendly chatting with the blood-soaked-friend that was heavy-mouth-breathing, now standing in our rightful place in line.
Pin-drop-quiet.
Did no one see the blood? Should we do something? Call the police? Did he just straight cut us in line?
Were we all just going to play it cool until the man left?
Not me.
Into the pin-drop-silence came my pint-size voice:
“My daddy said you UGEE.”
Plain and simple. Matter of fact. Gospel Truth.
From my mouth straight to his ear.
My dad’s whispers had obviously hit home.
I had heard abundantly clearly the lesson my dad had taken the time to teach, all except the don’t mess with guys like him part.
I took what he said to be truth and was bold enough to proclaim it.
We quickly bought our 3-days-worth-the-reccomended-calories and hit the road.
As we left we heard the sirens and watched as the man dove under his car. He had totally just killed a guy.
What if we took our Creator-Papa that seriously?
What would it look like if the words He has whispered to us, about us, became a confident-gospel-truth-force in our hearts?
And what if the force of those truths made us secure enough to look fear, suffering, oppression, addiction, name-your-poison, in the face and tell it the truth?
Tell it how ugee it really is.
Boldness like that isn’t just found in the naturally brave.
Boldness like that is birthed out of trust. Trust in the mouth that spoke the words. Trust in the kindness that stooped to whisper them.
Trust built on time-tested faithfulness. Trust based in identity, the knowing we are His.
Jesus, being led by His Papa, found himself in the desert. It was there that the bell on the door rang loudly and in walked the devil himself. He had the I-just-killed-a-guy-look when he set his sights on Jesus.
Three times he told Jesus lies.
And all three times Jesus SHUT. HIM. DOWN.
How?
Not with his own words or cultural pithy-sayings found on quickly-scrolled-over-memes.
His only response?
The words of His Papa.
It is written. It is written. It is written.
The words of His Father he knew to be true. Trusted to be enough. Trust that’s built on time-tested faithfulness.
Defeat came for the enemy in the desert that day simply because Jesus knew what His Father had whispered, and the force of that knowledge, the deep down knowing, made Him secure enough to tell the devil the truth.
Friend. Do you trust your Father that much?
Do you know what He has said? About you? About your purpose? About what He thinks of you?
What are His promises to you?
Maybe you’re staring at a season that is threatening to kill you, the ding of the bell on the door has rung loudly as it flung open to hurt, sadness, loss? A season so intimidating that you’re paralyzed with pin-drop-quiet fear.
What does your Papa have to say about it? Where is He in it? What does He want for you from it?
Ask him. And listen as he bends down kindly to teach you.
Listen to your Papa!!! #youugee