On a Tuesday Evening in Indianapolis…
I sit in a floral dress on an Adirondack chair in front of the Soldiers & Sailors Monument in the summertime park locals call “Spark on the Circle.” A Black man in fatigues sits down next to me.
Silently, we watch the people around us.
A Hispanic mom and her preschool son, who carries an adorably small Spiderman backpack, are at a picnic table in front of us unwrapping Chick-fil-A sandwiches. Men in turbans play chopsticks on a brightly painted piano. A man and woman with toddlers play corn hole in the grass. One of the little ones helps mom out by dropping beanbags into the hole.
There is a rhythm to the city one doesn’t find in the suburbs. Though I am alone tonight, the relaxing and paradoxically energizing vibe invites connection.
I swing my foot just a little in tune to acoustic jazz playing somewhere on a speaker and notice that the man in fatigues rocks his foot to match.
I am wondering if there might be an opening to share the Gospel. Little do I know, he is wondering the same thing.
He gets up to stretch his legs and, mysteriously, rearranges some plugs on the white lights wound around one of the small trees lining the park. He sits again.
“Feels good to stretch your legs,” I say as he returns, opening the possibility of conversation.
“Sure does at my age,” he says. “I’m 66. I’m hurting in a few places.”
“Me too,” I echo. “But I’ve got a friend who keeps me going.”
“Who’s that?” he asks.
“Jesus.”
“Well then we’ve got something in common,” he says with a robust smile. “We’re brother and sister. We’ve got the same Jehovah Daddy.”
When I tell him I’m in town for the Southern Baptist Convention with a team representing Love Worth Finding Ministries, I learn we have even more in common.
“Love Worth Finding. That’s Adrian Rogers,” he says with a surprised look. “He’s my favorite preacher.
The man says his name is Grover and that he has to tell me his story…how he was an addict…how he went through hard times.
“I’d go out by the White
River and turn on the radio. Preacher Rogers would tell me about God in a way I could understand. I came to know Jehovah as my Daddy and I started reading what He wrote to me. I learned to assimilate the Word.”
Thus begins a conversation in which I learn that Grover lives on the streets. He knows what it feels like to be shunned, excluded, left out. He says that tonight he is feeling lonely for conversation.
Grover worked for a few years at the very monument we’re viewing together, but he is retired now. He knows this park well, and he knows his Bible too. We discuss creation, the value of the human soul, the longing of every heart to come home—to be included and accepted, to be perfectly known and perfectly loved. He rattles off the Books of the Bible and talks more intelligently about Paul’s epistles than most people who seem, by appearance, more obviously “churched.” I come to understand that Grover fasts, prays, and spends more time in the Bible than I do. Ouch.
His decision to live on the streets is both practical and intentional. He says he plans to move to a smaller city and find a place to live as he ages, but with the help of his Social Security check and Medicare, and considerable street smarts, he lives comfortably enough for now. He knows where to go for a shower and a meal and to keep his clothes clean. He has a power scooter that he locks with the chain and padlock that hangs around his neck.
He spends his days talking with others about Jesus as often as the Spirit nudges and people are willing to converse; he spends his nights in this well-policed park. He still listens to Pastor Rogers regularly on his MyLWF app. “He’s always telling it straight from the Bible…and with great power,” Grover says. I tell him about some free resources he might find helpful in his street ministry and collect his P.O box address so I can send him some materials.
A police officer observes us closely, making sure, no doubt, that two people who look and dress so unlike one another are comfortably interacting. Grover smiles and whispers, “I thought I might be in trouble. I’m charging my cell phone in that tree.” I lock in on the lighted branch he was messing with earlier and chuckle.
We share our favorite Scriptures and discover they’re not only in the same book but also in the same chapter. Mine is Isaiah 43:18-19; his is Isaiah 43:5—in particular, the first phrase, “Fear not, for I am with you.”
The tree lights are getting brighter now that the sun is fading.
I take a poorly lit selfie of us together—oh well, it’s not for social media consumption; it’s for a mental reminder of what I like to think of as a “God wink,” and for the anticipation of the Great Family Album we’re both a part of.
“Look at that,” Grover says. “We look just like brother and sister!”
We hug one another and part ways. I turn to head to my hotel but glance back—"I’ll see you later,” I say, “when we both get Home.”
